“By all means,” Marcel de Frontenac said, “Ask away.” Even as he granted the woman permission to ask him her question, Lady Beaulieu stated that she would wait until he completed his tale. Marcel supposed this was fine, as Adelaide was likely to have a slew of questions after he finished regardless. “Very well then,” he said with a debonair smile, “But make sure to keep your question in mind. You are likely to forget it shortly otherwise.” The vampire cleared his throat and continued, weaving an intricate scene with his words.

“Chateaus and palaces in our part world are grand—this fact is indisputable. But the mahala belonging to Maharaja Amrit Singh was a wonder to behold, if you were ever given the opportunity to visit. Alas, only those invited could hope to reach it—Singh’s lands were surrounded by dense jungle impenetrable to all but his most trusted allies.”

The vampire cast his icy gaze towards the vaulted ceiling of the ballroom, though it was evident from his distant look that he was drawing upon a memory of the structure rather than seeing the splendor before him. “The center building was an enormous dome lined with brightly lit windows, and bounded by smaller domed towers and spires reaching toward the starry heavens. The mahala grounds contained multiple long, rectangular reflection pools filled with water lilies and lotuses, as well as all manner of wildlife enclosures. Amrit Singh was a collector of outlandish beasts, and so it was possible to wander through his extensive gardens and view many strange creatures unknown to the West.” Marcel’s eyes glittered with nostalgia.

“The interior of the mahala was even more impressive. I had never seen such fascinating tile work in all my life, hand-painted with elaborate, symmetrical designs and painstakingly placed in exquisite, mosaicked patterns over unfathomable years of hard labor. Oh, and the colors…Golds, vivid blues, reds…. Painted glass, much like what we have here, but cut into smaller geometric pieces that formed larger, more mathematical shapes. The main dome itself had more tile than anywhere else in the palace, so complexly laid upon the ceiling that it seemed more the work of gods than of man.” Marcel’s blue eyes flickered towards Adelaide and he laughed charmingly. “And that was the first fantastic thing I saw, my dear, upon entering that marvelous place…But many others were soon to follow.”

“Signore Lacroix, do not just stand there gawking,” said Guiseppe Moretti, head merchant of the ship La Donna Fiamma. “We do not want to keep the raja waiting. There is time to stare later—for now, we eat!”

A human version of Marcel glanced towards the man, grinning sheepishly. He appeared the same, physically, but without the pallor or agelessness that he possessed now. He was simply a naïve youth in those days…Both oblivious to his gift of looks and lacking any sort of real charm besides.

The feast was held in a dining chamber partially open to outside, at a low carved table lined with cushions. Many men in colorful embroidered silks sat on the floor atop these cushions, intermingling with foreign merchants and emissaries, while beautiful Hindu women attended to their drinks and plates. Marcel tried many stewed meats and vegetables in curries and spicy sauces, most of which were truly delicious but too exotic for the young man’s unrefined palate to handle. The Maharaja Amrit Singh, a handsome specimen in a turban, sat at the head of the table and spoke at length with an elder diplomat seated comfortably at his left.

Marcel’s attention was repeatedly drawn to a figure kneeling a couple of meters behind the raja--a woman whose face was obscured by a vivid indigo veil embroidered with striking gold threads.

At some point, the spices in the food ceased to agree with Marcel’s disposition and he became increasingly more anxious. Perhaps it was not the food at all, but simply nerves from conversing with so many wealthy, important persons at once. He excused himself to take a brief walk around the grounds hoping that it would soothe the churning of his stomach. All these months at sea had not bothered his temperament—why was he troubled now? As he put distance between himself and the feast, sure enough, his restlessness subsided.

He came to an animal enclosure filled with many tall trees and dark, emerald vegetation. He squinted, attempting to identify the dark creature lounging on a branch a fair distance above him. Its fur coat was darker than the shadows surrounding Marcel on all sides—black as a void. Smooth and shiny like coal. Its globular yellow eyes shone like candle flames even in the faint moonlight. Perhaps it was one of those big cats he had heard of that roamed the jungles of India. Was it called again…? Oh, of course. A panther.

