Rachel Sullivan waltzed into O'Mallory's pub as if she'd never been gone, and ignored the hush that fell as she passed. Glasses stopped clinking, men stopped spinning their yams. Eyes followed her when she sashayed to the back of the room and snatched a white apron from a hook.

Behind the gleaming mahogany bar, Mary folded her arms over her plump middle and smiled. Rachel tied the apron on and turned around, eyeing the round, wooden tables and the familiar faces at each one.

"An' what's got you all so tongue-tied?" she asked, tossing her head.

"I told you I'd come back, and now I have. So stop your gaping and drink your ale." She turned briskly back to the bar, snatching up a tray with two foaming pints on it, and then unerringly spotted the pair who had empty glasses before them, and delivered their refills.

The talk started up again. Mostly directed at her now. Unshaven men who'd known her father, welcoming her home. Curly-headed women asking her about the States as she hustled back and forth with her laden tray. For the first time in what seemed like a long time, Rachel released a long, cleansing breath, and felt the tension drain from her spine.

She -was home, truly home. And it felt good. Better than the degree she'd worked so hard to earn. Better than anything had since. since before she'd left.

She'd been afraid, half expecting the locals to be wary of her now, but the rapid return to normalcy in the pub told her that fear had been unwarranted.

The people of Dun- kin ny didn't like outsiders, that much was true. Oh, tourists occasionally found their way to the isolated village, particularly the ones with Irish surnames out to discover their roots. The locals were polite enough, but always reserved. Wary. Rachel, though, had been born and raised here.

Orphaned here, and taken under the collective wing of these villagers.

They'd been sad when she'd left them, but not angry. With one exception--Mamey Neal, who'd been so determined to marry her. But he wasn't here tonight, she noted with relief. And the others welcomed her back into their midst without a second thought. Eight years away, but they didn't see her as an outsider. "Welcome home, Rachel." Mary, who'd owned this place and the boarding house attached to it for as long as Rachel could remember, hugged her hard, slapping her back with enthusiastic blows.

"I've kept your old room for you. I can already see you'll be takin' your old job back."

Rachel didn't have the heart to tell her it was only for a short time. Only until she got her thesis written, the final step in earning her doctorate.

And then she'd. What? Become the world's leading social anthropologist? Teach at an Ivy League university in the States?

She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of Russell Fin- negan's stale pipe smoke, fresh beer, and the sheep manure on Mitch Marley's boots. When she opened them again, she faced the window, and stared out at the worn track that passed for a road in this tiny village, and the rolling emerald hills, and the crumbling castle--Castle Dante--in the distance. It stood amid a ghostly mist as haunting as the tale that went along with the place--the tale she was basing her thesis on.

Beyond the castle were the cliffs, and the green-blue sea far below.

And that was the other reason she'd come back. To see that castle one more time.

As a child, she'd believed in the tales. But in her heart, she'd never accepted the villagers' condemnation of the men who'd once lived there. One of them, she swore, had come to her. Twice in her childhood she'd met him, or so she'd believed for a long time. The first time had been when she'd nearly drowned in the river one night long ago. A dark stranger had pulled her from the water, breathed into her lungs, cradled her gently until others arrived, and then disappeared before she'd even had a chance to thank him.

The second time was after her parents' deaths, when she'd lain awake and afraid in her bed, unable to sleep, feeling more alone than any being ever had. He'd come to her, held her hand, and told her she wasn't alone at all.

That she had a guardian who would watch over her, protect her always, and that she must never fear. She'd barely seen his face in the darkness, but in her mind, she'd believed him to be Donovan O'Roark, or his ghost. And she'd loved him.

Always, she'd loved him. Even later, when she'd realized her childhood memories were only dreams, and that there were no such things as vampires, she'd nurtured a tender place for the fictional legend in her heart. And while she was home, she'd visit that castle once more. perhaps just to assure herself that he wasn't truly there, awaiting her return.

She'd been home for two weeks when he came. The air was brisk, with the cold taste of winter on its f the pub were propped open all the same, to let the pipe smoke out and the fresh air in. And the fire snapping in Mary's cobblestone hearth kept the chill at bay.

When the silence fell this time, it was uneasy, rather than the friendly hush that had fallen upon Rachel's unexpected return. Then, she'd felt the smiling eyes, the welcome. Now she felt a fris son of something icy slipping up her spine. And when she turned to follow the curious gazes, she saw the stranger walking along the darkened road.

He paused, and stared off in the distance, toward the dark hulking silhouette of the castle. Mitch Marley gasped. Rus- sell Finnegan gaped and his pipe dropped from his lax mouth to the table, unnoticed.

The tension that filled the room, filled her, was ridiculous, and unnecessary.

"I'd forgot," she muttered, "just how superstitious you all are. Look at you, gawking at that fellow as if he's Donovan O'Roark come back from the dead!"

Mary crossed herself.

"You saying you don't believe the old tales now that you're educated, Rachel Sullivan?"

