I know it’s wrong to wish for the demise of another being just so I won’t have to clean up their blood. Still, I found myself wishing Athanasia’s blood had vanished ‘like magic’, as it supposedly would have had I finished the grisly task of offing her.

Maybe I am not as nice a person as I thought?

Cleaning Celia’s entryway was most unpleasant. Being daytime, Celia was nowhere to be found. Not even Samantha had been able to help clean it the night before, because of her reaction to the blood. Sure, she had wanted to help, but the blood made her a little crazy and she’d had to keep her distance. On Celia’s advice, I’d waited till morning to start cleaning on my own, though that meant I’d have no help, and by then the blood had dried adamantine on the tiles and hardened in every minute crevice.

It took me an hour to clean and scrub the floor to my satisfaction. I’d also cleaned up some of the cobwebs and dust, as I’d promised I would, and in the end I’d felt utterly drained both physically and emotionally. Celia had assured me that I was totally safe from Athanasia and her fanged friends in the daytime, as vamps can only walk by night and are cursed to sleep while the sun is out, or some such thing, but I’d still felt the edge of fear every moment I’d been down there. Besides, from time to time I thought I heard something move beneath the floor.

I was freaked out and exhausted now. The entryway, at least, shone.

Soon it would be time for me to get ready for my date with Jay, though to be honest I felt somewhat less enthusiastic about it than I had when I’d accepted his invitation. I felt bone tired, for one thing, and I hadn’t fully recovered from my ordeal the night before. Nor could I tell my date about what had happened right after we’d kissed goodnight. (Imagine how that conversation would go!)

Also, I felt close to Luke after his last visit, even closer than I had before, and it felt somehow like a betrayal to go on a date with someone else. That wasn’t fair, of course, considering most people would not regard Luke as even real, but still, it was there pressing at my heart.

He was ever more real to me.

I took a nap and bathed, and when the time came I emerged in the stunning red dress I’d worn to the launch of BloodofYouth.

Celia was waiting for me in the lounge room.

‘Ta-da,’ I said.

My great-aunt frowned and shook her head gently.

‘What’s wrong? I thought you said this dress looked good?’ I protested. ‘Jay likes it.’

‘Darling, it does look wonderful on you, but you wore it very recently to an event where you spent time with the same man. And there was a red carpet, was there not?’

I nodded, not yet comprehending.

‘You simply cannot wear the same dress, so soon, for the same crowd. It is not done. It is considered a faux pas.’

I hadn’t had to consider fashion faux pas in Gretchenville. ‘Well, what should I wear then?’ I asked, disheartened.

Celia smiled. ‘I have an outfit in mind for you tonight. Something more modern. It will suit this crowd, I think.’

I raised an eyebrow. Something modern? From Celia?

‘Slip that dress off, and I’ll be in your room in a moment,’ she instructed. I did as she said, and stood in my underwear with my arms crossed over my body. The room was cold.

Celia soon emerged in the doorway with clothing slung over her arm. ‘Try on these pants,’ she instructed, and handed me a pair of black pants. They had four pockets; two deep pockets in the front and two more shallow ones in back. They were made of some kind of wool blend, with a slight stretch, and came just to the ankle. ‘They are cigarette pants – the only cigarette that’s good for you,’ she quipped. ‘Wear them with your ballet flats.’

I looked in the mirror on the tall wardrobe. ‘I like them,’ I said. They sat on the waist just below my belly button, and tapered down the leg to the ankle. They were slimming, and I thought they made me look a little taller than I was.

‘And now this top.’ She held out a white cotton blouse for me. It had long sleeves with an exaggerated folded cuff and an elegant, crossover design that sat low on the bust and tied with a crisp sash at the waist.

‘Perfect,’ she said when I fastened the sash. ‘And now for your jacket.’

This was the final layer, and she handed it to me with a look of satisfaction. It was made of the same black material as the pants, with a very slight stretch. It was long and split in the back and short at the front. There were two tiny pockets at the front with little ruffles under them, and stiff silk lapels along the neckline. I slipped it on and secured it with a single round metallic button at the waist. It fit like a glove. The French cuffs on the shirt poked out from the long jacket sleeves. The effect was boyish and playful.

