He traveled by train whenever the opportunity presented itself and tonight was such an opportunity. He, Screed, and Bourbon had gone their separate ways — as they did every once in a while — but they'd agreed to meet up again, this time in Venice, so Vachon was standing on a train platform not long after sunset, waiting for the overnight express that would take him north through Italy.

He was dressed so that no one would pay him much mind. He wore a gray top hat, black pants, and a dark wool coat. Though he did not feel the cold as mortals did, he still had the lapels turned up like every other man around him, raised against the blustery winds that were ushering autumn across Europe. He also carried a small black valise with a few items that could come in handy, like a comb and shaving supplies, an extra pair of gloves, and a leather-covered, glass flask that contained a small, emergency supply of blood preserved in wine; things of little consequence should they be lost, stolen, or merely left behind. He carried them for convenience, but more over he carried them in the valise, because not carrying the valise might have caused him to stand out among the other train passengers who all had luggage of some sort.

The train, after all, was not meant for possession-less vagabonds gadding about the continent, nor was it meant for short distance conveyance, say from one's home down to the piazza for a short afternoon visit. The train had been invented to carry both freight and people long distances across wide swaths of country; distances that would take a horse-drawn coach or cart days to cover, if not longer. All trains were not prohibitively expensive — most working men could save enough to afford passage, even if only in an over-crowded, third-class carriage — but many trains did cater to the middle and upper classes, offering more well-appointed cars — even carriages with private sleeping compartments.

Other than getting swept away by a flood or caught up in a tornado, trains were now the fastest way in the world for a human to travel. And while some people shunned the railways (as they shunned all change to their status quo), a majority of residents of Great Britain and a large portion of the European continent had embraced the advancement. It seemed that a lot of people were very eager to leave their homes for somewhere else and, no matter what their destinations, they were in a hurry to get there.

Vachon understood the desire to travel — to visit new places and see new things. But, when he was a boy, living near a village that was the only destination for miles around, it was a desire he didn't know he possessed. He, like nearly all his neighbors, never expected to see another village in their lifetime. But when the army had come through the region, a spark of curiosity ignited inside young Javier Vachon. He joined up and never looked back. A few years later, the opportunity to sail to the New World had presented itself and Vachon had leapt at the chance. Many of his comrades called him crazy or suicidal; others thought he'd been blinded to reason by the lure of gold and other riches. But, in truth, Vachon just wanted to see what else was out there and every time he turned around it seemed that the known world just got bigger and bigger.

But, now, Vachon had eternity to explore it all, so time was rarely a consideration. His only constraint on this journey to meet up with his friends was the sunrise and, barring any unforeseen delays, the train schedule purported to get him near enough to Vienna before the sun would breach the horizon, so he'd scraped together the necessary cash and bought himself a ticket, though Screed would chide him for spending good money on what he would consider a frivolous luxury.

"Well, hang him," Vachon thought to himself. It wasn't Screed's money he was spending, so it didn't matter what he might think.

Vachon had been leaning against the wall of the train station, somewhat obscured in shadow, but when he heard the train whistle in the distance, he straightened up in anticipation. After a few minutes, the other passengers started to hear the nearing train whistle as well and they began to stir — to get up from the benches, fold away newspapers, and gather up baggage. There weren't many people on the platform, but this was not the train's first stop; the majority of passengers would have boarded either at the embarkment point or at the one stop between that and this. Vachon had chosen this station because it was the first stop the train made after sunset and, conveniently, it was the last stop it would make until just before dawn. There weren't many express trains like this running in Italy, so he felt lucky to have been able to book passage on this one.

He watched the rails intently, waiting for the first glimpse of the large, steam engine and was surprised at how near it was once it came around the curve in the tracks leading up to the station. The train slowed with a long whine of metal grinding against metal as it rolled up to the platform and Vachon looked down the length of the train, counting the carriages.

First was the engine and the fuel car brimming with coal, then two box cars — one, at least in part, for passenger luggage and the other for light freight. After that came the first passenger carriage, with groupings of two bench seats with a table between them on each side of a center aisle — this was the carriage he would be traveling in, partly because he hadn't come up with enough money to purchase space in either of the two sleeper carriage that followed and partly because he rarely slept at night. The first sleeper carriage had twelve windows, one per compartment, and inside each contained a long, upholstered bench that could be converted into a bed. The second sleeper carriage, and the last carriage of the train, had sixteen (slightly smaller) windows — but these compartments were twice the size of those in the other carriage, with two windows to each compartment and two long benches inside that both converted into beds. But there were only 6 compartments; the last four windows corresponded to a lounge area that was separated by a door from a covered veranda that served as an observation platform at the very rear of the train.

Vachon didn't have to wait for each carriage to pass him to know what their function was or what they looked like inside. He was fascinated by trains and this wasn't his first encounter, let alone his first experience as a passenger.

As the train was finally inching to a stop, he realized he was further toward the rear of the train than he'd intended, so he took his valise and walked up the station platform toward his carriage, the one with the benches and tables. He glanced up at one of the windows just ahead of him and noticed a face peering out. It was a haunting face with pale skin and pale hair. Light from a nearby lamp was reflecting off part of the window, which perhaps gave the face a strange otherworldly countenance.

Vachon was enthralled.

Then the face turned and he felt the gaze of two blue eyes on him. They looked like the eyes of a young girl, hungry for the wondrous possibilities of the world outside the window, but they also could have been the eyes of an old woman who'd seen far too many of the harsh realities that same world held.

When the train came to a full stop, a great white plume of steam from the engine seemed to sink down and form an eerie layer of fog that engulfed the platform and obscured the curious face from Vachon's view. He shook his head to clear it as he realized he'd just been standing there, dumbstruck, and he started walking again toward the front most passenger carriage.

As he passed right beside the window, he peered over at it, hoping to catch another glimpse of the intriguing face and the girl or woman to which it belonged, but the shade was drawn and Vachon wondered if he'd confused the windows, but he knew he had not — it had been the fifth from the front of the sleeper carriage, he was positive, and that was the window he stood beside now. He pushed himself onward again. He would have time to ponder on the mystery of the person he'd seen once he boarded the train.

