'What goeth around cometh around,' said Igor.
'And your new plan is... ?' said Lacrimosa, stepping across the rubble.
'We'll kill everyone. Not an original plan, I admit, but tried and tested,' said the Count. This met with general approval, but his daughter looked unsatisfied.
'What, everyone? All at once?'
'Oh, you can save some for later if you must.'
The Countess clutched his arm.
'Oh, this does so remind me of our honeymoon,' she said. 'Don't you remember those wonderful nights in Grjsknvij?'
'Oh, fresh morning of the world indeed,' said the Count solemnly.
'Such romance... and we met such lovely people, too. Do you remember Mr and Mrs Harker?'
'Very fondly. I recall they lasted nearly all week. Now, listen all of you. Holy symbols will not hurt us. Holy water is just water - yes, I know, but Cryptopher just wasn't concentrating. Garlic is just another member of the allium family. Do onions hurt us? Are we frightened of shallots? No. We've just got a bit tired, that's all. Malicia, call up the rest of the clan. We will have a little holiday from reason. And afterwards, in the morning, there will be room for a new world order I can't be having with this at all...'
He rubbed his forehead. The Count prided himself on his mind, and tended it carefully. But right now it felt exposed, as though someone was looking over his shoulder. He wasn't certain he was thinking right. She couldn't have got into his head, could she? He'd had hundreds of years of experience. There was no way some village witch could get past his defences. It stood to reason...
His throat felt parched. At least he could obey the call of his nature. But this time it was an oddly disquieting one.
'Do we have any... tea?' he said.
'What is tea?' said the Countess.
'It... grow on a bush, I think,' said the Count.
'How do you bite it, then?'
'You... er... lower it into boiling water, don't you?' The Count shook his head, trying to free himself of this demonic urge.
'While it's still alive?' said Lacrimosa, brightening up.
... sweet biscuits...'mumbled the Count.
'I think you should try to get a grip, dear,' said the Countess.
'This... tea,' said Lacrimosa. 'Is it... brown?'
'Yes,' whispered the Count..
'Because when we were in Escrow I was going to put the bite on one of them and I had this horrible mental picture of a cup full of the wretched stuff,' said his daughter.
The Count shook himself again.
'I don't know what's happening to me,' he said. 'So let's stick to what we do know, shall we? Obey our blood...'
The second casualty in the battle for the castle was Vargo, a lank young man who actually became a vampire because he thought he'd meet interesting girls, or any girls at all, and had been told he looked good in black. And then he'd found that a vampire's interests always centre, sooner or later, on the next meal, and hitherto he'd never really thought of the neck as the most interesting organ a girl could have.
Right now all he wanted to do was sleep, so as the vampires surged into the castle proper he sauntered gently away in the direction of his cellar and nice comfortable coffin. Of course he was hungry, since all he'd got in Escrow was a foot in the chest, but he had just enough sense of self-preservation to let the others get on with the hunting so that he could turn up later for the feast.
His coffin was in the centre of the dim cellar, its lid lying carelessly on the floor beside it. He'd always been messy with the bedclothes, even as a human.
Vargo climbed in, twisted and turned a few times to get comfortable on the pillow, then pulled the lid down and latched it.
As the eye of narrative drew back from the coffin on its stand, two things happened. One happened comparatively slowly, and this was Vargo's realization that he never recalled the coffin having a pillow before.