It was two weeks later when everything changed.

Ruthven had been making preparations to enter the long sleep, having chosen the depths of Huntingtower Castle as his abode for however long the sleep chose to claim him. It was a sturdy, proven medieval fortress that had served him well in his mortal years, and now, like an old faithful hound, would serve him again without complaint or demand. There was much to be done: he’d decided to wall himself up in the deepest hold of the castle, eliminating the question of how to bury himself. The previous time, he’d slept in the wilds, self-buried in the elements. But this time, perhaps his last, he preferred the embrace of an old home.

He’d chosen a night of the new moon, when he’d be at his weariest, to make his final rounds of Clan Ruthven’s beloved Perthshire. He knew every square inch of these lands by now, and while many trees had grown tall, and many buildings weathered, and even many families expanded, it all felt static and lusterless to him. The same cycle of decay, with only himself remaining, changeless. Perhaps the long sleep would not be so enticing if he’d been able to find another of his kind who still possessed their faculties. There were the mindless, bestial revenants in the Balkans and Carpathia, of course, who subsisted as he did on living blood. But never in all his travels and corruptions had Ruthven ever met another like himself. Another who could still think and speak like a member of the race of man.

Even with beautiful distractions like Henry Clerval to tempt him, being unique was a lonely endeavor. No, he would not miss the world much at all.

Nonetheless, he found he would prefer to enter the coming sleep with pleasant sights on his mind, so Ruthven decided to go and see how the young Clerval was faring, whether the youth’s absent friend Victor had sent any word. And it was then, as he approached the manor house from the north, wind at his back and fog clinging to his ankles, that Ruthven sensed the intruder.

By its smell, the creature was not human, though it moved like a man if its swift, skulking footfalls were any indication. Ruthven slipped into the shadows of an ash tree, the one under which he’d seduced a long-dead local maiden whose silky red hair he could still smell if he tried, and extended his preternatural senses across the mist-cloaked moors.

The creature had come by sea, or had at least moved along the coastal cliffs long enough to pick up the ocean’s salty scent. Underneath that scent persisted a subtle aroma of decay and preservative fluids, the smells of the grave and the embalmer. The thing was circling the manor grounds like a predator, always choosing a shadow perfectly suited to hiding its hulking form. It was surprisingly nimble for its mass, its movements as subtle as a whisper in a storm. No mortal on the grounds would be able to see or hear it. But Ruthven was no mere mortal.

His first thought was, Another. Could this be another of his kind, come to seek him out at long last? It certainly did not behave like the shambling blood-drinkers of the east. Its movements were too calculated, too pre-meditated. This being in the shape of a man, whatever it was, had a consciousness. It was making a plan.

Ruthven called upon his own skills in stalking prey, drawing shadows about himself like a cloak, and moving with a silence so deep it infected the very ground beneath him. The effort taxed him considerably without the light of Luna in the sky, but no living thing would be able to see or hear him coming.

As he approached the intruder from the north, he saw it stop and assume a wary crouch in the shadows of the estate house’s weathered mortar and brick wall. The thing could not possibly have seen or heard him. But Ruthven was certain he had been detected.

“I can smell you, sir,” the creature said in German, a menacing baritone touched by a rural accent. “I mean you no harm, but it would be best if you went on about your business.”

Ruthven realized the winds had shifted without his noticing. That’s how the thing had sensed him. “And you, sir, are trespassing,” Ruthven responded in an older but still functional German dialect. He stepped out from his cloak of shadows into the normal starlit night. “I’m afraid I must ask you to depart my domain, or risk a most uncomfortable dispute.”

At first, the creature did nothing. Then, with great deliberation, it rose to its full height, attempting to menace Ruthven with its great mass. The creature was shaped like a man, but much taller than even the largest men of this age. It would have to stoop to get through most doors. But even with this hulking frame, Ruthven sensed a feline grace about its movements. A cunning, strong, and effective hunter. Long immune to real fear, he could only admire the creature.

