PLAYER: Well, I can do you blood and love without rhetoric, and I can do you blood and rhetoric without love, and I can do you all three concurrent or consecutive, but I can't do you love and rhetoric without blood. Blood is compulsory. 

— Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

"Scary stories, right," Makishima repeated dully. Aside from a trigonometry textbook, perhaps nothing frightened him more than the prospect of ending up in a book without a plot, drowning in a murky "stream of consciousness" — a literary bog stretching from Swann’s Way right To the Lighthouse and onward into The Waste Land. But that was unlikely to be what L had in mind.

"Stories about old castles, curses, ghosts, witches, werewolves, and vampires," L clarified.

"Oh, just that," Makishima said with great relief.

Every time they thought the next book couldn't possibly be worse, they somehow managed to sink even lower. But Gothic literature, at least, didn’t seem to hold any particularly nasty surprises... So Makishima didn’t spend long deliberating — he grabbed the first book he saw with a pair of sultry bloodsuckers on the cover and asked:

"Will this do?"

L nodded enthusiastically.

There is no chimera more revolting than the false virtue imposed upon us by society. From infancy, we are taught to feign righteousness — not to possess it, but merely to wear its mask. It seems obvious that virtue is dogged by misfortune, while vice is invariably rewarded with prosperity. Many, therefore, conclude that it is wiser to surrender to vice than to resist it — to don the mask of counterfeit virtue and take their place among the villains who thrive, rather than among the truly virtuous, who are doomed to failure.

Those of a philosophical disposition often see through this illusion of virtue. They choose rebellion, abandon pretense, and begin committing evil openly, whenever it pleases them — only to end their days in prison or on the scaffold. So that, too, is no solution.

But the world would crumble in an instant if vice alone reigned supreme. We dare to assert that true virtue exists — a virtue that is not imposed by society, but chosen freely. Alas, in an age as corrupt as our own, its manifestations are exceedingly rare.

Our tale recounts the remarkable transformation of a certain count who, one day, glimpsed a seed of true virtue deep within his own soul. He had been a man utterly depraved in every sense of the word — unspeakably cruel, if not monstrous. His deeds were base and vile; he found beauty only in the fury of a storm, never in the serenity of peaceful life. He had laughed at the chains of religion and society all his days, guided only by his passions — which, as we shall soon see, were of the most corrupt nature. But then, his path crossed with that of a young man of extraordinary purity, who led him toward the light…

There was something strangely familiar about this style, but Makishima couldn’t quite place it. And more importantly — when, exactly, were the vampires supposed to show up?

Elias Lowliet, heir to a wealthy and illustrious English lineage, had — by reasons unknown to both himself and those around him — been raised from infancy not in the grandeur of his ancestral estate, but in a monastery in London. At last, his parents, deciding he had come of age, removed him from his cloistered existence and revealed to him his true destiny. If the boy suffered any deficiency, it was in companionship, and Elias felt immense joy at finally leaving his prison behind.

His soul had been shaped by the strictest moral and religious teachings of the monastery. A young man of deep and contemplative intellect, he also possessed a certain guilelessness that was bound to lead him into many snares upon entering the wider world.

Endowed with such lofty spiritual qualities, our hero was also graced with the beauty of those famous Adonises painted by Caravaggio. Enormous black eyes, languid and sorrowful; skin of porcelain whiteness; a slender, supple figure; raven curls — thus is our exquisite youth described in brief. As for other — oh, truly delightful! — parts of his body, we shall dwell on them in due course. For now, let us simply say that no matter what our readers might imagine, no matter how enticing their visions, reality shall prove even sweeter…

At last, Makishima realized what the writing reminded him of, and his eyes glazed over.

Unfortunately, it was already too late to do anything about it.

Upon arriving in Austria, our charming hero took care to equip himself with all the necessities for the difficult task entrusted to him.

