I actually raced through the rest of this first part, comparatively speaking: I want to get to the next part. The all-new part, that is.
Damn you, John Polidori.
Oh, I suppose that he was damned already, long before I became a creature of the night. But even if the Almighty really does take a more measured view of self-extinguishing in these dark, soot-scented times, Polidori still must answer for his damnable Lord Ruthven. If only one of the Bronte sisters had written the first true vampire tale! Or perhaps that clever Miss Austen. Perhaps then I would not have been escorted to a cell that, that, that Gothick. With the never to be sufficiently damned final ‘k.’
Forgive my intemperate language. Although I assure you: your own wives, mothers, and daughters have already heard language quite as rough. Your grandmamas probably used language even rougher, back in their own quite wicked day.
But let me get back to that cell. The basic details were sound enough; stout bars on the window to the hall outside, a heavy lock on the door, and nothing in the cell that could be turned into a weapon. Vampires are not much harder to imprison than mortals, really. The legends of our ability to change shape are wildly exaggerated. So far, all was as I expected.
But the decor!