This tuxedo-look sure beat the heck out of my bland grey suit from Gretchenville. ‘Great-Aunt Celia, why do all your clothes seem to fit me so well?’ I asked.

‘You are a Lucasta,’ she replied, as if it were a simple matter of genetics. ‘Now, darling, you need to wear this with confidence. Use the pockets. Wear it casually, like you aren’t trying too hard. Don’t be precious about it.’ She squinted at me, evaluating what she saw. ‘We will leave your hair out this time. No jewellery, and not too much lipstick, but you should wear some kohl around the eyes, I think.’

I nodded, though I didn’t know how to do that.

‘I’ll do it for you,’ she said, before I had to explain.

Was there any other young woman in world who could boast a great-aunt for a stylist and makeup artist? By the time she was done, I was thanking my lucky stars. My makeup was natural, but with striking dark eyeliner rimming the inside of my eyes. It drew attention to the reddish ‘cognac’ colour of my eyes, and reminded me of the girl with the cat eyes on the cover of Mia magazine – not that I was going to think about them anymore. And not that I had to! I had my own job now, and I was about to attend my first fashion show in a funky, boyish tuxedo.

‘I got you something special,’ my great-aunt said, once I was ready. ‘To celebrate.’

‘What are we celebrating?’

‘Why, your successful move to New York, of course. And here in Spektor.’ Celia handed me a small deep red velvet bag, tied with a thin gold silk cord, and she smiled proudly from beneath her veil. The bag fit well in the palm of my hand. Whatever it held was curved and light. From the feel of it I couldn’t imagine what it might be. ‘It is time to give this to you now. You’ll want it tonight, I think. This is a special gift, Pandora.’

Two weeks. It was impossible to register all that had happened in that time.

‘Go on, open it,’ she urged.

I had hesitated, but now I untied the cord and slid the object out of the bag. It was bronze and round, not quite flat but slightly domed, and had a clasp on one side. I flipped it open, wondering what strange thing it held.

Oh.

I saw my own reflection. It was a makeup compact.

‘Darling you must carry this with you everywhere you go,’ Celia told me firmly.

I nodded and smiled to myself. She wanted me to look good at all times on this exciting night. It was sweet that she cared about that sort of thing. It was a nice gesture. ‘Thanks. It’s lovely. I’ll be sure to use it.’

‘Yes. Why don’t you slip it into your pocket, along with your lipstick and key?’

‘Um, sure,’ I said. I guessed Celia wasn’t going to lend me a purse this time. The red one would have been okay with this, wouldn’t it? Or perhaps not. It was a bit girly and didn’t really match the black and white, I guessed. I’d have to go purse shopping when I could afford to.

‘You look like a modern Marlene Dietrich without the top hat,’ Celia observed proudly. ‘Go on now.’

I gave Celia an enthusiastic hug, patted Freyja as she rubbed against my feet. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much, Great-Aunt Celia. I shouldn’t be too late tonight,’ I said.

Before I left I filled my tuxedo pockets with grains of rice, just to be sure.

After all, I had nowhere to hide an axe.

The address Jay had given me was a slick, dimly-lit bar on Fifth Avenue. It looked expensive and very fashionable, with low-slung leather lounges and a white, avant-garde, spiral chandelier in the centre. At one end of the intimate room was an illuminated cocktail bar lined with liquor bottles. I’d never seen such a place before, and it all struck me as being like something out of a James Bond movie. Any minute a villain with a glass eye and a scar down one cheek would walk in and start speaking in a foreign accent.

My date was already there. I spotted Jay’s tall, broad-shouldered silhouette at the bar. I walked up to him.

‘Hi.’

He swivelled around. My appearance seemed to surprise him and I experienced an unsettling moment of wondering if the boyish tux was appropriate for the evening. Had I avoided one faux pas only to commit another?

