France, 1729

There was so much blood on his hands.

It pooled on the cobbled streets, splattered across the walls of the buildings around him, soaked his shirt, his breeches.

Ludovic de Vauban stared at the groaning men around him, and wanted to be sick.

He'd done this.

He staggered back, almost tripping over someone's legs, and pain seared his ribs where the knife had sliced a deep gash. He pressed a hand to the wound.

The gang had come out of nowhere.

Ludovic had only just arrived in the rural village, hoping to find someone to drink from, and instead he'd managed to draw the attention of a pack of thieves. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, but when one of them pulled a knife and tried to kill him, when Ludovic felt the pain of skin and flesh opening beneath the blade, felt his own blood soaking into his shirt, the predator that lurked inside him had taken over.

Six years he'd been a vampire, and he still didn't know his own strength.

Now the men who'd attacked him lay in the street with shattered limbs and hideous wounds.

He hadn't meant to hurt them that badly, but that didn't change that he had.

His wound pulsed with pain, and his fangs slid out, eager for the fresh blood that was everywhere. He wanted to lick his hands clean, and he balled them into fists to stop himself.

It was late enough that no one seemed to have heard the scuffle – at least no one had come out to investigate it, but sooner or later someone would find these men and Ludovic couldn't be here when they did.

So he ran.

He left the village behind and disappeared into the countryside, only stopping when everything around him was dark and still, and the only movement were nocturnal birds and animals, who didn't care about what he'd just done.

A great tree was nearby; at some point heavy winds had partially uprooted it, and now it leaned drunkenly, its knotted roots half-buried in the earth, half clutching the air like withered fingers.

Ludovic crawled under the shelter of those roots.

His hands shook as he scrubbed them on the ground, trying to get the blood off, and his chest hurt as he struggled to suck in air. He hadn't needed to breathe for six years, but sometimes it still made him feel better, like he was still human.

Like he wasn't a monster.

Ludovic closed his eyes, digging his fingers deep into the ground.

Jehanne's face floated in front of him, twisted with bloodlust, eyes flashing red, fangs soaked in the gore of his friends. He wasn't like Jehanne. But how far from her was he really?

He'd come into his vampire life in pain and fear, when Jehanne had ripped into his neck, and her husband had chosen to turn Ludovic rather than let him bleed to death. He'd come through the turn so fast, but then the man who'd turned him had abandoned him. Ludovic didn't even know his name.

There'd been no one to teach him how to be a vampire.

He'd had to work it all out on his own and, judging by what had just happened, he'd failed.

Another wave of pain rippled from his wounded side, and he gritted his teeth. He needed blood, but even the thought of hunting down an animal made his stomach twist with revulsion.

He pressed his hands to his eyes, but they were still sticky with blood, and the sweet smell called to his predator. His fangs slid out again and he recoiled.

It wasn't just his strength that frightened him.

It was the sense of power he'd felt.

Once he'd unleashed his inner beast, none of those men had stood a chance and there'd been something horribly satisfying about it.

Ludovic scrubbed his hands in the dirt against, trying to claw off the blood, until the blood was his own, seeping through raw, angry patches where he'd torn off skin.

The worst part was, he couldn't blame the vampire for the darkness inside him.

Years ago he'd smashed in his stepfather's skull with an iron poker, and he'd been human then. That was nothing to do with vampire strength.

That strength seemed to flow out of him, and he collapsed on his side, eyes burning.

"I didn't ask for this," he whispered.

Even if he had, he wouldn't have known what he was asking for.

But he couldn't go back.

For days he refused to touch a drop of blood, even as his body screamed for it. His wound had knitted back together, and he almost wished it hadn't. It was another reminder of how far from human he now was.

He could have preyed on animals, but every time he considered it, he remembered what he'd done to that gang – how he had reduced them from men to bloody sacks of meat.

True, they'd tried to kill him first, but that didn't change anything. He could have used his superior strength to overpower them without maiming them. He could have used his superior speed to run from them.

But no vampire could go forever without drinking.

He felt weaker than he had in a long time, and though his fangs were retracted, there was a constant ache in his mouth. He'd never gone so long without feeding.

If the man who'd turned him had taught him about being a vampire then he would have known how dangerous it was to push himself to these limits.

But he didn't know.

He wandered the countryside, the hills and forests and meadows, getting steadily more desperate for blood, until one day he spotted a belltower rising above the scattered trees ahead of him.

Ludovic blinked away the red haze in his eyes.

A church?

He wasn't a religious man, and becoming a vampire hadn't changed that. But so many people turned to the church for help and guidance and peace; was there even a chance that Ludovic could find it too?

He slunk through the trees, as quietly as his depleted vampire abilities would let him.

The monastery lay just ahead, grey stone towers soaring to the sky, several windows lit by tiny flickers of candlelight.

Ludovic edged closer.

What did he want here?

Absolution from a god he didn't even believe in?

Monks to tell him that he wasn't a monster?

The thought of telling anyone what he was and what he'd done made him want to run and hide, but surely if there was any place in all of France where he wouldn't be judged, it was here.

Some chickens pecked at the ground inside a small pen, while a monk stood over them, scattering feed. His habit blended in with the shadows, and his face was a pale moon, creased as he smiled down at the chickens.

His heartbeat raged in Ludovic's ears.

He was so thirsty.

A twig cracked under Ludovic's foot and the monk looked up.

He had a kind face, warm and open, with eyes that crinkled at the corners. "Hello there," he said.

Ludovic couldn't speak.

His teeth were clenched tightly together, trying to stop his fangs from emerging.

The man's heartbeat was so loud.

The monk put down his pail of feed, and stepped out of the chicken pen.

"Do you need help?" he said softly.

Ludovic had no idea what he looked like, but judging from the monk's compassionate expression, it wasn't good.

"I . . ." It was the only word he managed.

As soon as he opened his mouth, his fangs rushed down, and a primal, desperate need took over. The monk's veins seemed to pulse against his skin, delicious little rivers of blood just beneath the skin, and his heart was thumping, thumping, thumping. Ludovic lost control.

With a ragged snarl, he fell on the monk. They went to the ground together and Ludovic tore into his throat, gulping down mouthfuls of rich, hot blood, and it was so good that he moaned.

He drank and drank and didn't even notice that the monk had stopped scrabbling against him. There was nothing but the thirst and the blood and the need.

Then clarity rushed back in, the haze driven back now he had what his body needed. Ludovic lifted his head from the monk's neck.

The man lay beneath him, his mouth twisted open in a soundless scream, his eyes empty. Blood continued to spill from the ragged bite in his neck; it dripped from Ludovic's fangs.

For a moment he couldn't comprehend what he'd done.

Then reality slammed in, and he fell back with a hoarse cry, scrabbling to get away from the monk.

"No," he whispered.

Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, he crawled back to the monk. "Please," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I didn't . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

What difference did that make now?

The monk had tried to help Ludovic, and Ludovic had killed him for it.

He retched, but nothing came up.

He didn't even know if vampires could be sick.

They could cry though, sometimes, and raw tears stung his eyes.

He'd come here in the hopes that someone would tell him he wasn't a monster, and instead he'd confirmed that in the worst possible way.

He bent over until his head was pressed against the ground. "I didn't mean to," he said again.

But the monk was still dead.

His blood was still sweet on Ludovic's tongue, smeared across his mouth.

Shakily he pushed himself to his feet, swiping an arm across his face.

He had to go, now, before any other monks came outside and Ludovic killed them too.

He had to run far and fast, away from the rest of the world.

He couldn't be trusted around people anymore.

On Friday, we're going to see what Isabeau has been up to :)