Within fifteen minutes, the train was underway. Vachon was seated about a third of the way up the aisle from the rear of the carriage, with his valise and overcoat stored in an overhead bin. He picked up the newspaper that he'd found on discarded near his seat and unfolded it in front of him, as if to read it, but his eyes didn't see the printed words; they were busy reconstructing the face he'd seen earlier, so that the ephemeral features seemed to hover just off the page. And in his mind he was thinking through his next actions.

His friends would say that he never thought before he acted, but they were wrong; Vachon knew how to bide his time and wait for the opportune moment. Certainly, some opportune moments came immediately with no time or reason to wait. And some actions, no matter how well thought out or how well executed, didn't always play out the way one hoped. So, if one only remembered these occasions, then it would certainly seem like his plan had been no plan at all. But it was rare that things went so horribly wrong that Vachon couldn't extricate himself or think of some way to turn the situation to his advantage; after all, a man couldn't kill for his supper and get away with it for centuries on end without having a good head on his shoulders.

"No passengers past this point, sir," the conductor told him in Italian. Even though the conductor called him 'sir', Vachon knew it was out of obligation to the man's employers and not because Vachon instilled in him any feelings of respect or diffidence.

"Of course not. Company policy, right? Good man, keeping things secure," Vachon replied, also in Italian, as fluent as if he were a native.

The man frowned at him — apparently not used to people agreeing with him when he told them they couldn't do something they were intent on doing — but he nodded and said, "Quite right. Sir," clearly not having anything to argue about.

Vachon turned so that he was looking straight into the man's face before his spoke his next words. "I'll just return to my seat then."

"Return to your seat, yes," the man repeated somewhat sluggishly.

"I'm going now. Back to my seat," Vachon told him. "You see me — right? — walking down the aisle, sitting down, and picking up my copy of the newspaper."

"Yes, of course. You're there, in your seat, reading the daily paper."

"And now you can return to your regular duties, which would be...?"

"Taking a walk through the carriage to... make sure everything is in order."

"Then off you go, back to work," Vachon told him, all in a steady, reverberating voice that many minds felt compelled to obey.

The man walked away, down the aisle, and Vachon turned his attention back to the door. He released the bolt, twisted the handle and pushed open the heavy door, before stepping through onto a small rectangular platform to which was attached a metal gangway that spanned the gap between the two train carriages. The gangway was enclosed — a recent innovation — which helped to prevent people from falling off the narrow bridge when the train was under way, but it was still dangerous to cross because of the unpredictable motion of the train. The conductors were good at it, because they spent so much time moving between the carriages; they were like sailors who could navigate the rigging even in rough seas, but even they weren't infallible, and passengers were unlikely to be anywhere near as deft, which was one reason they were strongly discouraged from moving between carriages while the train was in motion.

But Vachon walked across the gangway as easily as a cat walking across a fence beam. At the end of the gangway was a gap of a couple of inches and, as he stepped over it, he glanced down and could see the gravel of the rail bed racing by in a pale blur and, for a few moments, he counted the number of railroad ties that passed under him as well, which allowed him to estimate the train speed — about forty-six miles per hour, which was a good clip for a passenger train. It wasn't nearly as fast as he could fly, of course, but Vachon didn't mind. He really wasn't in a hurry; it was only Screed and Bourbon in Vienna and they would wait — a few hours or even a few days — until he arrived, just as he would wait for them should either arrive later than agreed upon.

Inside the next carriage, he found another porter sitting at the corner where the corridor turned to meet the doorway.

"What are you doing---" the man began, but Vachon cut him off before he could finish.

"Don't worry; I'm not going to leave the carriage. I was just walking the length of the corridor in order to stretch my legs," he told the man in a calm, firm voice as he held his gaze.

"Just walking the corridor," the conductor repeated. "Very good, sir. Have a nice evening."

Vachon gave the man a departing nod and walked away down the narrow passage which had windows on the left and doors to the sleeper compartments on the right. There was nothing of interest to Vachon in this carriage, so he walked right out the door at the end, crossed the gangway, and entered the last carriage. This one was similar to the last, except there was no one sitting in the corner at the top of the corridor. Unobserved, Vachon moved slowly down the corridor.

As he passed the door of the first compartment, he heard two men talking: a mostly one-sided conversation broken up by the occasional "Mm-hmm" and "You don't say," with a few words masked by the rustling of what must be a newspaper.

Vachon moved on to the second door. He listened for a moment, but heard no sounds inside. He moved on to the third door — which he knew corresponded to the window in which he'd earlier seen the face. He paused and listened intently.

He was disappointed when he heard nothing. It was possible the occupant was asleep; he listened closely for the sounds of breathing and for a heartbeat, but he heard neither over the ambient noise of the train. It was also possible the compartment was vacant; so, maybe, what he had seen at the window had been an apparition. It wasn't difficult for him to believe this as he recalled the odd countenance, but perhaps there was a simpler answer — a more appealing answer: perhaps the occupant had left the compartment and was now sitting at the rear of the train in the small lounge area.

Vachon moved on down the corridor, intent on finding out. It took him only a minute or so to reach the lounge, which occupied the same floor space as two of the sleeping compartments. The room was sparsely outfitted — it was no gentleman's club, though it could undoubtedly act as one should the occupants of the sleeping carriage require it.

In the center of the room was a small round table surrounded by four leather-upholstered chairs, ideal for whist or baccarat, but at present unoccupied. On the wall shared with the last compartment were some recessed shelves, with high rails like on ships, to prevent the contents from simply sliding off with the swelling of the sea or, in this case, the swaying of the train. On these shelves were a half dozen pony glasses and a decanter of red liquid. He pulled the stopper out and sniffed; it was red wine, and not enough of it for even a lone person to over-indulge. Vachon assumed it had been left from an earlier gathering, or maybe it was something the train company stocked as a matter of course for their first-class passengers.