Seeing that Ruthven was unmoved, even confident, the creature stepped out from its hiding place, revealing the full measure of its monstrosity. Muscle and sinew rippled beneath patches of grey, translucent skin. Long, oily dark hair hung about the brute’s shoulders and face, draping over dirty, ill-fitting garments and watery yellow eyes. There was a subtle asymmetry to the intruder’s body, as though the dollmaker had chosen his materials blindfolded.

Ruthven steeled himself for an attack, drawing on the reserves of lunar energy stored deep within his essence. The creature was physically powerful – he could tell that just by looking – so he would have to be, too. In less than a mortal breath, Ruthven had the strength of half a dozen men, which he judged would be enough.

When the creature pounced, it wasn’t at Ruthven, but the house. In a single leap, it was on the third story balcony, adjacent to the guest quarters. Adjacent to Clerval.

Ruthven acted instantly, leaping up with equal speed, much to the creature’s surprise. The brute was fast, however, and grabbed Ruthven out of mid-air, threw him back towards the ground. Only centuries of experience allowed Ruthven to land on his feet.

Just in time, too, for the creature was plummeting down on him like a falling star. Now it was Ruthven’s turn. He set himself to receive the creature’s bulk and, at the last second, shifted the thing’s center of gravity, flinging it, rag-doll-like, into the trees on the far side of the clearing. He heard branches snapping, followed by the dull thud of something heavy and fleshy smacking against the ash tree where he’d seduced that red-head so long ago.

Ruthven could not recall ever having exerted himself so much. It was exhilarating beyond the most devious corruption he’d ever inflicted on a pompous aristocrat. His highland warrior instincts bristled with transcendent excitement. It made him feel, dare he think it, alive again.

But without the moon’s light to replenish him, his reserves of power were beginning to wane. If the creature had any fight left in it, Ruthven could find himself entering the long sleep sooner than he’d anticipated. He wished his old Claymore was in his hands now, rather than hanging above the mantle in his mortal clansmen’s gallery.

The creature emerged warily, and a little groggily, from the copse of trees. “Who are you?”

Ruthven stood his tallest. “I am master and protector of Perthshire and all who dwell therein. And I must renew my demand for your departure, sir.”

“I will not leave without my quarry.”

Ruthven’s only answer was a shift of his weight, ready to strike this inhuman wretch before it struck him first.

“But neither can I risk exposure to the world of man. I request parley.”

The creature was more intelligent than he’d given it credit for. What could this thing be? Ruthven had never seen its like. Was it something new in the world?

“I grant your request, but only because it alleviates my boredom. I am Glenarvon, the Lord Ruthven.” He bowed politely, in the current manner of Englishmen. “With whom am I parleying?”

“I have no name, Lord Ruthven, but I have earned many titles: Demon. Brute. Wretch.”

It stepped closer to him, silent as a cat walking on mist. “I have come for the one called Henry Clerval.”

“What business have you with Meister Clerval?”

“Vengeance.”

Ruthven doubted that. He’d read Clerval’s diary, and rarely had a more gentle soul he ever encountered. The young man was simply incapable of anything that would demand retribution from so monstrous a creature as this. Clerval’s absent friend Victor, however, was another matter; Ruthven had seen the subtext, even if Clerval hadn’t. This creature’s quest had something to do with Victor’s mysterious obsessions.

“He is under my protection.”

“He is nothing to you.”

“Nothing but a guest, sir. Which is enough to grant him sanctuary. I have a duty.”

“And I have no time for the decrepit rules of the ancien regime, Lord Ruthven. I did not come here to fight, but do not mistake my civility for weakness. I will remove any obstacle that I must.”

“Clerval is innocent in all this,” Ruthven said.

“That is why he must die. If I am to be a companionless pariah in the world, then so will be my maker.”

Maker. An intriguing choice of words. Ruthven felt he was beginning to see through the veil of these affairs, but he needed to be sure this was not merely the cruel trick of some malicious god.

“You seem to have caught a chill, my friend. Accompany me over the hill to my abode in Huntingtower Castle and sit by my fire. I give you my word as a gentleman that no harm will befall you.”

“And Clerval?”

“All things in their time, good sir. Come.”

Ruthven walked past the creature, brushing against its left side, applying just enough preternatural force to make his point. After half a dozen steps, he heard his guest turn on its heel and follow him.