“On the contrary,” said the vampire, his long pale finger steepled together like some dour church awaiting its penitent adherents, “I think you’ll find that it is in fact I who have you where I want you.”

Stafford cursed himself, but made an effort not to allow it to show on his face. The bastard was right: he had tricked him into sacrificing his bishop, and now his cause did indeed look hopeless. He tried to read his opponent’s intentions, gauge his mood in his eyes, but that too proved to be a mistake. If the eyes are indeed the windows of the soul, then those windows are firmly shuttered and locked if their owner does not possess one. A soul, that is. And everyone knew that vampires were soulless creatures.

Well, technically, he corrected himself, everyone knew vampires do not exist.

Especially him.

God knows, he had made enough money writing about them. His Gray Hunter series had topped the bestseller lists, and had already spawned two blockbuster Hollywood movies, with options on a television series being discussed for the last six months. He was a celebrated author, a writer of horror fiction with a tinge of mythology and a good healthy smattering of sex and gory violence (what, after all, was any vampire novel without sex and blood?) that had bought him beachfront property in Florida, Barbados and the Cayman Islands. He attended conventions (how he hated them!) where his fans dressed like his characters, each one believing he was the greatest authority - other than he himself - on his work, and some of the prettier ones - males as well as females; like his central character, he wasn’t fussy about who he slept with - had certainly become experts on his body parts over the years.

Yes, he knew vampires.

And he knew they did not exist.

Could not exist.

It was ludicrous.

But that didn’t stop people buying his books, of course. People like reading about fantastical things, and the more you try to make them authentic and real, the more they like it. Which was why his novels took the interesting approach of pretending that the main character, Erasmus Vintaglia, a Roman Centurion who had been "turned" at the actual Crucifixion of Christ by Judas Iscariot, actually existed and was writing accounts of his life. He had even gone so far as to give him an address in lower Queens, and paid some out-of-work actor to take on the role.

At least, he had until someone had become too involved in the story, clearly unable to separate fiction from reality, and had, well, killed him, believing they were ridding the world of a curse that had stalked it for thousands of years. The court case had proven that he, Maurice Stafford, could not be held accountable for the actions of his fans (or rather, his team of highly-priced and completely amoral lawyers - was the word amoral even needed? - had ensured all the right people were paid off/threatened/deported) and he had not been charged over the murder, but it had placed a pall over his writing, and sales had taken a nosedive. His agent had stopped taking his calls, and he was no longer welcome at all the best parties.

Until, that is, he had come up with the rather brilliant idea of making his next novel an account of the murder, and then revealing that the creature who had lived at 24 Strand Avenue, Queens, New York, was an imposter, and that Vintaglia himself had orchestrated his removal. Now at a secret address (Stafford wasn’t going to make that mistake again!) he continued to recount his adventures, and for the first time since Black Blood, the ninth in the series, the new novel took top slot in the Bestsellers list, and held it all through the summer, beating off formidable opposition and proving that reports of Maurice Stafford’s demise as an author were very exaggerated.

And, rather ironically, that appeared also to have been his undoing.

He remembered answering the bell, and opening the door of his plush Manhattan townhouse to behold the tall, dark stranger (could you get any more cliched, he groaned to himself) who had represented himself as - as - well wasn’t that strange? He couldn’t recall what excuse the "vampire" had used to get into his house, but something in the eyes had compelled the author, and Stafford had invited him in.

Oh, folly! spat his mind, for some reason deciding to harangue him with nineteeth-century idioms. You, of all people, should know the dangers in inviting a vampire…

Yes, yes! He replied testily, having a conversation with himself. But vampires don’t exist!

His mind suggested that it begged to differ, and that the proof was currently sitting before him, poring over a chessboard. This was a point he had to concede. Only a few moments inside the door, the man had revealed himself, railing coldly at Stafford for cheapening the legend of his people, writing trashy novels about a noble people of whom he knew nothing, and, worse, growing rich off of such lies. He had gone on at some considerable length about how intelligent vampires were, and how base and savage Stafford had made them out to be, both in his novels and, even more so, in the movies for which he had sold the rights.