And so, after a grueling journey through Transylvania, Elias finally laid eyes on the towering walls of Blutstein Castle — a menacing yet breathtakingly beautiful Gothic edifice, its many turrets and spires casting dark, jagged shadows against the sky.

The coachman deposited his luggage in the grand entrance hall before leading the horses away to be unhitched. The castle was a strange contradiction of luxury and decay, and for a moment, Elias had the unsettling impression that not a single living soul resided within its walls. But then, from somewhere above, the echo of a door slamming reverberated through the halls, followed by the measured sound of approaching footsteps.

Descending the grand staircase was an extraordinarily handsome man. He was clad in a black cloak lined with deep crimson, his long white hair cascading over his shoulders. His eyes — an uncanny shade of gold — fixed upon Elias, and the young man was struck by their inhuman beauty. And yet, beneath the stranger’s outward charm, there lurked something unspeakably dangerous and corrupt, his lips curved into the sly, knowing smirk of a libertine.

"Welcome. I am Count Blut Makishima von Weisshaar. I am pleased to receive you in my domain. A room has been prepared for you upstairs. Once you have settled in, I invite you to join me for dinner."

The dining table was set for a single guest. The count explained that he rarely dined himself — though it was painfully obvious that the master of the house was starving.

During dinner, Elias was introduced to the castle’s three other residents. They were women of striking beauty, yet their allure was entirely consumed by wanton debauchery. Each, in her own way, was lost to the insatiable grip of vice: one was fair-haired, another had a mane of black like the midnight sky, and the third bore wild, auburn curls.

"My sisters: Mina, Erzsébet, and Carmilla," the count introduced them.

With not the slightest concern for Elias’s modesty, the three viscountesses — and von Weisshaar himself — immediately began casting upon their guest the kind of ravenous glances and murmured remarks that set the poor youth’s ears ablaze. It was painfully clear that the castle’s inhabitants were eager not only to taste his blood but to drag him into the depths of every imaginable sinful pleasure…

It was unbearable. Makishima’s gaze kept dropping, as if drawn by some magnetic force, from the guest’s face to his throat. The castle was as cold as a crypt, and yet the guest, as if suffering from some stifling heat, had unfastened his collar. If Makishima had known L any less, he would have sworn he had done it on purpose. The delicate hollow between sharp collarbones. The blue vein, pulsing so sweetly against his pale skin…

Makishima blinked, forcing himself to shake off the spell. Seven percent of seven is 0.49. Phosgene is neutralized by ammonia. “In spring it is the dawn that is most beautiful… In summer the nights.” The thoughts of throat and vein lost some of their grip on his mind.

"I have always been drawn to vampire folklore," L was saying, entirely unaware, it seemed, of the battle raging in Maksima’s soul. "So naturally, the legend-shrouded, Gothic Castle Blutstein could not fail to intrigue me…"

"Surely you don’t believe in vampires? How terribly old-fashioned," Erzsébet giggled.

"And naïve," Carmilla added. "But what else could one expect from such a young guest, with such soft, dreamy eyes?"

"Perhaps. And yet, I think there is a certain irresistible charm in such legends."

"Well then, I invite you to extend your stay at Blutstein," Makishima said cordially. "The library holds several rare collections, and in the eastern wing’s gallery, you will find a couple of authentic Giottos. But of course, if you would rather search for vampires, you are free to do so."

"Oh, I most certainly intend to."

And on top of everything else, the guest smelled so good… Makishima somehow knew — knew — that other people did not smell like this. The three vampiresses watched Elias intently, their nostrils flaring in pleasure and anticipation, as if a human-sized line of cocaine had just strolled into their dining hall. Makishima had the unpleasant suspicion that he looked no less pathetic.

Dark-haired Erzsébet nudged him with an elbow and murmured:

"You sense it too, don’t you, brother? His blood is different. It smells like a glass of sweet framboise. I can hardly wait to taste it…"

"It… and everything else," Carmilla added with a giggle. "Oh yes. Those lips were made for kissing."