Vachon grabbed the back of one of the chairs and angled it so it faced toward the back windows, and then he sat down, having nothing better to do.

If this had been a gentleman's club, there would have been strong spirits available and someone to serve him — not that he was usually invited into such places, but he had made a few friends over the years who had access and who had invited him along as a guest. There was little for him there, though. He usually found what he preferred in more common places — like pubs, gambling houses, and brothels — and what he preferred were women who were there to please the customer, who were paid by the proprietor to please to a certain degree and, often, accepted further payment from the customer to do more. Women like this were easy to obtain and were often not missed until much later, if at all, making his exit from the scene relatively inconspicuous, which was always preferable.

But in gentlemen's clubs, when there were women brought in, it was usually for some debauched reasons about which the club members wished to remain discrete. Vachon had witnessed some truly eye-opening things in these clubs, things done to women, to young girls, and, though rarely, even to young boys. Some of it sickened him and he never had understood how so-called gentlemen could behave so depravedly. There was no denying that Vachon had killed women — so many women that he'd lost count after all these centuries — but never had he humiliated, punished, or abused them beforehand; in fact, he made it a practice to give them as much pleasure as he could before draining them. These women may not have cherished their difficult lives, but at least he could take solace in knowing he hadn't added to their suffering.

He stared out the windows for a while into the darkness, the full moon showing him fleeting glimpses of trees beside the train tracks; there was little else to see from the vantage point of his chair, but he didn't know if he should get up. Where else did he have to go? Back to his hard seat in the front passenger carriage, surrounded by snoring bodies? Or maybe out on the back platform where his keen night vision would be more useful? Or he could just stay where he was.

The padded leather chair was rather comfortable, he thought as he yawned. "How strange to be tired at this hour." It must be the lulling effect of the train's motion, he concluded as his eyelids began to feel heavy.

"Violetta!"

Vachon sat up, fully awake again. He wasn't sure what he'd heard, but he had heard something, so he sat still and listened.

"Where are you going?" the harsh, but hushed voice of a man asked in Italian.

"I'm... thirsty. I was just going to see if there was a... decanter of water in the lounge." It was a female voice and, though it was unsteady, it was neither weak nor shrill, which led Vachon to believe it wasn't an old woman's voice. It was a girl, maybe, or a young lady, who was somewhat intimidated by the man she was talking with — her father, perhaps, or her husband.

"Come to my compartment when you're through. And don't linger," the man told her.

There was no response and Vachon could only assume a reply had been given in the form of a nod or similar gesture.

Vachon heard the faint closing of a door, to the man's compartment more likely than not. Then he heard soft foot falls in the corridor, they were coming closer. He wasn't sure what had been behind the conversation he'd overheard, but he thought it might be best if she didn't find an audience when she reached the lounge. He left his chair and slipped easily out of the door and onto the small observation platform at the back of the train. He leaned against the wall beside the door and, after a few moments, stole a glance in through the door's window.

The woman was standing by the shelves. Vachon watched as she tipped her head back, then he saw a glass at her lips and the red liquid it contained disappearing into her mouth. Then she hung her head and just stood for a moment, one hand still holding the glass, the other holding onto the back of the chair he'd just vacated. He could only see her back. She was wearing a dark blue cloak; a few inches of white fabric showed just below the hem, undoubtedly belonging to a dressing gown. He watched as she re-filled her glass from the wine decanter and then drained the contents just as quickly as she'd done before.

Finally, the woman turned around and Vachon took a small step back from the window, so as not to be seen. He did not take his eyes off of her and he immediately recognized her as the owner of the face he'd seen before he'd boarded the train. The face no longer looked ethereal, but it seemed no less haunted. She had dark circles under her eyes and an unhappy appearance to her mouth, which combined to make her look tired, but her eyes were still a remarkable blue and her pale blonde hair, still done up but clearly ready to be taken down after a long day, seemed to encircle her head like a celestial glow.

Vachon thought she was captivating.

She stood in the middle of the lounge, as if trying to decide where to go. He didn't see that she had many options. The man had told her not to be long, but how long could she delay before he came looking for her?

She finally took a step toward the corridor, but then stopped. Her hands were at her sides and she clenched her fists; she started to take another step but then shook her head and backed away, as if something lay down that corridor which she was loath to face. She finally turned around, just inches from the rear door of the train, and grabbed the door handle and pushed. Vachon was on the hinge-side of the door and had to take a step back, pressing himself against the wall, to avoid being struck by the door.

The woman walked straight to the end of the platform and placed her hands on the railing that spanned the width of the carriage, there being no gangway attachment here at the back of the train. The railing wasn't particularly high and she actually had to bend forward slightly for her palms to rest flat against the top. She stood there for a while as if mesmerized by the railroad ties that flicked rhythmically into view from beneath the carriage and then faded away into the distance as the train sped along.

Vachon gently pushed the door shut, but remained in the shadows against the wall and stared at the woman. He could see her hands on the railing; they looked unworn and unwrinkled, and she wore no wedding ring. Despite her tired appearance, she looked healthy and well-fed. She was certainly not a lowly servant. Her cloak, which he could see more clearly here in the moonlight than he had been able to see through the window, looked to be made of a fine wool cloth and had an embroidered border of vines, leaves, and flowers in a matching color of thread. Not inexpensive, but not this season's fashion either. The edges of the cloak were being whipped around by the wind, revealing more of her dressing gown, which was trimmed with shiny ribbon and fine lace — not something a governess would wear. Not hired help, but not a wife, though she looked old enough to marry. Vachon wondered what worries she could have that would give her face such a tired appearance.

The young woman had been standing so still, she could easily have been a marble statue in a moonlit garden. And he had been staring at her so intently that he'd lost track of just how long he'd been lurking in the shadows.

Suddenly, she moved and Vachon was almost startled. She placed one foot on a low cross bar of the railing, raising herself up as if she were going to jump over.

"Don't!" Vachon ordered as he stepped forward.

The woman lost her grip on the top of the railing and pitched forward, letting out a yelp that turned into a panicked scream.