Still unwilling to believe that such creatures existed, that the horrors he had painted for his gullible fanbase had actually walked off the pages of one of his books and was now standing in his lounge, Stafford had laughed; this was no vampire, he told himself, just some overwrought loser who had read too many of his books. Either he was pretending to be what he said he was, or possibly he even believed it, which made him not only mad but potentially very dangerous indeed. That realisation choked his laughter, and he reminded himself that whichever was the truth, his unwanted visitor presented a threatening figure, especially when he had advanced menacingly upon him, and he writer had wondered how far this person might go in his deranged fantasy? However, being a man who made his living by creating plot twists and interweaving situations to his - or at least, his character's advantage, he knew what to do.

“Intelligent?” he sneered, even as his breath came faster, unsure if the vampire was even listening to him, but hopeful that he would not allow such a slur to pass unchallenged. “Yeah, very intelligent, pal. Blag your way into someone’s home, rip out their throat, fuck off home. Great. Very advanced. Very emotionally developed. You’re clearly a superior being, no doubt about it. How could I have written that you were -” he struggled to dredge the exact words from the page of his third novel - “unfeeling, uncaring, savage monsters, just above the level of animals, though with a highly developed instinct for survival. Right?

To his intense relief, the "vampire" had paused, pushed him away, a look of pure rage on his pale, white face.

“Say you so?” he snarled, as Stafford staggered away, backing up against a table, anxious to put as much distance between himself and this madman as possible.

“You’re the one acting like an animal, pal,” he gasped, “and proving me right.”

Removing a white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, the vampire dabbed at his lips delicately, his gaze travelling around the room, a look of disdain in those cold, red eyes. Contact lenses, no doubt.

“You live well,” he remarked icily, noting the plush furnishings, the oil paintings on the wall, the Persian rug on which they both stood, “on the proceeds of your lies.”

Now that he had orchestrated a reprieve for himself, Stafford found his old arrogance, arrogance that had alienated almost all of his friends as he got richer and they didn’t, returning. It was time to take control of the situation. Maybe this guy was some nut who had had specialised dental work done, maybe he really did believe he was a vampire. Who knew, or indeed cared? All Stafford knew was that he had to keep him occupied until the police arrived.

Being a celebrity, and having suffered unwelcome visitors more than once at his house, the author had arranged to have panic buttons installed in every room. Once pressed, these activated a silent alarm which was connected directly to the local police station. The one in his living room was on his desk, and as he had backed up against it he had managed to trip it. The cops would respond quickly. All he needed was maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Keep this lunatic busy till he heard sirens and he’d be in the clear. The boys in blue would take care of this intruder, whoever he was, or whoever or whatever he purported or believed himself to be.

“I’m a novellist,” he reminded the self-styled vampire. “I write fiction, which is in itself a kind of lie. Besides,” he pointed out sharply, “we all lie, one way or the other. It’s human nature.”

“Ah.” The vampire looked at him as if he had just detected a flaw in the writer’s logic. “But I am not human.”

Stafford resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and said instead “Of course. You’re far more intelligent than us, right?” He knew he had to play along, play into this loon’s fantasy, if he was to survive. Who knew what weapons this guy had on him? Best to pretend he believed him to be what he was, and try to use that against him.

The vampire inclined his head gravely, as if acknowledging a simple fact.

“Once,” he remarked, “I was as you; human, stupid, limited, savage. Savage!”

Suddenly, he barked a sharp, mirthless laugh. His eyes were very cold; Stafford could almost feel shivers run down his spine, looking into them. He tore his eyes away with an effort.

“The very word you used in your - books -” the vampire used the word with contempt, like someone describing a glass bead as a flawless diamond - “to describe my kind. Savage. How very little you know, mortal. How very little. If only you could see. If you could know …”

He seemed to lapse into something of a reverie then, staring straight ahead, more through than at Stafford, who decided he should break the silence. For about a nanosecond he considered running past the guy, to the door and out into the street. If this “vampire” was distracted, in a trance, he might make it.

And he might not. It was the fear that his visitor might produce a gun, or a knife, and attack him as he tried to make his escape that put a stop to such thoughts. Besides, he had only to wait for the police to show up.