My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. “As my lady wills. Vite, I pray you. They went to the gate and stopped there, gabbed with their men, and didn’t even dismount. While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten.
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