This novel is for John, without whom I would still be writing fantastical accounts of beasts, magick, and women allowed to smoke in public. This novel is for Friederich, who had access to a reputable publisher for male writers and, with the pomp of his cravat, saved my precious manuscript from becoming a worthless serial, installing it to proper jacketed status with a mostly self-explanatory title. To dear Roderick: you knew that vampiric fiction would…