The Vampire Marcello.

Please allow me to properly introduce myself. My full name is Marcellus Tiberius Montaldo, though only my father calls me Marcellus. To everyone else, I am simply Marcello-- or Lord Montaldo, to the peasants who lived in our village in the Aosta Valley. It was just a month shy of my twenty -first birthday when I was changed into a vampire by a woman whom I was struggling to seduce.

"Struggling to seduce!" (you exclaim in shock.) "Certainly not you Marcello! Why, there is not a woman alive who can resist your seductive charms!"

And you would be correct. At the time, very few living, breathing women could resist me once I'd set my mind to the chase. However, this was no ordinary woman. Allow me to set the scene; it was the spring of the year 1794, and we met one night, of all places, in the walled garden of a house in the French country side.

The house belonged to a family friend who was hosting an engagement party for his plain, although very sweet younger daughter. My oldest sister, Isadora, had bribed me into attending. So there I was: a strapping, robust young male full of life and eager to conquer any female who happened to glance my way. I am telling you, no woman was safe from me that night!

Allow me to describe myself more fully, and then we shall continue. I'm six feet tall, broad- shouldered, and muscular from an active life. Before the vampiric venom changed it, my skin was a rich olive.

My black hair is long and full of thick curls, and a silky mustache frames my wide, sensual mouth.

However, my most arresting features are my eyes which are the bright gray of polished silver. I can make them smolder with desire or snap with murderous rage. I inherited their unusual color--and my long black lashes-- from my mother, who was a French noblewoman.

I dress exceptionally well, although I am no dandy. I am also fluent in French as it is my mother's native tongue, though I am not much of a scholar. What I am is a trainer of my father's Cavaliers, a gambler and a lover-- and some might call me a scoundrel, in that exact order.

That night, I was wandering through the fragrant garden with my eye on a girl who was either a cousin or a best friend of the bride. I cannot remember which, and it scarce mattered; I was utterly determined to have her by the end of the night.

A sickle moon cast a pale light that bathed the garden path. Everything looked like a reflection in a slightly wavy pane of window glass-- or perhaps I had drunk too much punch, and my eyes were playing tricks on me.

The girl--a fairly attractive redhead dressed in a pretty yellow gown and satin slippers-- sent me a come -hither stare over her shoulder that fired my blood. She had boldly flirted with me all evening, only to act coy the moment I rose to the challenge.

Incidentally, it was her idea to lead me into the garden. It was a private, secluded spot. Several stone benches were placed here and there for the weary to rest upon, interspersed with marble statues of naked cherubs. Gilded cages holding songbirds hung from the low branches of the trees, filling the night with faint, captive music.

Their beautiful songs lent a touch of romance to the Eden- like scenery. I was stalking the girl along a relatively straight path when, from the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a gorgeous woman. She was seated on one of the stone benches furthest from the cherub. I stumbled to a complete halt, struck utterly dumb by her beauty. My eyes were irresistibly drawn to the low decolletage of her tight, ivory gown.

The red head called out impatiently, "Marcello, What are you doing?"

I barely heard her. My feet strayed from the path, drawing me irresistibly toward the vision of loveliness seated upon the bench. Her dark eyes tilted up to meet mine, and it seemed as if the torchlight glinted hungrily within them.

I cleared my throat and said in my most seductive voice, "Bonjour. I am Marcello Montaldo. May I be of service?"

Up went one of her perfectly arched brows. The corners of her cherry -red lips twitched as if she were greatly amused --and not very impressed by-- my display.

"I know who you are," she said with a hint of laughter. "Lord Marcello Montaldo. The notorious lover... or should I say, ravisher of many women?"

Her tone was mocking, and when she smiled, her teeth were strikingly white and sharp. Drawing myself up to my full height, I exclaimed in moral outrage, "Ma chérie, that is a filthy rumor spread by jealous, unattractive men!"

"I am not so sure if it is a rumor," she mused, looking at me side long. She possessed the most disconcerting eyes, which seemed to reflect the red glow of the torch light. I had never seen anything like it.

"Perhaps only part of it is a rumor," I conceded with a sheepish half- smile. "However, I am a changed man. Allow me to prove myself to you."