But Vachon was quick enough to catch hold of her before she tumbled over, off the train, and onto the tracks below. He pulled her upright and she instantly turned in his arms and buried her face against his shoulder. He could feel her trembling against him and he realized that he rather liked it; it wasn't often that he found himself in the position of saving someone's life.

"It's all right. You're safe now," he told her gently.

"You shouldn't have startled me," she admonished him as she pushed herself just far enough away that Vachon could clearly see her face. But she didn't relax her fists, which were clenched onto the lapels of his coat, and he didn't remove his hands from around her waist.

He said, "I'm sorry, but I thought you were... going to jump."

"And what business is it of yours?"

"None, I suppose. But if you want off the train, there are safer ways."

"I don't want off the train," she told him.

"Well, then, if you want to end your life, there are many less painful ways than jumping onto the tracks." Vachon knew of one sure way that could, in fact, be made very pleasurable.

"Leave me alone. I don't need your mocking."

"I'm not mocking you. There are few people besides myself who take dying more seriously."

"Are you a mortician?"

Vachon shook his head, no.

"A clergy man?"

He stifled a laugh and shook his head again.

"Well, you're too well dressed to be a grave digger," she said. "So, who are you?"

"Just someone who has seen more than his fair share of death over the years."

"A soldier then," she concluded.

He nodded. "Yes... at one time."

She nodded solemnly, as if she might know something about it, perhaps from some fictional story she'd read or from tales a relative had told.

Many men returned from war — especially these ever more modern wars — haunted by the mass death and carnage they'd witnessed. But that hadn't been Vachon's experience as a Conquistador. No, in his time in the military, he'd seen death come from spoiled food, foreign disease, and — in his own particular case — massive internal bleeding from repeated blows to the body by a large Incan mace. He didn't remember having been struck in the face, though, which made him think he must have been a handsome-looking corpse for those few minutes before his master had brought him across.

"So, were you going to jump?" he asked. "Or were you just trying to... get a better look at the rails?"

"Does it matter, especially now that you've interrupted?"

"I'd like to think so. Can I at least ask what has sent you out here into the crisp autumn air to contemplate what lies on the other side of this railing?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"I might. You could at least allow me to try."

She sighed heavily, but that didn't indicate to Vachon if she was giving in to his request and would tell him or giving up and would leave without another word. But she didn't leave and when she finally spoke, what she said surprised him.

"Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Do you have any sisters?"

He nodded as he thought back — far back — to before he'd become a Conquistador and left Spain. "I did. But she was very young the last time I saw her and she's been dead a long time now."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

Then she asked, "Your sister had been too young to marry when she died?"

Vachon didn't know the answer to this question. He had no idea what had happened to any of his family after he'd sailed for the New World. He'd been too afraid to return to them after he'd become a vampire. It was far too long before he was able to control the hunger, before he was able to choose to kill a person or to leave them untouched, so he hadn't dared risk seeing his family. And, eventually, it had become too late anyway — a hundred years later and, without a doubt, everyone Vachon had known when he was mortal was dead.

"Too young to marry," he finally said, simply echoing her words for lack of any real answer.

"Then you cannot possibly know what the world is like for a woman," she said.

He thought he could guess well enough. For the upper classes, it was all about dresses, dances, and social etiquette. For the lower classes, it was all about working to earn enough money to stay alive. Though, looking at the woman before him, he didn't think she fell into either category.

"Well, let me tell you," she continued. "A woman who has her own fortune is both lucky and rare. A woman who has a dowry suitable enough to attract a man of sufficient means is fortunate and should count her blessings. And then there are the women like me — too well bred to live the life of a servant, but also too poor to support herself. My older sister had a dowry, but circumstances for my family changed and now I do not have one. My sister married, but I have no hope of doing the same."

"And so how do you get by in the world?"

"On the kindness of my sister and her husband. It is understood that when they have children, I will take on at least some of the duties normally fulfilled by a governess. But until then, I am merely to be a companion to my sister Delfina and... and to my brother-in-law, Signore Immondo Moscarello, I am to be...."

"To be...?"

"I am to be grateful and obedient — compliant in all things."

"'In all things' — what does that mean?"

"It means that I am to do whatever it is that he asks of me."

"And what does he ask of you?" Vachon inquired, but she hung her head and said no more. He reached up to her chin and gently raised it until he could look into her eyes. "Tell me," he implored her in a persuasive tone that he knew would draw out her words.

"I... I'm to allow him... into my bed when he requires it and to... let him take me without struggle," she said dispassionately under his spell. "And I can tell no one."

After a few moments, she added, "I know what it makes me, but it must be better than doing the same thing for strangers, for many different strangers, night after night."

Vachon was not in a position to argue the case with her. On the one hand, many prostitutes earned far more money than washer women, which allowed them to pay for decent housing, sufficient quantities of food, and clean clothing, minimizing their risk of dying from cholera or any number of other diseases spread by the close, unsanitary conditions in which most of the malnourished poor lived. On the other hand, he had known many prostitutes over the years — they were a main staple of his diet, because it was their job to take you somewhere isolated and it was their job to let you violate them — and it was rare that anyone of any consequence cared what happened to them.

He guided her head to his shoulder, wrapped her cloak around her, and held her close.

"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't," Vachon said, but unable to remembering where he'd heard the proverb.

She nodded against his shoulder.

"And so you stay. In all my years, it is the suffering people cause each other that never ceases to surprise and appall me."

"In all your years?" she straightened and looked at him again. "What an odd thing to say — you can't be more than thirty years, if even that."

"I'm told I look young for my age," he said, "but that I have a very old soul."

"Perhaps that would be more obvious to me if I could look properly into your eyes, but the light of the full moon is not enough to illuminate them. I should like to see them in the daylight."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible. The next stop is mine and the train is scheduled to arrive there before dawn," he told her.

"That is a shame. So much goes unnoticed in the dark, so many things are hidden — the fine details, the sharp lines of distinction. No, things are better when exposed to the sunlight — that is when the world becomes real."

"And the world now — at night — it's not real?"

