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Bernhard had never thought himself a great drinker, though he had suffered many a drunken night amongst his fellow cavalry officers, especially after the end of the war, in 1815. He had never, to his recollection, drunk as much as he had the night before. A never-ending stream of beer filled mugs, the foam slopping over the sides, appeared at the table he shared with the Maestro and they had drunk each and every one.

He couldn't remember the point at which he gave up all hope of keeping pace with Beethoven, yet one last memory, of the great man linking arms with several beauties, male and female, while singing folk songs together. After that, everything became a blur and Bernhard could not remember how he had managed to return home.

Except, he was not at home. There were no thick sheets covering him and he felt the press of far too much light upon his eyelids than the small windows of his home would allow in. The air, also, felt fresh and bereft of the normal stench of Vienna's fine and beautiful streets. And, if he listened carefully, he could hear birdsong, welcoming him to a new day.

That birdsong, however, became drowned out by the hooting and hollering of voices nearby. Loudest among them a voice he remembered from the night before. The Maestro. Ludwig van Beethoven himself. Composer for kings and queens. A man that could make people weep with a single bar of piano notes.

Gambling and making donkey noises in the face of his opponents. Bernhard tried to push himself up from the straw that stuck to his head and tried to work out where he was. Even after his blurred eyes stared for several minutes in all directions, he still could not tell where it was that he had awoken to.

"That's mine, eh? You want some more, sunshine?" The Maestro gathered up a bunch of coins, piling them before him. "It's easy if you know how. Watch the lady. Keep your eyes wide open. Where she lands could win you twice your bet."

The man's greying hair bobbed as he stared at his own hands. Between fingertips, the cards flashed as he moved them around in a seemingly random fashion. The other two men glared at those hands, watching every movement as though their lives depended on it and, when the Maestro stopped moving the cards, both men tapped upon the middle of the three.

"That one!" The man kept his finger on the card, stopping Beethoven from turning it over. "But I want to turn it over this time."

"Do what you like. Beety don't cheat. Least, not at cards, eh?" Beethoven grinned at the man, then saw Bernhard awake and gave him a wink. "You think it's the middle one? Is he right, ladies and gents? Ooh! Unlucky!"

The man had turned over the card, revealing the ace of clubs. Then he turned over the card on the left, revealing the ace of spades and then the one on the right. The queen of hearts. Disgusted with his luck, the man threw the card onto the straw, pushed the other man aside and then turned his back, hugging himself with his arms as he laid down on the straw, grumbling.

Bernhard sat upright and rubbed his eyes. He felt a little more awake, now, and could see exactly where he was. In the back of a cart, heading west, away from the great city of Vienna. There, in the distance, he saw the buildings of his home dwindling into the distance. Somehow, the Maestro had managed to steal him away in the night.

"Maestro. I can't be here." He began to shift towards the back of the cart and his stomach rolled and he felt his head begin to pound. "I have to inform my beloved's family of her demise. I must tell them of the foul creature that took her from us."

"Oof. Wouldn't recommend it, mate, eh." The Maestro made an exaggerated grimace, tilting his head as he picked up his winnings and dropping them in his coin pouch. "No. You're best away from all that. Apparently, you were the last person seen with her. Carrying her in your arms."

"What? No! That's not possible!" He felt his stomach turn again and he thrust his head out over the side of the cart. Once he had stopped retching, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "If people saw us, why didn't they help us? She may yet have lived had someone helped."

"I did help. Not that it stopped her from having her head lopped off by you." With the other two men's eyes looking elsewhere, Beethoven tugged the edge of his shirt sleeve down, showing a card hidden within. He pressed a finger to his lips. "Like as not, mate, the law is out looking for you. Good thing your old mate, Beety, knew some people who owed him favours, eh?"

The Maestro didn't act as though he had consumed as much, more, alcohol as Bernhard the night before. In fact, he didn't act anything like he had expected of someone of such fame and intelligence. He had once seen Beethoven performing. The grace, humility and sheer presence of the man had captivated everyone in that room, Bernhard included.

Now, Beethoven sat back against the side of the cart, a stalk of straw between his teeth and scratching his crotch. Every so often, he would flick his fingers and a card would appear as though from thin air, another flick and it disappeared once more. Bernhard could not reconcile the two parts of the man.

That he was, indeed, Ludwig van Beethoven, Bernhard could not deny. The night before, as he had played the violin, Bernhard had seen the great man in his element. Playing music to an adoring audience. No-one else could have performed as he had. No-one else could have made that old fiddle sound like a perfectly tuned Stradivarius. Only the Maestro, himself.

"Where are we going?" He asked the question of the Maestro, but he would have accepted an answer from anyone. The two men, the cart driver, even the horse if it could speak. No-one offered the answer. "I have a right to know where you are taking me!"

Beethoven rolled his eyes, scowling as though he had only that second heard Bernhard's question. With the stalk of straw, the Maestro pointed west. Towards the foothills of the snow covered Alps, a sight that had never failed to swell Bernhard's heart throughout his life. He did not, however, have any wish to go there.

He shook his head and began to move to the back of the cart, his knee pressing against something under the cover of the straw. Reaching down, his fingers curled around his sabre within its scabbard. At least he had not lost that. One of his most prized possessions, though it felt dirty in his hands, now. He had cut off the head of his beloved with that blade.

"Where do you think you're going?" The Maestro leaned across and grabbed a hold of Bernhard's sleeve.

"Home. Back to Vienna." His stomach still turned and his head still throbbed and he found the drop to the path passing beneath them felt like a drop of a thousand leagues. "I'm sure if I explain everything, people will understand. I had no choice. She had become ... become ..."

"A vampire. You can say it." A sharp tug of his sleeve and Beethoven pulled him back from the dizzying sight. "You think they'll believe you? Well, you know, they will, but they won't admit it. Oi! You! Believe in vampires, do ya? Eh?"

Beethoven kicked out at one of the men he had played cards with, causing him to flip around, giving the Maestro a vicious glare. The other one's back stiffened, but Bernhard saw him make the sign of the cross and then tighten his self-embrace. The first man looked at Beethoven and then at Bernhard, the anger fading and a sheepish look crossing his face. He shook his head a little too vigorously.

"No such thing. The Lord would not suffer such a creature to live." He, too, made the sign of the cross and then turned back to laying upon the straw. "Now, leave me be, cheat."

"Cheat is it?" The Maestro laughed and kicked at the man again, but, this time, the man refused to turn around. "He believes in vampires, we all do. We know they are out there. We know what they do, but polite society doesn't acknowledge it. No-one does, because, if they did, that would change everything. If vampires exist, what else exists, eh? What else?"

Beethoven sat back again, sprawling his arms out along the side of the cart, his legs crossed and the stalk of straw twisting between his teeth. He closed one eye and tilted his head back, catching the rays of the Sun upon his face. He hummed, tapping fingers against the wood of the cart as though playing an invisible piano.

"And what if they do exist, as I well know they do? What then?" Bernhard slumped onto the bed of the cart, laying his sabre across his knees. "What does their existence mean for me? They have already torn everything beautiful and good from my life. What more can the beasts take?"

"Your life. Your immortal soul." The twirling of the straw stalk stopped and Beethoven turned his head, catching Bernhard's gaze and holding it with steady eyes. He adjusted a scarf that covered his throat. "Or you could kill the bastards first."

He left those words hanging in the air as the cart travelled along. Throughout it all, the cart driver had said nothing. Now, he looked over his shoulder towards Bernhard and gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Then he crossed himself before returning his gaze to the road ahead.

No-one believed in vampires. But everyone knew they existed.