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‘“The Vampyre”. But - but that was just fiction . . .’
    â€˜Really? Fiction? Is that so?’ The man twisted his mouth into a grin of terrible bitterness. ‘And who wrote it, this fiction?’
    â€˜A man called Polidori.’
    The man grinned again. ‘Such fame, such posthumous fame!’ He pressed his face close to Rebecca’s, the acid as thick as ever on his breath. ‘And this Polidori,’ he whispered, ‘who was he?’
    â€˜The personal physician to . . .’
    â€˜Yes? Yes?’
    â€˜To Byron. Lord Byron.’
    The man nodded slowly. ‘So he would have known what he was talking about, don’t you think?’ He held Rebecca’s cheeks. ‘That was what your mother thought anyway.’
    Rebecca stared at him. ‘My mother?’ she whispered.
    The man pulled on her arm, so that she almost fell. ‘Yes, your mother, of course, your mother. Come on,’ he muttered, ‘you bitch, come on.’ Again Rebecca struggled and managed to break free. She began to run. ‘Where are you going?’ the man screamed after her. Rebecca made no answer, but still the sound of the man’s laughter pursued her across the bridge. Traffic and blank crowds, nothing else. She flagged down a taxi. ‘Where d’you want?’ the driver asked. Rebecca swallowed. Her mind seemed empty - and then she knew. ‘Mayfair,’ she whispered, as she climbed into the back. ‘Thirteen, Fairfax Street.’ She clutched herself, and shivered, as the taxi pulled away.

Chapter II
    The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. The Romaic term is, ‘Vardoulacha’. I recollect a whole family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror.
    LORD BYRON, NOTES TO The Giaour
    I t is, of course, dangerous to walk too close to a vampire.’
    The same beautiful voice Rebecca had heard in the crypt. She would have braved any peril to hear it. She understood what it was to hear the sirens’ song.
    â€˜But you realise that, of course. And still you have come.’ The voice paused. ‘As I hoped - and feared - you would.’
    Rebecca walked across the room. From the shrouded gloom, a pale hand flickered in a gesture at her. ‘Won’t you sit down, please?’
    â€˜I would prefer some light.’
    â€˜Of course, I forget - you don’t see in the dark.’
    Rebecca pointed towards the curtains, and London’s distant hum. ‘Can I draw them?’
    â€˜No, you will let in the winter.’ Rebecca watched as the figure rose to his feet and limped across the room. ‘The English winter - ending in June, to start in July.
    You must excuse me - I can’t even bear to glimpse it. I have been too long a creature of sunnier climes.’ There was the spurt of a match, and Rebecca recognised the back of the man she had watched on the Embankment that night. Light, in a golden wash, flickered across the room. The figure stayed bent as he tended the flame. ‘I hope you don’t object to the lamp,’ he said. ‘I brought it back from my first trip abroad. There are times when electricity just doesn’t seem right, don’t you think?’
    The vampire laughed and turned, and held the lamp up to his face. Slowly, Rebecca sunk back into her seat. There could be no doubt who she was staring at. The dark curls of his hair set off the ethereal paleness of his skin; so delicate were his features that they seemed chiselled from ice; no flush of colour, no hint of warmth touched the alabaster of his skin, yet the face seemed lit by some inner touch of flame. This was not the man who had died in the Missolonghi swamps, bald and overweight with rotting teeth. How had it happened that he was standing here now, miraculously restored to the loveliness of his youth? Rebecca drank in the sight of