She gazes longingly down on the village from her perch on Castle Carmeloft; it seems so far away; just as he is now.

 

“He is down there,” she whispers to no one.

 

The chill of the night fills her as she sips rich,warm blood from a glass. This, her only solace for these long years, has sustained her through these cold nights. Until he came.

 

From the balcony of the ancient castle, she scans the quiet streets of the village, hoping to catch a glimpse of his reddish hair darting through a cobblestoned alley. Maybe he will be there, looking for another adventure. Maybe even looking for her. Could she endure another night like the last? Could she slake the thirst ?

 

She turns from the view and swirls the thick liquid in her cup.

 

“No, “ she says, to the ghosts of this haunted place. “What could he want from me? I, but an immortal creature of the darkness. What do I have that he would desire?”

 

The Moon, in her imagination, replies, “But you are Countess Carmella, mistress of Carmeloft, tamer of the Werewolves of the Ghastenwald, drinker of the mightiest champions of the Withchkillers. You, who are the secret desire and crippling fear of everyone in this land. Who could resist anything you asked for?”

 

She takes a long sip from her glass “Yes, it is true -- but he is Oscar.”