My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room.
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