"Old tales are just that. Old tales. Nothing more. I'll prove it, too."

Rachel stepped into the open doorway, hands braced on either side, and leaned out.

"I don't know where you're going, stranger, but if it's food and a warm bed you're lookin' for, you won't find it anywhere but here."

"Lord preserve us from that saucy girl," Mary murmured. "Feisty as she ever was," someone agreed.

But Rachel ignored them, because the man was turning, looking at her.

It was dark tonight, no moon to help her explore his face. She could only see dark eyes gleaming the reflection of the soft, muted light spilling out of the pub. Firelight and lamp glow. Mary detested bright electric lights at nighttime, though Rachel often suspected it was the bill she truly disliked.

"Come inside," Rachel said again, more softly this time because she sensed he could hear her very well.

"Warm yourself by the fire. And show these friends of mine that you're not the monster from their favorite folktale."

I stood there, stunned to my bones. Amazed first that she'd spoken to me at all, for I knew the people of Dunkinny to be a superstitious lot, un trusting of strangers. Or they had been when I'd first left here, nigh on a hundred years ago, and they had been so still each time I'd returned since.

But people in solitary villages like this one never tend to change overmuch.

She was different, though. She'd always been different.

I fancied it ironic; I'd been one of them once, and that wariness, that mistrust of strangers, was still with me. But I'd been betrayed too often to let it go. It was, in fact, stronger than ever. So then, why did I stop?

Why did I turn and look at her when she spoke to me, when my natural reaction would have been to keep walking, never so much as pausing in my gait.

But I did pause. Partly because of her voice, pure and silken, with the lilt of Ireland, of this very village to it. So familiar and dear to me, that accent. And frightening at the same time.

"Twas the voice of my own people, the ones who'd called me evil and tried to kill me.

The ones who'd later murdered the best friend I'd ever had. But 'twas also the voice of the little girl I'd watched over long ago, but grown up now.

And somehow, still the same.

She spoke again, her tone haughty, mischievous, almost taunting. And then I looked, and saw her silhouetted in the doorway, surrounded by a golden glow. Raven hair, long and wild. I'd seen Gypsies less mesmerizing.

She held out a hand to me.

"Come," she said.

And as if her words held some sort of power over me, I went. She clasped my hand as soon as I came within reach, and she drew me inside. She had long sharp nails. Red nails. I liked them, and the warmth of her small, strong hand. And the tingle of sensual awareness I felt passing through her body.

I liked that, too. Knew better than to indulge it this close to what would soon be my home. again. But liked it all the same.

Over the years, I had changed, but not drastically. My skin was paler, yes.

It hadn't felt the touch of the sun in nearly two centuries, after all. But its pink, healthy glow remained intact for several hours once I'd fed.

And I'd fed well tonight.

So when she drew me inside, there were no gasps of shock at my appearance.

She settled me into a wooden chair near the fire, and that's when I realized this pub was in the exact place that other one had stood long ago.

O'Connor's tavern. The site of my funeral. The place where my father had tried to murder me.

A lump came into my throat, but I forced it away. "There, you see?"

the girl was saying, hands on her hips, which moved enticingly whenever she did. She waved a hand toward me.

"Just a tourist, not a legend come to life." She faced me again.

"Tell us, stranger, what's your name?"

I cleared my throat.

"O'Roark," I said, waiting, curious to see their reactions.

The plump woman dropped a tankard of ale and it crashed to the floor, spewing amber liquid and odorous foam around her feet. The girl stared at me, searching my face with an intensity that shook me. But she couldn't recognize me. She'd never seen my face clearly enough to know it again now.

And finally she grinned, a twinkle in her eye, and tilted her head to one side.

"O'Roark, is it? Another one? Tell me, Mr. O'Roark, have you come travelin' from the States in search of your family history?"

I smiled very slightly, unable to help myself. Such a spirited girl, she was.

"Has my accent faded so much that I sound like an American to you?" I asked her.

She gave me a sassy shrug.

"I only know you're not from Dunkinny. For I know everyone in this town."

"You've lived here that long, have you?"

"Born here, as were my parents and theirs before them for five generations."

"Mine, too."

She frowned at me, and I took my time studying her face. Small features, fine bones. But her lips were full and her eyes large in that small face.

"You're saying you're descended from our O'Roarks?"

"So much so that I've inherited the castle."

At last, I'd shaken her. The others had been uneasy from the moment I'd set foot inside, but not her. Now, though, I saw it. The widening of her deep green eyes, the loss of blood's glow in her cheeks.

"You're making it up," she accused, but softly.

I shook my head.

"He'll be wantin' to know about the legend then," Mary called. "Aye, tell him the legend, Rachel! Stranger he may be, but no man ought to risk dallying about that place un- warned." Rachel. She'd grown into the name.

A name as untamed and tempting as the woman she'd become.

She tilted her head to one side.

"He already knows," she ventured, studying me, watching my every reaction.