"Heavens no! After dark is a place not to be believed if one has any hope of remaining sane. It is when dreams and nightmares happen, and when honorable-looking men turn into monsters."

Vachon raised his eyebrows. This young woman was more perceptive than she could know. But then he realized what she was saying.

"He comes to you at night?"

"Mostly. It is the only time when it is guaranteed no one will accidentally discover us, though... sometimes he takes chances."

"Chances? What do you mean?"

"Like tonight. I'm supposed to go to his compartment — I'm supposed to be on my way there now."

"But what about your sister — his wife — isn't she traveling with you?"

"She is, but she and I are sharing a compartment, because she wasn't feeling well; she's there now, asleep."

"So, he will take you in the adjacent compartment, with his ill wife on the other side of the wall? He's not afraid of waking her, of being discovered?"

She shrugged, and then shook her head. "She took a dose of laudanum, so it's doubtful she would wake. But he must also assume the noise of the train will drown out any sounds that might be overheard by anyone else. And, because of this, I can't even be sure he won't intentionally hurt me."

"And would you like it if someone hurt him? If he was made to feel the suffering he's inflicted upon you?"

"No man could know that same pain. But even if he could, I wouldn't wish it on him."

"You are too kind, far more than he deserves from what you've told me."

"There is no doubt in my mind that hurting him would only end up hurting my sister. She depends on him for food and shelter, the same as most wives. And should anything untoward happen to him — especially before she is able to conceive an heir — then she would inherit nothing and she'd find herself on the street as quickly as I would find myself there. He's plainly told me as much."

"The life of a woman sounds tenuous. I wish I could change that for you. Give you the power to stand up to him — to anyone — who tried to make you bow to their demands — give you the power over your own fate. I could make you immortal." The offer slipped out before he'd given it much thought, but he could do it, bring her across. It would be simple enough; in just two night's time she could be away from here and in possession of enough supernatural abilities to do whatever she wanted.

"Immortal? No. The only women who are immortal are those captured on canvas — and what good is it just hanging in a portrait gallery forever? No, it's best, I think, to die young and let all the pain and suffering simply be forgotten."

"I think you under estimate the power that immortality holds. It's not a still representation on canvas — it's eternal life."

"You talk as if immortal creatures exist, as if it's possible to become one."

"What if I told you it was possible — would you let me give you the gift?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it as she narrowed her eyes at him and just stared for a few, long moments.

"I can't figure you out," she finally said, "if you're being cruel by teasing me or if you're possibly insane."

"I have never been accused of insanity and I try my best never to be cruel — not unless provoked, and it takes a lot to push me to that point."

"You are the oddest, most intriguing, most ineffable person I have ever met," she told him.

"Met a lot of people, have you?"

"Well... no."

"I can assure you, there are people odder than me in the world... some more interesting, some more benevolent, and, unfortunately, some as vile as your brother-in-law. I'd like to hope that this isn't your life for the next sixty years."

"Oh, Heavens — sixty years? I don't think I can bare it that long. No, I should certainly do something drastic if that is what my future holds."

"Then do something drastic," he told her.

"Well, I was about to earlier, before you stopped me, before I fully realized what I was doing."

"There are other things you could do to change your fate."

"Like what? Buy into your impossible offer of immortality?"

"Yes, that's one."

She gave him a snort of derision and shook her head.

"You could tell him to stop," Vachon suggested.

"And risk him throwing me out on the streets? Or worse? The first time he came to me... he asked if I would help Delfina, if I would do anything to spare my sister from pain, and of course I said I would. She's never been quite as strong as me and, some of the things he's done to me, I don't think Delfina could bear them. I just don't know if he would simply find someone to replace me or if he would take my insubordination out on Delfina. I don't even want to think what he might be capable of."

"You could ask me to talk to him."

"You? A perfect stranger?"

"Hardly perfect and ... not really a stranger anymore." He was still standing there, holding her in his arms.

"Certainly you are. I don't even know your name."

"My apologies." He took her hand in his. "I am Halberto Vachonova." He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it. "Your servant, Signorina."

"Violetta Goretti." She gave a small bob of her head. "The pleasure is mine."

"There, you see? Not strangers at all."

"No, I suppose we're not." She smiled at him and he thought there was a bit less tiredness in her features. "Vachonova? How unusual. Is that Italian?"

"I suppose it is," he said and then thought maybe he should have chosen something more common, but Screed — who never seemed to use someone's actual name if he could think of some clever way to twist it around, which was always — had called him 'Vachonova' a while back and he rather liked the sound of it. "I travel so much it's sometimes hard to remember where I'm from."

"I think I should like to travel."

"You're traveling now," Vachon reminded her.

"But this is just Italy. I think I should like to see something of the world. You said you travel — is it wonderful?"

"I'm not bored of it yet. I've been traveling for a long time, but there are still so many places that I have never been. And the places I have been to change enough over the years that eventually they seem new again."

She sighed. "I can't even imagine. I'm sure I'll never see any of it."

"You can see it — all of it — if you really want to. You can leave this life behind and, I promise, eventually you'll forget about all the bad things that have been done to you."

"It's you that should forget about it. I mean, I was wrong to have said anything at all. It's not the sort of thing that's talked about in polite society."

"We two — standing here alone on the platform of a speeding train in the middle of the night — hardly constitute polite society," he pointed out. "No. We are better than polite society, because we know that such subjects must be talked about — they must be exposed — or they will never stop happening."

"Unfortunately, that's not how society works. And the only ones who would be hurt by such exposure would be me and my sister. That is the---"

The train lurched suddenly, throwing Violetta backward, but Vachon's quick reflexes once again stopped her from falling.

"I have you," he said as he pulled her against him, encircling her with his arms again.

"Thank you," she said with a shaky voice.

He could hear her quickened heartbeat. He breathed in her scent and fought the urge to bury his face in her hair and sink his fangs into her neck.

