"It's one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall." -Shakespeare

June 9th, 1665
London

It has been five days and four nights in constant motion, persistent hiding, and everlasting darkness. Soon, I am afraid that my mind will eventually lose its sanity in the overbearing thirst running away with what is left of my senses. Plague has at last befallen the citizens of London—I can smell it on the streets, feel the vacant emptiness of the city it rules, and hear the faint heartbeats of its victims in the decaying households I find myself passing with every sunset. Even in my current condition, my permanent condition, I found myself growing wary of the bodies piling like mountains in the alleys.

As the days fly by, dawn turning into evening and the moon slowly becoming my sun, I found myself missing my family dearly: my sister, my brothers, my whole life. All of that is lost to me, now that I've become the bloodthirsty monster humans have brought themselves to despise since traces of its origin could be found within history. I am consistently stalked, hunted, and betrayed by the people I love the most. What can be a more awful fate than what I have been given? My world of masque balls, suitors, gowns, perfumes, and comfort has drifted away with the last breath I ever took as a human being. How arbitrary was this coincidence—that the daughter of a vicomtè could fall into the hands of death so soon, so naively, because her primary suitor had deceived her into believing in a love not existent? I had fallen into the trap he set the moment he laid those cold eyes on me, and the cost of this betrayal became my life for his everlasting affections. But I didn't want his desire—I didn't want any form of communication to occur between us. How can love exist in a body without life, where the very central core begins to rot and diminish, and with it dies the humanity of the body? I am now death incarnate, walking and living off of the life source pumping through mortal veins. I am a monster.

He took this from me. He brought my reputation and honor as a young woman of high stature to ruin, yet I cannot escape his voice or presence. It is as if we are connected in some way, for my emotions at the dawn of my death have not spawned from me since then, but from him. It is like having a second voice inside one's own head; not physically near to whisper in one's ear, but echoing like a drum through the mind. He speaks to me and poisons my mind with sweet promises of paradise and love I cannot fathom in a mortal lifetime. But I am not blind to his whispers. I can sense him chasing me, tracking me down. Romania had been a long ways away compared to the distance I traveled. Frankly, I am surprised my feet have carried me this far, hundreds of miles across Europe and a vast distance from the very country that took my life away from me. The country I call my home, France, became a place of great despair for me after my life had ended. The serenity of my birth country would be something I shall never fully experience again. I passed by my family's estate the day before I left for England; its vacant emptiness reminding me of where my family was, in Romania, losing their wits over my disappearance. Their misery was my comfort, for I knew in the depths of my still heart that they have not forgotten me.

I would be in the local papers, for sure. Posters depicting various sketches of my human face would be pasted near city streets, but they would not search for me. I have traveled too far for the search to prove successful—I have become too lost in the creature I am now to care for my family to find me.

Now, as I sit here, perched at a worn desk inside a plague-ridden inn, writing this to whoever possesses this diary many years from now, I must admit that this endless thirst continues to consume me. I wonder how I can live with such a curse: I cannot kill myself, nor die of drowning or starvation or sickness. Believe me; the attempted end of this living corpse I reside in has become futile. Instead, I will live forever among the walking shadows of humans, visible to the curious eye, yet invisible to the world. A sob escaped me at this thought, followed by the abhorrent burning at the back of my throat. Compare this feeling, if you will, to the feeling of dehydration you cannot sate nor diminish… I cannot spare a thought of my time without thinking about the hunger eating away at me. I have saved many suffering of the plague today—their blood, diseased and rotting, had been the single source available that would keep me under control, and I pitied their struggles too much to watch their maladies devour them. I have shrunken down into nothing, a rat feeding off scraps of waste littering the filthy streets… all because of him.

I lived once as a respectable young woman in her prime, not any older than twenty before his venom took hold in my mortal veins. My father is a vicomtè, a highly-esteemed aristocrat of France whose travels often took him away from home. As the second eldest in comparison to my older brother, I became the additional sibling allowed to accompany him on his travels. Once I came of age to be eligibly married off, my mother thought the best chance of flaunting her oldest daughter was to send her along to richer, and more exotic countries. These travels occasionally, if not frequently, took him to Romania. The two cultures, though vastly different, exchanged traditions like pocket money. One is always copying the latest fashion, ethics, and forms of entertainment from the other. It is on a rare occasion that a Frenchman or Romanian did not fluently speak the other's language. Our countries are neighbors, in a sense. A majority of my favorite masque balls took place in Romania. The upperclassmen in the superstitious country are known to be the most charming, second to the French aristocrats. It is quite ironic that one of these brilliant men is responsible for the execution of my human life.

My killer is a count, one of the most well-known counts in the history of his country. I had heard of several stories before I ever fell into the opportunity of making his acquaintance directly. Many young women two years my senior told me of his unmistakable charm, his lust for a variety of ladies, and the legends speculating that he is an immortal night-walker. Vaguely I remember tossing the rumors aside, assuming that all of them had envied me for catching the attention of such a powerful man. It is only until now that I realized they were warning me of something I knew nothing about. In person, the count had a charming nature, no doubt, and a quite handsome appearance. Without dwelling on the present, I remember bountiful select conversations I shared with him on occasion that battled my intellect delightfully. But, as he called on me with frequency and spent careful time winning my heart over with his wit and gall, I realized a darker motivation lurked beneath the azure hue of his eyes.

I am ashamed to write this, dear reader, for I think you will accuse me to be a quick mademoiselle. We met one fateful night not long ago—a tryst had followed, a treacherous deed and act I would be too embarrassed to admit to my father in person. He had bitten me, ravished me, taken everything I clung to as a child and woman… and here I am. The change had the most painful effects: a night passed filled with anger, despair, and heart wrenching confusion. I ran from him as soon as my body gave me the chance. In the slums of every country I currently hide, feeding off of the weak and sick, disgusted with the person I have become and will forever be. There's no turning back now. This journey has just begun, and I cannot bring myself to look into the future ahead of me just yet, for I continue to run from my past who chases me with vigilance.

I am scared, frightened, and alone. He expects me to crawl on hands and knees back to him, but I would never make that dark choice. I will not give in. A cry of anguish suddenly flew out into the quiet night—another soul, lost. Their family must be devastated or deceased by now. Time beckons, and I find myself taking leave of this journal now, reader, for the thirst is a second raging person inside of me, and I am afraid I cannot contain my restraint any longer.

Sincerely Yours,

The Vicomtè's Daughter, Adela Reneau