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"…Requiescat in pace."

"Amen."

The words of the priest echoed eerily through the cemetery of Père Lachaise. To M. Chabouillet, the secretary of the Prefect, the blessing was as hollow as it sounded; those who committed suicide did not rest in peace. He cast a glance at the headstone as the large black coffin was lowered steadily into the grave.

Although it was summer the sky was overcast, the whole scene shrouded in a grey half-light. Unsurprisingly, there were very few people at the funeral; himself, a captain of the gendarmerie, Javert's landlady and the priest. Four people. The concierge was dressed in full mourning garb; a veil over her face, wringing a handkerchief in her gloved hands and sobbing her eyes out. It was well known throughout the force that she had regarded Javert as something of a son, and even though he had never returned the affection, this must have been a severe blow. Indeed, M. Chabouillet could not help but feel sorry for the woman, even if her incessant howling was seriously wearing his nerves.

When all was said and done, the captain came over to the secretary, bowed his head respectfully, then took the weeping landlady by the shoulders and accompanied her out of the cemetery. M. Chabouillet was left standing beside the grave alone. Or so he thought.

"'Denn die Todten reiten schnell'."

Starting, M. Chabouillet whirled round. Just behind him stood a rather tall man dressed in mourning; hands gloved, a black cane tipped with silver by his side, a black silk top hat on his head, all of the finest quality. His hair was dark, long and loose around his shoulders, a neat beard and moustache of the same colour adorning his face. But the most striking thing about him was the way his hair, beard and clothes contrasted strongly with his skin which was pale; extraordinarily pale. One might say as pale as death.

"Oh!" M. Chabouillet let out a nervous laugh. "I do beg your pardon, monsieur; I didn't see you there."

"Just so," said the man. "I did not wish you to see me."

The stranger's accent was heavily Eastern, and by his appearance M. Chabouillet thought he might be of Turkish extraction. As he spoke two long, sharp incisor teeth flashed in and out of view. The predatory look in those dark, sharp eyes made the secretary shiver.

"I'm sorry; may I help you, monsieur?"

The man smiled wryly.

"What help can any of us hope for, save hope that is from the Almighty?"

M. Chabouillet shuddered. Was it his imagination, or for a second did the man's eyes flash red? There was no reverence in his voice as he made reference to the Eternal Father; more the word was laced with irony.

"Er, yes," M. Chabouillet said slowly. "What I meant to say was, is monsieur lost? If so I was offering to help direct him."

The stranger held up a hand in thanks, but shook his head.

"No no, please, I am content. I wish to… reflect. Upon the passing of life. And the frailty of the soul. Such a soul to have lost its way; his sorrow must have been deep. Such sorrows are to be contemplated."

It did not look as if the man would say anymore. Highly unsettled by both the gentleman's manner and appearance, M. Chabouillet felt it his cue to leave. Turning his back on the stranger he headed for the cemetery gates, not looking back until he had walked beyond its walls.

Now he was alone, the man moved closer to the open grave, looking down into the earth at the coffin. M. Chabouillet had been wrong in his calculations; there had been five attending the funeral. Unknown to him, the Eastern gentleman dressed in mourning had been watching the proceedings from a respectful distance apart from the main party. When all but the secretary had left, he had approached to stand by the graveside. He sighed and shook his head.

"How could you? You were everything…"

The worker come to fill in the grave held back, shovel poised, when he saw the dark figure standing, looking down into the hole. The stranger looked up and bared his teeth in a bestial snarl, clearly displaying the two long, pointed fangs. The worker shuddered and took a few steps back, not leaving his post, yet keeping his distance. The Count turned his gaze back to the coffin. The smell of death reeked from inside, seeping out from the seams and polluting the air. It was a smell he was used to, one that haunted his every step; but to see it emanating from this body… it was almost too much to bear. Why? Why had this happened? There was no hope for either of them now; perhaps there never had been. He should have foreseen there could be no happy outcome.

It seemed only minutes ago it had begun.

Javert had been innocent when he had first come across him. Toulon, 1808; he had been passing through the town on his way to Barcelona, engaging a coach to take him as far as Toulouse before the journey across the mountains. It was then he had seen him; a slight youth in the uniform of a prison guard, hair the colour of chestnuts, skin as dark as the Count was pale, an arrogant tilt to the chin… There was no mistaking from his build and colouring that he was a gypsy, but what was a gypsy doing in a prison guard's uniform? This was what had intrigued the Count most of all, along with the chance of some sport. Such prey was fair game.

See me, he had commanded. See me, now.

The guard stopped in his tracks, a slight frown creasing his brow. Then he had turned his head to see the Count staring at him, and their eyes met.

Come.

To his surprise the guard had just cast him a suspicious look and walked on. For Dracula this was a shock; never before had anyone resisted in such a way. His interest was roused even more, strengthening his resolve, deciding to wait until evening when his powers would be full again to begin his assault on the young Roma. He traced his quarry to a tavern where he sat drinking with other prison warders. Dracula seated himself in a corner where he could observe his prey, and once again he called.

The young guard's head snapped round immediately, glaring around the room, angry and confused at the disturbance to his thoughts. Eventually his eyes had settled on the vampire. He frowned. On his part the Count was becoming both frustrated and even more curious. The boy's stubbornness was infinite! How could he be resisting? He was about to make another attempt when the youth got up from his table, strode across the room and sat himself directly opposite the vampire.

"Why are you following me?"

"Who says I am following you?" the Count asked smoothly. The mouse had walked into the trap of its own free will. This may turn out to be easier than he thought.

"I do," the boy said levelly. "And before you deny it, monsieur, may I point out I am asking a civil question so I expect a civil answer. I do this out of respect for your rank; any different and we would be holding this conversation in the cells of the nearest police post."