‘Oh, Pandora. You look beautiful,’ Jay told me in his deep, honeyed voice.

‘Thanks.’ I melted a little, relieved, and I grinned broadly. ‘You look nice too,’ I replied. He looked better than nice, but I felt that any more extravagant compliment would be awkward. He wore a black velvet jacket, dark jeans and polished black shoes. He looked rich and stylish. At least I look stylish, I thought. I took the stool next to his.

‘So . . .’ I began, but the bartender was on me in a moment. I looked up to see that he was emaciated and looked as young as I was. He seemed to have dyed his long eyelashes.

‘What’ll it be?’ the bartender asked me, sounding unreasonably bored.

‘She’ll have a sparkling mineral water with a twist of lime,’ Jay cut in, and pushed a few dollars over the glowing bar.

I bit my lip. I wasn’t used to people ordering drinks for me. Perhaps he just didn’t want me to feel uncomfortable at the bar, but it had seemed a high-handed gesture.

‘The show is in the Garment District, not far from here, in a disused warehouse,’ Jay informed me while I waited for my mineral water.

‘Oh good,’ I said. I tried to contain my excitement, but I was sure Jay could see right through my feigned casualness. My first-ever fashion show, my first-ever fashion show . . . I kept thinking. I’d seen so many of them in magazines and on blogs.

My drink arrived in a tall glass. I nervously gulped the entire thing down, which did not sit well with my stomach. I’d forgotten it had bubbles.

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Hmm?’

‘After I dropped you off – did you sleep well?’ Jay asked.

Oh yes, I slept well after a homicidal supermodel vampire attacked me, I stabbed her with an iron stake, and she went missing.

‘Yes, thanks,’ I replied.

‘That was such a strange suburb.’ He shook his head and frowned, as if trying to remember something. ‘I can’t even remember how I got home,’ he remarked quietly, almost as if he hadn’t meant me to hear.

Spektor. I probably shouldn’t have let him drive me home, but Celia didn’t warn me that it would be a problem. I made a mental note to ask her about that later. I had a lot to ask her, actually, especially all this stuff about my being ‘the seventh’. I didn’t really understand it all.

‘Um, do you know the designer for tonight’s show?’ I asked Jay casually.

‘Everyone in New York knows him,’ he declared, as if I should have known. ‘He has taken over from Alexander McQueen as the new enfant terrible of the fashion world.’

What an odd thing to say, I thought. ‘Unruly child of the fashion world,’ I repeated back, translating directly from the French.

Jay gave me a strange look. ‘It means he’s a genius.’

Jay and I walked the three blocks to the Garment District, and arrived twenty minutes after the show was supposed to start. I had begun to feel on edge about the time, but as it turned out, I needn’t have worried one bit.

This time there was no red carpet.

Relieved, I walked a step behind my towering date as we entered a warehouse the size of an aeroplane hangar packed with flocks of fashion types. Bleachers were set up across the space, bringing to mind a school assembly, but these faced inwards to a shining white elevated runway, the first catwalk I had ever seen. Only about one third of the seats were filled so far. People were taking their time getting seated, checking each other out and generally making spectacles of themselves. My eyes were sure busy in this crowd. Every second person was a celebrity, or thought they were one, and photographers moved among them taking pictures of the famous, the fashionable and the outrageous. There were a lot of well-groomed, expensively dressed men and women, each cooler and more hip than the last. Some of the outfits made me stare; I saw a woman in a leather corset, fishnets and what was either a skirt or French knickers, it was hard to tell. Her hat was larger than the rest of her outfit, and featured an entire stuffed bird and a length of tulle. I saw a man in a full-length black fur coat and huge bug-eyed sunglasses, and strings of gold chains hanging around his neck. Whoever he was, he had a small circle of sycophants around him.

Who are these people?

‘Here’s your ticket,’ Jay said, and pushed a stiff cardboard ticket into my hand. It said B7 and I thought fleetingly about the number seven, my favourite number, and what my great-aunt had said about me the night before. But Jay grabbed my hand and led me through the throng, and soon I was distracted from my wonderings.