"How can you be sure?" I asked her.

"Tell me, Rachel. What is this legend that seems to make everyone here so I nervous? Every one... but you, that is."  She recovered quickly, regaining the bounce in her step  as she snatched two steins of ale from the bar, and brought them to the table. One, she thumped to the table before me.

The other, she drank from deeply, before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and leaning back in the chair she'd taken.

Behind her the fire snapped and danced.

"Long ago Donovan O'Roark, a farmer's son loved by all, was walking home from the fields. Alone, he walked, and well after dark, on the Eve of All Hallows." I got a chill up my spine, and was reminded, briefly and vividly of my gram, and the way she'd spun her tales before the fire at night. Tales I'd never believed in.

"But poor Donovan never made it home unscathed that night, for a creature attacked him." She paused, looking around the room. I did likewise, seeing the rapt attention on every face--though they'd likely all heard the tale a hundred times by now.

"A vampire," she said in a long, whispery breath.

I lifted my brows high, an attempt to show them my skepticism.

"A vampire,". I repeated.

"Indeed. The young man died that night, but he didn't stay dead long.

He rose from his casket at his own funeral! No longer mortal, but a creature like the one who'd created him. The villagers tried to kill him, but he was too strong, and he escaped into the night and vanished. "

I lifted the mug to my mouth, pretending to sip the beer, and licking the taste of it from my lips when I set the glass down again.

"I still don't see what this has to do with the castle. "

"Ah, so you're an impatient one, are you?"

I only shrugged and let her continue.

"Donovan wasn't seen again. Not for a hundred years. But everyone knew his tale. Then, something happened. The lord of that castle,"

here she pointed in the castle's general direction, "was a rich Italian man, some said a nobleman. His name was Dante. Now how do you suppose his castle ended up in the hands of the family O'Roark?" I smiled and said nothing.

Rachel went on.

"No one had ever suspected Dante of anything evil. He simply kept to himself, and that was the way the villagers liked it."

"He being an outsider, and all," I put in.

She gave me a curious glance.

"One night a young girl, who'd been hired to work sometimes at the castle, came running down from the cliffs, hysterical. Screaming and crying, she was. With blood runnin' down her neck in twin streams, and two tiny punctures in her pretty throat."

I didn't interrupt her, though the words near choked me trying to escape.

Dante had never harmed the girl. He'd adored her, loved her to distraction, and in the end, done the one thing he'd warned me over and over never to do.

He'd trusted her.

Rachel sipped her beer.

"The girl said Dante was a monster who slept in a coffin by day, and fed on livin' blood by night. He'd attacked her, tried to drain her dry, but she'd got away."

"Did anyone wonder," I asked, unable to keep still any longer, 'how a young thing like that could get away from a creature like him? " She frowned at me.

"You want to hear the rest or not?" I nodded. She spoke.

"The girl said Dante wasn't alone up there. She said he had another with him, and that companion was none other than Donovan O'Roark."

Around the room everyone nodded, muttering in agreement. "The villagers discussed what needed to be done, while young Laura begged them to destroy the monsters. Finally, they agreed. At just before dawn they marched to the castle armed with torches and oil, and they set the place alight."

When she said it, I thought she suppressed a shudder.

I remembered it all too well. The flames, the sickening realization that the woman Dante had loved had betrayed him in the worst possible way. His pained expression as he realized it, too. I knew that pain so well, because I'd felt it when my own family, and the girl I'd loved, had done the same to me.

"The vampires were forced to flee, and when they did, the sun was already coming up. And the castle has been owned by an O'Roark ever since." She stopped. I felt her hand on my arm.

"Mister O'Roark?" I opened my eyes, just realizing I had squeezed them shut.

"Are you all right?"

"It... it's a frightening tale. Gruesome."

"But just a tale, as I've been trying to tell these good people." I nodded.

"Go on, finish it. What became of the two victims?" She tilted her head.

"Victims?" Lowering her gaze, her voice softer, she said, "I never thought anyone else would see them that way. But you're right, 'tis exactly what they were." She met my eyes again, her voice more normal.

"At any rate, they ran off in separate directions, but smoke could be seen curling from their clothes as they went. The villagers believed they both died, burned to cinders by the sun." She shook her head, almost sadly.

"But not long after that, a crew of men arrived to begin working on the castle, and when they were questioned they would only say a man named O'Roark had hired them. The villagers believed it was Donovan, back from the dead a second time. They all said he'd return one day to seek vengeance on the people of Dunkinny for the murder of his friend."

She sighed deeply, and for a long moment no one spoke, still under the spell of her story. But Rachel broke the silence a moment later.

"I'm sure most of the locals are speculating as to whether you be him. Tell them your given name, O'Roark. Ease their superstitious minds."

I smiled very gently, and laid money on the table to pay for my unfinished beer. Then got to my feet and turned for the door.

"My given name," I said softly, "is Donovan." And then I stepped into the night, away from all of them and the dread on their faces.