Strigoi

by Tony-Paul de Vissage

  “I’ve been told that all my life, but I’ve never really understood why they think us Dangerous. In the valley we’ve lived in peace with humans forever, except…”

  “Yes, except. There’ve been attacks on aventurieri by humans, haven’t there? Bogdan’s parents, for instance. As with most things not understood, an entire history of lies and misinformation has grown up about us. They call us vampires.” Karl-Josef spat the word. “They’ve twisted our differences into something terrible, calling us devil’s get. Embued us with ridiculous magical powers, believing our refusal to gaze upon their sacred relics means we fear them.”

  He raised his cup, swallowing what was left in it, then gestured for the waiter to bring another.

  “Perhaps that’s the significant thing,” Marek said. “From what my father told me, religion’s a very important part of deomi life. Certainly, the only humans who’ve caused us any trouble of late have been the priests.”

  “Those damned priests!” Karl-Josef looked furious. “They preach vampires are soulless humans turned into creatures who walk the night because they’ve committed unforgivable sins.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “The writers haven’t helped, either. Novels about vampires are very good sellers. Apparently everyone wants to read about them, but no one wants to meet one.”

  “Surely if some of us explained to them how we treat those humans who serve us. That we provide for them and don’t abuse them, and they give their blood to us freely…”

  “Oh, we tried. A committee was gotten together. They were killed. Staked! That’s the way they think we must be killed, with a wooden stake. Or doused with holy water.”

  Marek had a sudden thought. “The humans who attacked Dan’s parents flung liquid on him. It scarred his arm terribly. Could it have been holy water?”

  “I doubt it. There must have been acid or something in it. Holy water’s harmless. I’ve put my hands in it. Once I went into a church and drank some. Didn’t even get a bellyache.”

  “Is there nothing that can be done?” Marek was distressed.

  Have I brought my family to a place where they’ll be in more peril from its citizens than any threat the Domnitor or Ravagiu offer?

  Looking around the little room he couldn’t believe these men, sitting so peacefully drinking coffee, reading their newspapers or carrying on their discussions, could be as stupid or dangerous as Karl-Josef said.

  “Don’t worry, lad. Though we have to carry on a masquerade, it isn’t so bad. There are many advantages. The servants, for one thing. Quite a few of them become very loyal, even see our odd habits as acceptable if good salaries are involved. I’ve acquired many faithful thralls over the years.” Karl-Josef sighed. “Don’t let it upset you. I’ve lived here for centuries under one guise or another, and never been discovered or harmed. The reason I’m telling you this is so you’ll be careful, that’s all.”

  “Karl. Herr Graf!”

  Karl-Josef looked around, expression changing as he saw two men coming toward them. He stood up.

  Marek got to his feet, also.

  “Wilhelm, how are you?”

  “Karl, it’s good to see you.” The taller man, attired as grandly and to Marek’s eyes in as ostentatious a fashion as the Graf, turned to his companion. “Oskar, this is my good friend, the Graf von Blitzensturm. Karl, this is Oskar Schell, Vienna’s Polizei Hauptsachlich.”

  “Herr Graf.” The shorter man, dressed plainly and a little shabbily, removed his hat and bowed.

  Karl-Josef returned the courtesy. “It’s an honor to meet our chief of police face-to-face.”

  Is that for my benefit? A warning? Might this man be a threat? Marek envied the way his uncle didn’t show by the least gesture that he could have the same thought.

  “Oskar and I are celebrating,” Wilhelm explained. “His wife presented him with a new daughter tonight, and since Herr Schell’s a teetotaler I brought him here. To celebrate with hot coffee.”

  Karl-Josef indicated Marek. “My foster son, Marek Strigoi. He’s just arrived in Vienna and is staying with me at my town house.”

  “Your foster son?” Herr Schell looked interested.

  “A courtesy title only.” Karl-Josef smiled. “Marek’s father asked me to care for his son should anything happen to him before the boy reached his majority.”

  “Like a godfather?” Herr Schell suggested. Karl-Josef nodded.

  “I’m long past that point,” Marek felt prompted to explain, “but Uncle Karl has graciously opened his home to me.”

  “You plan to stay in Vienna long, Herr Strigoi?” Herr Schell’s German accent mangled Marek’s surname a little.

  “An indefinite stay.” Marek thought of Ravagiu. “Until my business takes me elsewhere.”

  “I’m forgetting my manners.” The Graf gestured at the two empty chairs. “Won’t you sit with us?”

  “Gladly.”

  Wilhelm called to the waiter, ordering fresh cups of coffee for all. When it was brought, they sat and drank and chatted aimlessly about inconsequential matters, then drank more coffee while the Graf gave Marek a lesson in how to be friendly and at the same time completely on guard.

  Presently the subject of Marek’s homeland came up. After a glance at Karl-Josef and a slight nod from him, Marek answered.

  “I’m from Carpathius, one of the sections of Transylvania.” He shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair. His trousers seemed to have become too tight.

  Damn, shouldn’t have had that fourth cup of coffee.

  “Transylvania?” The police chief frowned. “Where in the world’s that?”

  “Somewhere in the world, Oskar,” Wilhelm answered. “It’s in Romania, and the only reason I know is because Karl-Josef once mentioned it to me. When you went there shortly after this young man was born, wasn’t it?”