But he didn't stop himself from kissing her — long and deep, as every woman should be kissed, as if it were the last kiss she would ever experience. And for his female victims through the years, it was their last kiss. Sometimes he would do more — he'd found that he liked giving women pleasure, so he did it as often as the opportunities presented themselves. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd simply grabbed, drained, and then discarded a woman.

"I'm going to talk to him," Vachon said after breaking off the kiss. "And then you can leave with me and I will give you the power to do whatever you want with your life."

"He won't listen to you and he'll stop me from leaving. I'm sure of it."

"And, I assure you, I can be very persuasive."

"But my sister..."

"She'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."

"How?"

"Trust me," he said and then he kissed her again. "Come with me." He grabbed her hand, opened the door and ushered her through. But before they went any further, Vachon stopped and spoke to her, in the relative quiet of the deserted lounge.

"When we reach your compartment, go in — quietly. Pack only one bag — small enough that you can carry it — taking only what you cannot do without and cannot obtain elsewhere. Then stay there until I return for you. And don't wake your sister — not even to say good-bye."

"I can't say good-bye? But she'll worry when it's realized that I'm no longer on the train."

"It's better this way. Believe me." But his words didn't seem to give her any comfort, so he added, "You can write her a letter; you can tell her whatever you want and spare her anything as well. You can write it as soon as we're gone — I promise. Yes?"

She nodded her agreement and then they headed up the corridor.

"Which compartment is yours?"

She stopped in front of the door — the third door down from the front of the carriage, the one that corresponded to the window he'd first seen her through.

"And which compartment belongs to your brother-in-law?"

She pointed to the next door up.

He kissed the back of her hand and let it go. Then he placed a finger to his lips, reminding her to be quiet.

She nodded at him, and then eased open the compartment door and slipped inside.

Vachon immediately headed for the door of the train carriage; he passed over the gangway to the next carriage, flew up the corridor and through the next two doors, and then he was inside the first passenger carriage where he's begun the evening. He retrieved his valise and his overcoat from the rack where he'd stowed them, and then headed back through the train carriages. As he put on the overcoat, he went over in his mind the words he'd use when he spoke to Violetta's brother-in-law, Signore Moscarello. It wasn't a matter of convincing him to let Violetta go, it was only about telling him that he *would* let her go. That was the easy part. Then he had to make sure he said the right things so that the man didn't find someone to replace Violetta; his wording would be crucial.

Vachon had only been gone a few minutes when he reached the compartment Violetta had indicated belonged to Moscarello. He hoped that she would be done packing by the time he was finished talking to the man. He tried the handle and the door was unlocked — it must have been left that way in anticipation of Violetta's arrival, which would now never happen. It was dark inside, but Vachon could still make out a lot of detail. There was one bed made up, on the wall that was not shared with Violetta's compartment. The bed was occupied, but the figure seemed small; he'd imagined Violetta's brother-in-law to be a larger man.

He gently pulled back the covers, but he didn't find a man in the bed. No, it was a woman. He could hear her breathing, slowly, evenly. He bent near her and caught the scent of laudanum on her breath. Violetta had said her sister had taken the syrup because she hadn't been feeling well. So, was this her sister? But why wasn't she in Violetta's compartment?

An uneasy feeling washed over Vachon. In an instant, he was in the corridor and in front of the next compartment.

The door was ajar. He pushed it wide open and allowed the light from the corridor to illuminate the interior. There were two beds made up — one looked occupied. Vachon stepped into the room and immediately pulled the covers back, but all that was underneath were two pillows and some wadded up clothing laid out in the vague shape of a body. If that bed was unoccupied, then there was no one in the room. Not Violetta, not her sister, and not her brother-in-law.

They could have gone into another compartment, so Vachon moved down the corridor, listening at each door, but hearing no sounds from within, and trying each handle, but finding them all locked. Just as he reached the last door, he had a clear view into the lounge and could see that the door to the rear observation platform was open. Someone was standing out there.

Suddenly, Vachon saw a large and white go over the railing and disappear into the darkness.

His hand had already pulled the emergency cord that spanned the length of the corridor and he was running into the lounge.

Just as he reached the door, Vachon was thrown backward and onto the floor. The train lurched; the wheels screeched and ground against the iron rails as the train's brakes where applied full force.

Vachon was immediately back on his feet and out the rear door. A man, maybe a bit larger and heavier than himself, was sitting on the metal platform, feet splayed out in front of him, head and shoulders against the wall, undoubtedly having fallen just has Vachon had when the train suddenly decelerated. But Vachon wasn't concerned about him. His eyes were drawn to the railroad tracks and he moved to the railing in order to peer out into the night.

There were voices now, behind him in the lounge, and someone came up the platform's steps from outside the train and went immediately to the fallen man. Vachon felt a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

Then he saw something in the distance that no one without his keen vision could have seen.

For a moment, the world became still and silent, everyone unmoving except himself. He undid the chain on his left, stepped down the two metal treads, and then jumped the remaining distance onto the gravel of the rail bed. As soon as he was clear of the light from the train, he was flying down the tracks and touching down when he reached what he'd seen from the platform.

What lay at his feet was a heap of fabric, white and dark blue tumbled together like an ocean wave frozen in place as it was crashing onto a beach.

And long blonde hair splayed out over one cold, rust-speckled iron rail.

And skin that looked pale and flawless in the moonlight, like fine porcelain.

The smell of blood rushed over him, turning his eyes a violent yellow. He dropped to his knees beside the twisted mess of body and limbs that had once been Violetta. He closed his eyes until he'd calmed himself enough that he was able to see through brown eyes once again. Carefully, he unbent one arm and heard what sounded to him like the shifting of broken pieces of a teacup, raw edges grinding against each other.

He turned her head gently from where it lay on the gravel until he could see her face. Large patches of abraded skin glistened with wet blood. Vachon pulled two pieces of gravel from her cheek and dropped them onto the ground.

Gently, he caressed her silky blonde hair and smoothed a section over her forehead, concealing the exposed bone of her skull. With his thumb, he stroked her cheek, the one that had — somehow — avoided being flayed by the gravel. Vachon leaned in and laid a final kissed on that one impossibly perfect spot still remaining on her rent body.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "You would have loved being immortal."

