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him. ‘That beautiful pale face,’ she murmured to herself. And beautiful it was, inhumanly so - the face of an angel cast from another world.
    â€˜Tell me how it is possible,’ said Rebecca at last.
    Lord Byron lowered the lamp and returned limping to his seat. As he did so, Rebecca thought she heard movement from the room behind her. She turned round, but the darkness was impenetrable. Lord Byron smiled. He whistled softly. Out of the shadows padded a large white dog. It stared at Rebecca, then yawned, and sank down at Lord Byron’s feet. Lord Byron stroked the dog’s head while on his other hand he rested his chin. He stared at Rebecca. His eyes glittered, and a faint smile curled his lip.
    Rebecca stroked back her hair. ‘My mother,’ she wanted to scream, ‘my mother, did you kill her?’ but she dreaded the answer she might receive. She sat in silence for a long while. ‘I came to find the memoirs,’ she said at last.
    â€˜There are no memoirs.’
    Rebecca frowned with surprise. ‘But I was given the letters, from Thomas Moore . . .’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜So what happened to the copy he had made, the one he writes about to you?’
    â€˜It was destroyed.’
    â€˜But . . .’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. Why?’
    â€˜For the same reason as the original was destroyed. It contained the truth.’
    â€˜Then why was I shown Moore’s letters? Why was I tricked into visiting the crypt?’
    Lord Byron raised an eyebrow. ‘Tricked?’
    â€˜Yes. The bookseller. I assume he works for you.’
    â€˜For me? No. Against me, eternally, and always for himself.’
    â€˜Who is he?’
    â€˜Someone to avoid.’
    â€˜Like you? And like that thing, that creature below?’
    Lord Byron’s brow darkened, but his voice, when he spoke, was as calm as before. ‘Yes, she is a creature, and so am I a creature, the most dangerous creature you will ever meet. A creature who has already fed on you tonight.’ He licked his teeth with the tip of his tongue, and the dog stirred, growling faintly from his chest.
    Rebecca struggled not to lower her eyes before the vampire’s gaze. Again, the question she wanted to ask died on her lips. ‘Why haven’t you killed me, then?’ she murmured eventually. ‘Why haven’t you drained me like you drained that poor man by Waterloo Bridge?’
    Lord Byron’s face seemed frozen into ice. Then, faintly, he smiled once again. ‘Because you are a Byron.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, indeed a Byron.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Because you have my blood in your veins. Mine - and another soul’s.’
    Rebecca swallowed. ‘So did my mother,’ she said at last. Her voice sounded distant and frail in her ears.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜She too - once - she came looking for your memoirs.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜What happened to her?’
    Lord Byron made no answer. In his eyes, pity and desire seemed mingled as one.
    â€˜What happened to her? Tell me! What happened to her? ’
    Still Lord Byron did not reply. Rebecca licked her lips. She wanted to repeat her question in a howl of anguish and accusation, but her mouth was dry and she couldn’t speak. Lord Byron smiled as he stared at her. He glanced at her throat lingeringly, then rose and limped across the room. He held up a bottle. ‘You are thirsty. Can I offer you wine?’
    Rebecca nodded. She glanced at the label. Château Lafite Rothschild. The best, the very best. She was offered a glass - she took it and sipped, then gulped the liquid down. Never had she tasted anything half so good. She glanced up. Lord Byron was watching her expressionlessly. He drank from his own glass. No sign of pleasure or taste crossed his face. He sat back in his chair, and although his eyes glittered as brightly as before, Rebecca could see now how behind the gleam