We had second-row seats and a great view. A media scrum was assembled at the end of the runway with hundreds of lenses prepared to capture every moment of the show. There was a bit of a kerfuffle as the last people took their seats, including an apparent altercation regarding the owner of a certain front-row spot. Two petite women argued heatedly until two taller women in matching black T-shirts sorted it out. The interloper was led away, the lights dimmed until the entire warehouse was thrown into darkness.

Lights flashed over the runway, pulsing to the techno-rock beat, and the first model walked out to a clash of cymbals and a heavy drumbeat. The letters G R A F T flashed up against the walls. I watched the first model move towards us, and I admit I gaped. She was tall and platinum-haired and built like a giraffe – an alarmingly thin giraffe. She had heavy makeup on, which I supposed was commonplace on the catwalk. It was theatre, after all. But this makeup was as white as snow. She looked suspiciously dark under the eyes. I cocked my head. Was she . . . undead? Surely not. The model progressed down the catwalk, crossing her ankles as she placed her feet. Her face was slack and expressionless. I closed my eyes and let my instincts be the judge. No. She wasn’t undead. She just looked like it.

Way to give me nightmares.

‘This is all the rage,’ Jay explained.

‘You mean wan anorexia?’

Jay flashed me a look. ‘You crack me up. No, not wan anorexia, neo-goth. The vampire look.’

I swallowed heavily, and hoped Jay didn’t see the flash of fear in my eyes.

It was just a look, right? Just because Athanasia was the face of the hottest beauty product in town didn’t mean that vampires were running rampant in the fashion industry. Did it? It was just a look, thanks to a slew of vampire books and movies. Sure enough, a male model began his walk down the runway, clothed in Byronic, romantic goth wear, borrowing heavily from Anne Rice’s Lestat and Louis. The outfit looked good on him, I had to admit. Next came a similarly dressed woman, again with the pale makeup and dark eyes. Her lips looked faintly bloodstained. To these people it was just a fashion trend, nothing more.

I tore my eyes from the terrifying vampiric models and spotted a familiar face in the crowd. Two, in fact. Though Jay had snagged us second-row seats, I saw that Skye, my boss, was in the front row on the opposite side of the runway, wearing a yellow and black outfit, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. From what I could see she looked well, evidently recovered from her mysterious bout of sickness. The deputy editor and article-thief Pepper was actually in a seat behind her, so I supposed that competition for the front-row seats must be fierce. The two exchanged whispers and Skye went back to watching the show, notepad in hand. I noticed Pepper snapping photos with a small digital camera. It occurred to me that Pepper might get a visit from an angry vampire model. Should I warn her somehow?

When I looked back at the runway I saw that things had gone from bad to worse – or, rather, from deathlike to undead. One out of three models were actually Sanguine. I could feel it. There, the blonde friend of Athanasia’s! Was I the only one who noticed she was dead? And there, the redhead from Celia’s building. And the brunette, too! The dark-haired vampire stopped at the end of the runway, the split in her long leather gown falling open to reveal a pale, perfect leg . . . and she grinned. Her fangs glittered in the spotlight.

No. No!

The crowd applauded. The photographers clicked off a thousand flashes. I thought I would be ill.

When the lights came up, Jay and I left the bleachers. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Despite the clusters of people talking loudly here and there, the place seemed to be emptying fast. The music was still pounding, but it was clearly time to go. The media scrum had packed up and were rushing off somewhere.

‘Shall we head to the after party?’ Jay asked.

I felt my throat tighten. Would the models be there?

We had walked only a few steps from the bleachers when a familiar voice stopped me. ‘Well, fancy seeing you here.’

It was my boss, Skye. She was wearing an intricately designed dress of stretchy neon yellow and black with futuristic stitching. It brought to mind a cocoon, and from the neck down she looked like she might soon turn into a butterfly. From the neck up, she looked like someone who was wearing a bit more makeup than usual to camouflage the fact that she was recovering from a bout of sickness. She was no longer magically glowing, and I suspected she’d stopped using BloodofYouth. From her expression, she looked a tiny bit impressed to see me. Not so the thief, Pepper, who stood next to her, glowering. Wasn’t I the one who should be doing the glowering? Pepper eyed my handsome date and then looked back to me.

