The Dark Blood of Poppies by Freda Warrington

spring flower, swelling each tiny sac with life and growth. He began to heal so fast that he felt his bones creaking as they fused.
    But something was wrong. He remained dizzy and weak. He had terrifying fits in which he would claw at his own body, choking for breath, trying desperately to escape something that wasn’t there.
    He realised with disgust that these were attacks of fear.
    Soon he recovered his ability to enter the Crystal Ring, only to be seized by vertigo that drove him back to Earth. An oppressive shadow hovered over him, watching. He was afraid to hunt, afraid to enter the vampire realm that was his natural element!
    Pierre was disgusted with himself.
    He’d never sought help from anyone, but he needed it now. Habitually living between hotels and his victims’ houses, he had no home of his own. Where to go? Kristian, the dogmatic yet comforting father figure, was gone. He couldn’t go to Ilona or Karl in this state – the humiliation would be insufferable! Stefan, perhaps – but Karl would find out.
And all Karl will say
, thought Pierre,
is that I brought this on myself! Sadist.
    Kristian was gone, but his castle was still there. However bleak, it still bore a faint concept of “home”. Pierre began to head there, like a wounded animal going to ground.
    The meadows of Austria blended into those of Bavaria, Germany, the Rhineland. He wound his way through pine forests by day, passed like a ghost through villages by night, oblivious to the charm of the old timbered houses around him.
    Sometimes he ran. At others he fell and could not move. He forgot to feed, then wondered why he was so weak. His finely tailored clothes became crumpled and dirty. Anyone who saw him in daylight would stop and stare. A tramp or a lunatic, he must be, this white-faced creature with maniacal blue eyes.
    This was Violette’s curse.
    Reaching the Rhine, he followed the iron-grey flow north past the Lorelei, where banks rose steeply above the sinuous water. At last he saw Schloss Holdenstein, a cluster of brown turrets and tiled roofs standing desolate above the vineyards.
    Afterwards, Pierre didn’t remember entering the castle. One moment he was staring up at its rain-drenched roofs. The next he was inside, lying face down on chill flagstones, arms outstretched, like a child clinging to an indifferent mother.
    Cruel twist. Of all people who least deserved a mother’s love… For his first ever victim had been his mother.
    “But it wasn’t my fault,” he moaned under his breath.
    Something moved in the rushlit corridor. Looking up, Pierre saw soft black sandals, the hem of a dark robe. Standing over him was a monkish figure of medium height, with a cherubic face, cropped fair hair, pale grey eyes with pinpoint pupils.
    “What has the storm blown in?” said the figure. “Have you come back to us, Pierre?”
    “Cesare,” Pierre groaned. He had despised Cesare, Kristian’s lapdog, but in despair he reached up and tugged his hem. “You must help me.”
    “Must we?” The bland face contemplated him. Pierre half-expected a kick. Instead, to his amazement, Cesare bent down and helped him to his feet. “What brought you to this state, my friend?” He smelled of the castle, of dust, damp, nothingness. “Well, you’re safe now. We’ll look after you.”
    Placing a tight, possessive arm around his shoulders, Cesare led him deep into the Schloss. Pierre wanted to pour out his story, if only he could control his chattering breath.
    Along the corridor he saw another vampire he knew; a Cinderella figure with straight dark-gold hair and a broom in her thin hands. Maria, another of Kristian’s brood. Others were gathering to witness Pierre’s arrival. It seemed only a few were left – the core of Kristian’s most devoted followers. They lingered in Schloss Holdenstein like a sect awaiting the Second Coming.
    No one ever came here now. Pierre supposed his arrival was quite an event.
    Things were hazy for a time. Vampires