Suddenly the scent of jasmines wafted around Marcel. The fragrance overpowered the aroma of all the other night-blooming flowers in the garden. The anxiety he had experienced at the feast came rushing back to his chest in torrents, along with an inexplicable urge to flee. He spun around to comply with this instinct, but the very same woman who had been seated behind Maharaja Singh earlier stood in his path. This time, the indigo veil did not obscure his view of her face. He stared deeply into her glowing yellow eyes—eyes like the panther’s—and all reason crumbled away.

She was a living portrait. Hell, she was a goddess on Earth…Flawless sienna skin, shimmering black hair that tumbled well past her waist, and an exquisite indigo and gold gown that mirrored the night sky scattered with so many stars. She stretched her arms out to him and immediately he was kissing her.

Without saying a word, she’d ensnared him. The fragrance of jasmine intoxicated his senses and made him weak. He was incapable of resisting. She had him pinned beneath her on the grassy ground and his heart was racing with excitement—or fear—it was difficult to say. However, whatever delight he experienced from her ministrations abruptly vanished.

After she pulled away from their final kiss, she grinned demonically, exposing elongated, sharp canines. He tried to yell for help, but he had no voice. He could not push her off. She was abnormally strong and restrained him as easily as one might a toddler. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he struggled to free himself. He did not want to die, not like this! Would he ever see his father again?

She bit into his jugular and drank deeply from the vein. She alighted from him only as his consciousness began to fade, wiping his blood sensually from her lips with the back of her hand. She laughed callously. “Jalda hī āpa apanē krūra pūrvajōṁ dēkhēṅgē,” she said, in a voice like silver, and slipped away into the darkness.

Marcel Lacroix was unable to move. He had no energy left. He was unable to feel his limbs anymore. Even the throbbing pain in his neck had ceased. He stared unblinking up at the starry sky as his vision began to cloud over. Was this how his life would come to an end?

The soft tread of feet on grass returned, but this time it was not the demon woman who knelt at his side.

“You poor fool,” a man scoffed. “You would have been done for. Luckily for you, I saw some potential.”

A strong, metallic smell filled Marcel’s nostrils. The stranger was holding his wrist in front of Marcel’s mouth. It oozed with an inky fluid. It was not human blood…More like the ichor of the gods of old.

“Drink my vitae if you wish to live,” the man said, and pressed his wrist against Marcel’s lips. The more Marcel ingested the substance, the more he felt his strength returning. Soon he was sitting upright, grasping the man’s arm while sucking greedily. The man had to forcefully wrench his arm away before Marcel would stop. As if on cue, the convulsions began.

The blond man shook his head and chuckled. He dragged the writhing Marcel across the ground towards the edge of the mahala grounds. Within the depths of the jungle, the man located a cavern that would shield them from the harsh Indian sun. For many long hours, Marcel twisted in silent torment. When the pain finally subsided, he emerged a changed man. Rather, he was not a man at all, but a vampire. Thus marked the end of his human life, and his introduction to the world of the Unseelie.

“This man was named Lucien de Frontenac. He told me that I had been targeted by an ancient rakshasi, or Hindu vampire, named Nakti. She was an advisor and consort to the Maharaja, but apparently I resembled the man who turned her two millennia ago…She had some unfulfilled vendetta and tried to murder me to make herself feel better,” Marcel concluded, smiling sadly. “Anyway, I had to leave my human life behind. I took my sire’s surname ‘de Frontenac’ and went back with him to the Winter lands. Lucien trained me until I learned to sustain myself, and promptly vanished a couple of centuries ago. I am not particularly concerned over his whereabouts—he was always a bit of a nomad. Even more so than myself.”

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