Oh . . .

‘Wasn’t it a good show?’ I said cheerily. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better, Skye. Have you met Jay Rockwell?’ I did the polite introductions in my best professional tone.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Jay said, sliding straight into character as the charming date. He shook Skye’s hand. ‘Good to see you again, Pepper,’ he said with a nod, and my heart did a funny tumble. They knew each other. How exactly did they know each other? He turned back to my boss. ‘Is that Gaultier?’ he asked. ‘You look wonderful.’

Pepper sidled up to me. ‘Nice catch,’ she whispered into my ear, in a not-so-friendly tone. ‘He’s such a player, though. You ought to be careful. I’d hate for you to get hurt.’

I felt waves of jealousy coming off Pepper, and I wondered what it was all about. I was shocked by her words and I needed a moment to collect myself. A player? I’d sensed he might be. But just how well did Pepper and Jay know each other? Perhaps this wasn’t the time to warn her that some employees of BloodofYouth had visited me, and might also want to ‘chat’ with her.

‘Excuse me, I’ll just be a moment,’ I said, and turned to leave the trio to talk while I went to freshen up. I needed a moment to collect myself. Two women walked past at that moment, and I automatically followed them through an entryway, presuming they were going to the powder room.

The two strangers ahead of me talked as they walked.

‘What did you think of the gown for me?’

‘The leather?’

Halfway down a white, industrial-looking hallway they pushed on a door marked Private.

‘And those fake fangs!’

I nearly stumbled in after them, but the shorter one stopped and gave me a sharp look, and I quickly realised my error. I kept walking down the empty corridor, as if I knew where I was going.

Darn it. Don’t they have signs in these places?

I heard footsteps echoing behind me, and that familiar cold feeling settled in my stomach.

I turned.

Thankfully it was Jay. ‘It’s this way,’ he said with a broad, appealing smile, and held out his hand.

‘Thanks,’ I replied, embarrassed. I’d been flustered by Pepper, and now I smiled and walked towards him.

But something felt wrong.

I heard other footsteps in the hallway. I was halfway to him when I saw three women walk up behind my date and stop. My heart sank into my stomach. It was the three models – the three vampire models – from my building. The redhead, the blonde and the brunette who had been in the show. They still had their white makeup caked on, as if they needed it to look deathly chic. They were dressed head to toe in their own cute designer outfits; a trio of perfectly beautiful horror, like the lethal Spice Girls, except they were all Scary Spice. We were lucky there weren’t five of them. Maybe Jay and I could take them on, if that’s what it came to?

‘Where did you think you were going, virgin?’ the blonde hissed. ‘That’s none of your business,’ was my swift retort. I took a few steps closer, and folded my arms. I was still a few metres away from Jay, who looked confused but not nearly as scared as he ought to be.

I wondered what they would do.

I didn’t have to wonder for long.

‘Hey, ladies,’ my date began with a smooth smile. Sensing the thick atmosphere of hostility, he raised his hands, palms up, and spoke in his most charming voice. ‘There’s no need to—’

Redhead grabbed Jay by the throat and lifted him up against the wall. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. He was a big man, strong and very tall, but she lifted him like he was weightless. Jay was so tall that his feet didn’t exactly dangle, but his body hung limp. I thought it strange that he wasn’t struggling with his arms or legs. His face was turning more purple by the second and his eyes bulged, locked in a stare with his beautiful attacker. I wondered if she was hypnotising him.

‘Put him down!’ I demanded, and took a step towards them.

Brunette and Blonde turned to me and assumed poses of readiness. They looked like they planned to fight me. Interesting that they thought it would take two of them.

‘Ms Báthory has plans for you and your friends,’ Redhead said, still gripping Jay’s throat and not breaking the stare. I wondered how much longer Jay could take it before he passed out.