The threat was impressive, he had to admit that; but all the same insignificant. If anything, the boy was brave, or else incredibly foolish. He smiled confidently at the youth, taking a sip of wine.

"Why don't we take this conversation elsewhere, monsieur; somewhere more private?"

The guard considered for a moment, then nodded in assent. They adjourned into the back room. As soon as they'd sat down, the Count began.

"Tell me your name."

"Javert."

"Javert," the Count repeated. Just one name; did he have any others? "Tell me your story, Javert."

The young man frowned thoughtfully. He took a sip from his mug, then set it down on the table.

"Alright then; but first tell me yours."

Even to this day he still didn't know what had made him open up to Javert. It seemed to be an aura he possessed; a power all of his own. And suddenly the Count had found himself telling the boy everything… Of his kingdom when he was alive, of his death at the hands of the Turks, how he became immortal, of the sorrow, pain and loneliness he had experienced, of how his soul could find no comfort. Soon enough he was weeping into his hands, whilst Javert placed a comforting hand on his shaking shoulder, watching him in silence. Then in a slow, monotonous voice, he told Dracula his story.

As Javert spoke, Dracula watched him with growing compassion. It soon became clear to him that he couldn't possibly bring himself to take the young guard's life. Another feeling was taking root as well; one of trust. At the end of his account, Javert turned his head to look at the vampire, and they sat staring into each others eyes. Without saying so much as a word each seemed to understand; they were both damned, and they were both alone.

That night he, Dracula, had taken the youth's innocence. It was the greatest gift he had ever received in all his three hundred year existence. To feel a living body beneath him with heart still beating, whose blood he had not defiled but who was strong and whole… he, who had not fallen under his thrall, but chose to give himself freely! He had long thought himself incapable of love, nor able to inspire that of others; but what he felt now for the young guard was not lust, and what he received back was more than pity or simple physical comfort. They parted the next day, the undead having experienced mortality, whilst the living having glimpsed eternity. Heaven and Hell had been brought together, reconciled, and gone their separate ways.

The next time they met was 1820. Once more the Count had been travelling, this time through the north of France, when he felt a presence nearby; a presence he had long supposed he would never feel again. That time he called from Arras, out of curiosity more than anything else. He did not expect him to answer; Javert would have been older by now, a fully-grown man. Age and experience would have taken hold and extinguished the foolish desires of youth… But he came. Dracula had lived a long, long time and few things surprised him anymore; but this had. And when he had come, he had said only one word; one word whispered with so much tenderness that Dracula could not doubt its sincerity;

"Vladislav…"

Vladislav. Few were privileged to know or call the Count by his first name; he supposed the same could have been said for Javert as well. The spell he had cast over Dracula when they had first met had not faded with the passing of the years, more it had strengthened. That time they had spent more than one night in each others arms, and five days passed before Javert was called back to his post in Montreuil.

1827. One of his mates had been slain by an over-zealous vampire hunter, and at the request of his two remaining brides he had travelled to Prague, Budapest, Venice, Vienna, and finally Paris to find a replacement. That time he travelled to Paris as an excuse to see Javert, and see him he did. The Inspector had aged much in those few years; his hair was greying, his face bore lines that betrayed worry and care. But, as Javert rightly pointed out, to the Count those years may seem like seconds, but to him they had been an eternity in themselves. Still his body remained as strong, his muscles like iron, his mind as sharp as broken glass. This had pleased the Count even more, and vows of devotion had been re-affirmed, stronger than ever. After a month in Paris he found a suitable girl to make his bride. He seduced her, made her immortal and returned with her to Romania, once more bidding the Inspector adieu.

But he could not forget. For the following years as he sat brooding in his castle, as he slept in his coffin, the Count's dreams and waking moments were filled with reminisces of their last moments together. Again and again he thought back to the nights he had lain with Javert; entwined limbs, hands running over bare skin, hips and backs arching, lips locked in a kiss fed from hunger and longing. No utterances of names, no half-whispered vows of trust, no promises of undying love; such things were not needed. Everything that needed to be said had been said before, and was only to be said through their embrace. By 1832 Dracula could no longer deny to himself that he kept travelling west just so he might have the excuse to see Javert. There was no other explanation for it; his journeys were becoming more and more frequent, day and night he felt Javert's presence in his mind. He could not shake his thoughts from the Inspector. He had to be near him; there was no getting around it.

This time he had come to Paris expressly to seek out Javert, to somehow persuade him to leave the force and return with him to Romania… but just as he had been passing through Fontainebleau, barely a league from the object of his desire, the most terrible sensation clutched at his withered heart; a sense of dread washing over him as a cry of infinite despair sounded throughout his mind. He knew in that instant what Javert had done. He knew then it was too late.

Now as he stood over Javert's grave Dracula bowed his head and closed his eyes. A single tear crept down his cheek to fall onto the grass at his feet. So many emotions conflicted in his breast; anger, confusion, sorrow, heartache, despair, and love. Anger. If Javert was going to damn his soul they may as well have been damned together! Confusion. Why? All he remembered of Javert was his determination, his devotion to his work. Sorrow. Heartache. If he would only have come to him, if he had only given Javert notice he was coming…! Despair. He could have provided the Inspector the death he so craved, along with the damnation that was now cast upon his soul. Love. Then they could have shared their eternity and torment, finding what solace they could in each others' arms. Once again they were both alone, and both damned. So. It ended here.

Reaching into his coat Dracula took out a withered rose, bringing it to his lips and kissing the dead, dry stem. He let it fall into the grave where it rested on the coffin lid. Black as ebony, red as blood; despair and love were now entombed forever beyond his reach.

"One day, my love," he murmured. "One day. If God is willing, I will see you in Hell."