As men from the train drew up beside him, Vachon stood. Without his hands to hold it, Violetta's head lulled to the side, her broken neck allowing it to come to rest at a disturbingly odd angle. Two of the men looked away. Another put his hand to his mouth as he stared.

Vachon walked down the tracks, back toward the train. Behind him, he heard one of the men ask, "Why would she have jumped?" Another added, "Such a pity" and "Mary, Mother of God, please rest her troubled soul."

But those words did not give Vachon any more comfort than they could give Violetta. They only stoked the anger that was growing inside of him. He clenched his fists as his eyes flared yellow again and his fangs descended. He stalked toward the train, his gaze fixed on the man still sitting where he'd fallen on the observation platform of the train carriage.

Slowly, he climbed the metal steps until he was standing over the man, then he reached down and hauled him to his feet as if he weighed no more than a rag doll.

"She... she jumped," the man stammered. Then he swallowed and tried again. "I tried to stop her, but didn't reach her in time. She jumped."

"Don't lie to me, Signore Moscarello," Vachon ordered in a deep, controlling voice. "Admit you killed her."

"I k... k... No, she... jumped."

"You were waiting for her in her compartment. You broke her neck and then you threw her body from the train."

"No... no..." he said, but he was nodding his head yes to Vachon's accusation. "No... no one can prove it."

The man was right. But Vachon didn't need proof beyond his earlier conversation with Violetta and his last moments with her broken body. There need not be a trial, neither judge nor jury. Vachon could pass sentence on him right now. Death, swift and decisive.

Vachon turned the man in his arms, so the man's back was against his chest, and he yanked his head sharply to the side, exposing the neck and its hammering pulse. Vachon opened his mouth and his wet fangs gleamed in the moonlight.

But then what Violetta had said about her sister ran through his mind. That if anything happened to this man, she would be turned out into the streets — without home or money or prospects. He didn't know if that was true, but Violetta believed it was. There had already been one victim tonight; would Vachon make it two?

Vachon released his grip on Moscarello and took a step backward, until he was leaning against the railing over which her body had been thrown.

"I don't need to prove it," he told Violetta's brother-in-law. "This is no court room."

"That's right; it's not," Moscarello said, seeming to regain his composure as the tenuous hold Vachon had over his mind was slipping away. Signore Moscarello drew himself up to his full height and, for the first time, Vachon saw how large he was, how easily he could have intimidated Violetta who'd felt so delicate in his own arms.

"But I'm going to sentence you nonetheless." Vachon's words seemed to take the man by surprise, like a slap across the face, and Moscarello's shoulders sagged as if his new-found confidence was physically draining away.

Vachon said, "I'm going to allow you to live."

Moscarello let out a breath, seemingly relieved.

"I'm going to let you live, on two conditions."

The man waited for Vachon to continue, his increasing heart rate belying his growing unease.

"As long as you don't replace Violetta in your bed and as long as her sister Delfina remains alive and well treated, I will not touch you. But the day any of these conditions is not met, your life is forfeit and I shall make your death more painful than you can possibly imagine."

The man let out a nervous breath, followed by a disbelieving and dismissive snort.

Vachon stepped forward, every fiber of his being again that of the savage vampire, and Moscarello instantly shrunk back against the wall. "Do you understand me?" Vachon asked, his fangs imparting a sinister affectation to his words.

The man nodded nervously.

"Say it. Tell me what is required to stop me from torturing you to death."

"Delfina. I'm to take care of her, treat her well for the rest of her life. I promise — she'll have the best of everything," he said, wringing his hands in anxiety.

"What else?"

"I'm to bed no one else. I won't be unfaithful. I swear."

Vachon stepped back again, his features once more fully human.

"I will know," Vachon told him, "if you break your oath."

Violetta's brother-in-law — her despoiler, her murderer — nodded his head and Vachon knew the man believed his threat.

Then Vachon vanished from the train.

He entered the man's hotel room via an unlocked window. He grabbed one of several chairs and positioned it so that he would be behind the door and out of view when his intended returned. Vachon didn't know how long he'd have to wait, but he was good at waiting. He'd waited eight years, three months, and twenty-nine nights; to wait a few more minutes or hours made no difference. He sat down and passed the time by reviewing once again what he was going to do.

The knob on the door turned and the door opened. Moscarello strode in and gave the door a flick to close it. Vachon stood up quietly and pushed on the door until it latched. He watched for a few moments as the man took off his great coat and threw it onto a chair. Then off came his jacket — it looked to be a fine wool, which mean Moscarello had been out somewhere he'd be seen. Perhaps the Opera — a tragedy, maybe, where all the major players lie dead by the final curtain.

As the man's silk cravat was untied, pulled free, and tossed to join the other discarded items of clothing, Vachon reached over and locked the door, the heavy metal bolt sliding quick and loud into place.

At the jarring sound, Moscarello turned around. His eyes were wide, startled for a moment; but then they narrowed in anger. "Who are you? What are you doing in my room?"

"I'm here about Violetta," Vachon said, leaning casually against the door.

"Violetta?" Moscarello shook his head for a moment, but then asked, "My late sister-in-law? You knew her?"

"I was there the night she died."

"No."

"I was on the train. I saw you throw her over the railing onto the tracks. And I told you that I would be back for you."

"No... it can't be..." Moscarello said quietly, shaking his head. "I thought... I imagined that."

"You didn't. And now I'm here to end your life."

"No! You said..." He paused as if trying to remember the exact words. "You said, as long as I treated Delfina well — and I did! No man has ever treated his wife better."

"But she's dead now."

The man nodded. Vachon was surprised at his expression: he actually looked convincingly mournful.

"I didn't hurt her," Moscarello said. "I swore I wouldn't and I didn't. It was the influenza. I paid for doctors to treat her, to save her, but they couldn't."

Vachon finally straightened and began walking slowly into the room. "I don't care."