‘Let’s leave the man out of it,’ I said, and looked around me. The models were blocking the way we’d come, and there was a doorway at the end of the hall behind them. There was the door up the corridor behind me which I’d almost followed the two women through, possibly leading backstage or to a room for the fashion show’s staging staff. I could make a run for it, but I couldn’t leave Jay with those fanged femme fatales, not even for long enough to get help. He could be dead by then. Or undead.

‘Look here,’ I said, and bolted towards them, emptying my pockets as I bridged the distance between us. My paper seat ticket fluttered to the ground, catching the eye of the blonde and brunette vamps, and after it, grains of rice hit the floor and bounced. The models reacted with a peculiar ‘Ohhh’ sound, and crouched to the floor to begin counting. ‘One, two, three, four . . .’ Redhead turned from her victim to see what her evil cohorts were doing, and when she spotted the rice she too crouched to the ground and began counting, as if in a supernatural trance. Jay slid to the floor, holding his throat.

Supernatural rules. So weird.

‘This way, Jay!’ I called out and nearly tackled him in my attempt to get him up and moving.

‘She had . . . teeth . . .’ he stuttered, perhaps finally realising the fangs were real.

We scrambled along, Jay clutching his sore throat in one hand while I gripped the other, pulling him as fast as I could towards the far door – a fire door with a big metal hand bar – hoping it led outside where I could flag down help. I hadn’t been able to fit a lot of rice in my jacket pockets, and the models would soon finish counting. I pushed the bar down and burst out the doorway, dragging my date behind me. It opened into a disused loading bay. I was not staring at a bustling New York City street, not at traffic and life-saving yellow cabs; I was looking at a disused back alley in the Garment District. It was dark, but not uninhabited, I quickly discovered. Oh no, it wasn’t uninhabited at all.

Vampires liked alleys, apparently.

The long black limo was there, along with the familiar yellow sports car that belonged to my nemesis Athanasia – who stood only metres away in her leather pants and a tight T-shirt that was totally inappropriate for the weather, looking as if she’d never been staked. And she had friends. Big, scary, dead friends. Two males – both pale, ugly, neckless and looking like they’d been Russian body builders in life. One of them – a bald, nasty-looking man with muscles that seemed ready to burst out of his suit – held two bodies, one over each shoulder. I stifled a scream. It was Skye and Pepper.

Then I noticed Athanasia’s smile was slick with fresh blood.

Oh no. No, no, no, no . . .

I could barely take in the grim spectacle as the hulking creature slung my editor and deputy editor into the trunk of the limo like they were sacks of potatoes. And maybe that’s all they’d been to Athanasia: food.

Upon my arrival on the scene the rear door of the limousine had opened, and now, slowly, a figure emerged; a figure more beautiful and terrifying than any I had seen before. It was a woman clothed in a long, black dress with a tight, corsetted bustier and draping folds of luxurious fabric that fell to the pavement. She had a high forehead and aristocratic features, and although she was no taller than me, her presence was commanding. Her skin was luminous, pale and flawless, and her dark hair was pulled back behind ivory-skinned shoulders to reveal a long slim neck and a collar of blood-red lace. Her dark eyes were malevolent, somehow mesmerising, and the power of her dark beauty seemed to overwhelm that of Athanasia, who looked plain next to her master, even after her fresh feed.

This, I knew instinctively, was the woman behind BloodofYouth.

‘Good. You’ve come, Pandora English,’ the woman announced in a richly accented voice. ‘I am Countess Elizabeth Báthory.’

I blinked at her, aware she was trying to hypnotise me. I felt her mind push into mine, and I pushed back. I refused to let her influence penetrate. She kept her eyes locked on mine, and she smiled.

‘I was told you are not all you appear,’ she stated. ‘This was correct.’

Báthory, Báthory, Báthory . . .