"I’ve already gotten quite the look at the lovely figure hiding beneath that simple travel suit," the youngest, fair-haired Mina, drawled, her angelic features starkly at odds with the wicked curve of her smile.

This was sheer lunacy. Of all the books Makishima could have imagined L starring in, a piece of vampire erotica, styled after good old de Sade, had never crossed his mind.

And yet, as L met the count’s gaze, he smiled — a smile that could only be called inviting — and loosened his collar even further.

"Well, I believe I shall retire for the night. My thanks for a delightful dinner. Would you be so kind as to show me to my chambers?" Every word the guest uttered somehow managed to sound indecent. "I fear I may lose my way, for the castle is so very vast."

"Oh, I’d be delighted to escort you!" Mina sprang up from her seat.

"Sit down, Mina," Makishima ordered, his tone like a blade of ice. "What an appalling lack of tact..."

Then, turning to L, he continued:

"Your room is right by the staircase, first door on the right. Not difficult to remember."

"What’s the matter, dear brother? Oh, I see — you want to have him first!" Mina bared her teeth in a grin.

She said it quite loudly. Loud enough for L to hear. And instead of looking the least bit alarmed, the young man merely smiled, his expression every bit as enticing as before.

"I would be particularly pleased by your company, my lord," he admitted.

Makishima was beginning to fear for his own sanity.

"I think you should rest alone after your long journey," he said stiffly.

"Perhaps I’ll have one last bite of cake first…" the guest mused.

And then—

"Ah!"

A sharp breath. A flicker of movement.

"Would you believe it? I just cut myself with the dessert knife. How clumsy of me…"

The vampires in the room went still. Their faces changed, their expressions sharpening into something far too hungry. The tension in the air thickened to the point of suffocation.

"You should be more careful, young man," Makishima said harshly, forcing himself to look anywhere but at the fine crimson line welling up on L’s fingertip. What a scent. What an intoxicating scent.

No. He would not think about it. He could endure this.

“In autumn, the evenings, when the glittering sun sinks close to the edge of the hills…”

Ordinary people found comfort in sleep when night fell. But Makishima, like any proper vampire, sat awake by the fire, idly prodding at the cooling embers with a pair of tongs. He did not feel warmth. He did not feel cold. What he did feel was a growing uncertainty about this entire bizarre situation.

At last, he concluded that he and L needed to have a frank discussion. It would be delicate, no doubt. And he could already foresee that the sight of that throat, that pulse, would be an insufferable distraction. But he had rehearsed enough literary quotations in his mind to avoid thinking — too much — about the delicious crimson trail from that cut finger, the lingering scent of which he could detect even from here.

He climbed the stairs, his resolve firm.

And then he stopped.

L’s door was ajar.

"I just came to check if you were sleeping well."

Mina’s voice.

"Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. I’m suffering from a dreadful bout of insomnia. Care to keep me company?"

"So soon?" The vampire girl sounded surprised. But she did not wait for a second invitation.

Makishima heard the sound of lips meeting lips. And then — of lips trailing downward, latching onto a throat.

(Makishima sighed softly, running his tongue over his own sharpening fangs.)

It took only a few seconds.

Then pleasure and lust melted from Mina’s face, replaced by wide-eyed, incomprehensible horror. And pain. Indescribable pain.

L wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shoved her away.

Mina collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.

Foam frothed from her lips. Her skin blistered, swelling into grotesque, festering boils that ruptured almost as soon as they formed, spilling pus and blood in sickening bursts.

And then—

Then her body simply burst.

Makishima stared.

L, for his part, looked entirely unperturbed.

When all that remained of his nocturnal visitor was a heap of shredded flesh and bloodied slime, he gave a small, satisfied nod.

Then, with the calm efficiency of an English butler, he produced a rag and began scrubbing the floor and walls with methodical precision.

Well. That was… somewhat unexpected.

Makishima took a slow step back toward the staircase.