Hunting Prince Dracula By Kerri Maniscalco

Hunting Prince Dracula By Kerri Maniscalco

Prologue: Our train gnashed its way along frozen tracks toward the white-capped fangs of the Carpathian Mountains. From our position outside Bucharest, the capital of Romania, the peaks were the color of fading bruises. Judging from the heavy snow falling, they were likely as cold as dead flesh. Quite a charming thought for a blustery morning. A knee struck the side of the carved wooden panel in my private booth once again. I closed my eyes, praying that my traveling companion would fall back asleep. One more jitter of his long limbs might unravel my fraying composure. I pressed my head against the plush high-backed seat, focusing on the soft velvet instead of poking his offending leg with my hat pin. Sensing my growing annoyance, Mr. Thomas Cresswell shifted and began tapping his gloved fingers against the windowsill in our compartment. My compartment, actually. Thomas had his own quarters but insisted on spending every hour the day possessed in my company, lest a career murderer board the train and unleash carnage.