I turned the name over in my mind. Athanasia had mentioned her mistress Báthory, as had the red-haired vamp, and here she was. The name Elizabeth Báthory was familiar. It had been in my mother’s books. It came up frequently alongside the name of Vlad Tepes, the supposed inspiration for the fictional figure of Dracula in the novel Celia despised so much. She was from Eastern Europe. Yes, Romania, or Hungary, but long ago, centuries ago. And unlike Count Dracula, she was very real and she had committed some truly terrible real-life crimes, crimes so heinous it made her a dark legend. There was some talk of a wrongful trial. No, she was of noble blood and thus could not be tried, I now recalled.

This is Countess Báthory, the Blood Lady achtice. This is the Blood Countess.

When I was younger I’d read about the legendary Blood Countess, and had asked my mother about her. She was notorious for being the most prolific female serial killer in history, accused of having killed many hundreds of her virgin servant girls at her castle – as many as six hundred. She could not be tried because she was of noble blood, so in a strange version of justice she was walled into her castle for her crimes, and there she supposedly died. There was some dispute among historians and academics about whether she had really killed all those girls. My mother had believed her to be the victim of a conspiracy. But if this was Báthory, clearly she had not died in her castle, as history suggested. She was turned into a vampire, a Sanguine, or perhaps she already was one before they caught her.

A centuries-old celebrity murderess.

With shaking hands I reached into my pockets, found only a few petty grains of rice left. Darn it. Darn it! I closed my eyes, said a little prayer, and feeling quite ridiculous, threw the grains at Báthory’s feet. All of us present watched the grains hit the pavement, bounce. Báthory looked at me, her crimson lips curling up at the corners into a horrible smile. Her minion, Athanasia, cast her eyes to the ground and I saw her lips move. One, two, three, four . . . The others were, sadly, unaffected.

Athanasia stopped counting at nine.

‘If you were hoping to effect me, you are quite mistaken, mortal. I am no Fledgling.’ Evidently neither was her muscle. One of them stood protectively next to Báthory, while his bald counterpart moved towards me, intent on taking me down, and perhaps slinging me in the back of the limo as he’d done with my colleagues. I stiffened, and turned to Jay for assistance.

He was staring in Báthory’s direction, entranced.

Oh, HELL!

‘Jay?’

He didn’t respond. He was evidently hypnotised.

Why are the men in my life so useless when these creatures are around?

I turned to run back towards the warehouse, and found that the three models had finished their counting. Blonde, Brunette and Redhead were already at my back and they had me in their clutches in seconds. I flailed violently like a fish but they held me still while the pasty-faced bald man with the formidable muscles moved close at a lumbering pace. He smelled nauseatingly like sulfur and decay. Undead BO. Without a word, he put his hands around my neck in a stranglehold.

‘No! No!’ I protested, but could say no more with the slow crushing of my windpipe. I thrashed against my assailants, but they had me contained and I would be unconscious in seconds, I knew.

‘Don’t damage the neck, Augustine,’ the Countess instructed calmly. She glided towards me, serene and menacing. ‘Open her mouth.’

Muscle tried to open my jaws and I gritted my teeth like a stubborn animal.

No . . .

‘Open up, little morchilla,’ came a voice from one of the fanged models behind me. She pinched my nose.

‘Ha, ha, little blood sausage!’ one of the others said, and laughed.

I continued to grit my teeth, holding my breath.

‘Stubborn, aren’t we?’ Báthory remarked, and waited patiently for me to open up. ‘I can hold my breath forever. I have no need for breath. But you, mortal girl, you must open . . .’

Eventually, inevitably, I gasped for air. The Sanguine caught my teeth and prised my mouth open. My tongue fought uselessly with the air. Languidly, and with a sense of great satisfaction, Báthory leaned in, placed her hands over my open jaws and flipped open an ancient ring on her index finger. Something light and powdery landed on my tongue. Bitter. Before I could spit, my mouth was forced closed.

I swallowed involuntarily.

‘There,’ she said. ‘Augustine, put her in the car.’

When the trio of supermodels let go of me, my body fell limply into his arms. My head felt foggy. I could not feel my limbs. I was a rag doll, paralysed and terrifyingly helpless.

‘As for that one,’ I heard the Blood Countess say, ‘erase him.’