"You have to. I did what I promised. And you said as long as I treated her well---"

"I said: as long as she lived and you treated her well. But now Delfina's dead. And now I'm here for you, because of what you did to her sister."

"No. You can't." Moscarello held his hands out, as if trying to ward off Vachon. "I'm not that man anymore. I'm not. I regret what happened to Violetta."

"What happened to her? You act like you had nothing to do with it."

"It was an accident."

"No, it wasn't. She didn't slip and fall off the train. Nor did she jump. You threw her — I saw you. You threw her over the railing and onto the tracks."

"I..."

"There's no point in lying. Confess or don't — it doesn't matter. I already know what happened."

"You can't. How could you?"

"I told you, I was there. She went back to her compartment and you were waiting for her inside, weren't you? She told you she was leaving, that she would no longer allow you to use her. In that moment, you saw her as a possession that no longer served its purpose, so you threw her away."

"No."

"No, what? It won't help you to deny it."

The man hung his head and nodded, as if he were ashamed of what he'd done. But, it didn't matter to Vachon.

"You forced yourself on her, repeatedly, and when she tried to leave you killed her. And now it's your turn to die."

Moscarello was shaking his head. He was backing away as Vachon slowly advanced on him.

Then Vachon moved suddenly, swiftly, and the next moment he had Moscarello pinned against the far wall. His hand was tight against the man's throat. Moscarello struggled beneath Vachon's grip, struggled to breathe, the air coming and going in great wheezing sounds; it was doubtful he could even speak. But it didn't matter, because the time for talking was over.

Remembering Violetta's shattered arm, Vachon clamped his free hand over Moscarello's forearm and squeezed until he felt the bones flex. Even with the small amount of air getting into his lungs, Moscarello somehow managed a long tortured scream. The two bones finally broke and Vachon released his grip on the man's arm and the screams faded into loud, pitiful moans. Vachon squeezed the broken bones again, just to feel them scrape against each other and tear into the man's flesh.

Moscarello resumed screaming.

The picture of Violetta lying broken on the train tracks was still vivid in Vachon's mind. He almost wished he'd brought a handful of gravel to grind into her murderer's skin. But he hadn't. However, he had thought to borrow Screed's long dagger — the one he used to filet rats and other vermin. It seemed appropriate. He slowly pulled the blade from its sheath on his belt and held it up so Moscarello would have a good look at it. Light glinted off the polished surface — Screed was good about keeping the steel razor-sharp.

Moscarello's eyes went wide and he struggled to free himself from Vachon's strong grip at his neck. He was unsuccessful and only managed to turn his head to the side, so that he was no longer looking at Vachon or the dagger. But that only made it easier for Vachon to carve up the man's cheek, flaying the skin as the gravel had flayed Violetta's. Then Vachon pointed the tip of the dagger at the wall and placed the edge of the blade against Moscarello's forehead. The man was whimpering and crying, struggling to form words that might have sounded like "please" and "don't."

If Vachon had been someone other than himself, he might have smiled at the pain and anguish he was causing, but he took no pleasure in torturing this man. He was only giving him what he'd given Violetta.

Vachon pressed the edge of the blade against the man's forehead until the skin furrowed around it. Then he slowly drew the blade across the man's forehead, slicing all the way to the bone. Too bad Moscarello didn't have long blonde hair to cover up the wound like Violetta had had. Blood poured down the man's face, into his eyes. There was more screaming, but Vachon wouldn't allow himself to listen; this man deserved no pity and no mercy.

Blood continued to flow down Moscarello's face, into his blubbering mouth, and then down his chin and onto Vachon's hand and wrist. With his other hand, the one that still held the dagger, Vachon extended his index finger, which he used to trace the horizontal cut across the man's forehead. It was similar to the cut used by some American Indians when scalping their victims. But there would be no scalping today.

Moscarello's screams were now ragged, as if his lungs had been scraped raw. His eyes opened wide as he tried to breathe in; then they sagged as he breathed out. The pain and blood loss were quickly taking their toll. Vachon could see his consciousness slowly ebbing away.

"You threw her from the train," Vachon said one last time. "Was she alive when you did it? Was she?!" Vachon nearly screamed the last words, but it didn't matter. Moscarello was beyond the ability to answer, though his mouth moved as if he were trying to say something. Vachon hoped it was the word "No."

Vachon was tired of this. He was tired of planning Moscarello's torture and death, of thinking about what the man had done to Violetta, and of remembering her gruesome, mangled body on the tracks that night all those years ago.

So, when Moscarello finally — actually — walked into the hotel room, things didn't happen quite as Vachon had been imagining they would.

The man gave the door a flick to close it. Vachon stood up quietly and, as the man was throwing off his great coat, Vachon pushed on the door until it latched.

Then Vachon moved quickly. He was instantly behind the man, wrapping one arm around Moscarello's waist to restrain him, then snaking his other arm across the man's chest.

"Unhand me!" Moscarello ordered, struggling.

But Vachon just reached up and placed his palm against the man's chin and wrenched his head to the side.

Moscarello gasped. "Who are you?"

"Vengeance," Vachon said. "Death." Then he sank his teeth into the pulse at the man's neck, violently tearing into the flesh.

Warm blood flooded into Vachon's mouth, but the taste was offensive. He pulled away, wiping his lips against his sleeve, and then watched until the blood spurting from the man's neck began to slow and the trembling of his limbs began to fade. When Moscarello finally went limp, Vachon loosened his grip and the body collapsed on the floor.

Vachon stared down at Moscarello, now just a heap on the carpet beside the discarded coat. Vachon listened closely. He heard no breathing. He heard no flow of blood through veins. He heard no heart beats.

The man had ended up face down on the carpet and Vachon could not see his eyes. He kneeled down and placed his hands on each side of the man's still warm head. He gave a sharp twist and heard the rending of flesh and the cracking of bone. Then Moscarello was looking over his own shoulder — a view no living man would ever see.

The man was dead and would remain that way. Violetta's killer was gone and Vachon vowed never to let another such man live a moment longer than necessary.

Those who cherish life should live and those who don't should die, swiftly.