  He fixed Marek with a stare so intense it diverted him from his preoccupation with the constriction of his trousers. Meeting Wilhelm’s gaze, Marek understood. Wilhelm was also aventurieri, but the police chief definitely wasn’t…and was equally ignorant of his companion’s origins.

  “I’m afraid I was a little too young to remember that visit.” Marek smiled, as he slid one hand under his waistcoat and tried to loosen his belt. Perhaps if the waistline fell a little, he wouldn’t be so uncomfortable. “I plan to make up for it by having a long stay with my uncle before my family and I settle in a new home.”

  He stopped as he realized Oskar was also looking at him. Before he could say anything more, the chief smiled, shaking a finger in his direction.

  “Transylvania. Of course…there’s another of your countrymen here. StjpanTrecator.”

  Remembering Karl-Josef mentioning such a person in the reply he sent during the search for Ravagiu, Marek nodded. “So I’ve heard.”

  “A very pleasant fellow,” Oskar went on. “I’ve met him here several times. Quiet, blond chap. Intelligent, plays a good game of chess. Has a lovely wife and a beautiful little daughter. Must have holdings elsewhere. Comes and goes.”

  “I hope to meet him sometime,” Marek replied. “It’d be pleasant to have someone from my own country to talk to occasionally.” He ignored the stab of homesickness and told himself he should expect that to happen for some time to come.

  “Don’t worry, my boy,” Karl-Josef put in. “I’m certain you will. At one of my parties, I don’t doubt.”

  “The Graf’s noted for his little gatherings,” Wilhelm said, with a sideways glance at Marek that might almost be interpreted as a leer. It went unnoticed by Chief Schell.

  In a short time, much to Marek’s relief, conversation wound down and the two men left.

  “Thank the Oracle,” Marek breathed, as they disappeared through the exit leading to the street. “Gods, uncle, you were right about coffee. I need to go some place where I can take these trousers off.”

  “That’s exactly where I’m going to take you,” Karl-Josef replied. “A place where you and that cockstand you’re sporting won’t e
ven be noticed.”

  Sliding farther under the table, Marek asked, “I take it we aren’t going home?”

  “Not yet.” His uncle got his cape and hat from the hooks by the door.

  “Where, then?” Marek asked, perhaps a little eagerly. Moving quickly, so the extent of his erection wouldn’t be noticed, he slung his cape over his shoulders and followed Karl-Josef out the door.

  The rush of cool air was refreshing and a relief after the warmth of the coffeehouse. Marek hadn’t realized how close it had been in the little shop until that moment. He took a long, deep breath.

  “We’re going to a gentlemen’s club,” the Graf answered, as soon as they were outside.

  “A gentlemen’s club,” Marek repeated. “Sounds staid enough. What does that involve?”

  “The Decebral may be the Motherland for all of us, but it’s become too isolated from the outside world, and you’re a prime example,” Karl-Josef explained. “In spite of all that’s happened to you, you’re an innocent, naïve in the ways of the deomi world. Or perhaps it’s that we, on the Outside, are too corrupted and world-weary.”

  He smiled and placed a hand on Marek’s shoulder, guiding him down the street.

  “Whichever it is, as a reformed rake, I plan to divest you of some of that innocence tonight. We’ll start with the Inferno Club.”

  “Inferno,” Marek repeated. “I hate to say it, sir, but that definitely smacks of sin.”

  He had to admkit he was curious about a place with such a forbidding name. Inferno...the title of the aventurieri Hell...where the Oracle judged the living and the dead.

  “Oh, it is. Most definitely. It’s called a gentlemen’s club, but those who go there desport themselves as anything but gentlemen. The Inferno’s a place where men escape their wives and their responsibilities, do what they want, when they want, and with whomever they want.”

  “Sir,” Marek interrupted, only half-seriously. “You make it sound as if you’re going to seduce me.”

  “In a way, I am.” Karl-Josef’s look was somber. “Not much. I don’t want to turn you into a total libertine. If that happens, certain doors will be closed to you, and you may some day need the help of the people behind those doors.”

  Dropping his hand from Marek’s shoulder he signaled for the coachman.

  As the Graf hurried to the coach, he went on, “If you’re going to live among us, you need to know more about my world, Marek, and the humans who inhabit it, and that den of depravity’s the place to begin.”

  Chapter 29

  The coach stopped at a side street, waiting for the Graf and Marek to disembark before driving away. As it disappeared beyond the glow of the streetlamps, Karl-Josef spoke.

  “Don’t worry. Dieter knows the routine here. He’ll be back when we need him.”

  He walked into the shadows of the side street, leaving Marek running to catch up. When he stopped again, it was in front of a nondescript house nestled alone among the shrubberies behind the stores and buildings of the main street.

  It was white-painted brick, a wrought-iron railing adorning each side of the six steps leading to the gleaming mahogany door. There were three stories, fifteen front windows all agleam with the soft glow of candles and lamps. The faint sound of voices blending with music could be heard behind the closed windows.

  Ascending the steps, the Graf rapped on the door with his cane, ignoring the brass doorknocker in the shape of a woman’s beringed hand affixed to its center.

  The door opened. A tall blackamoor, his rich livery rivaling Karl-Josef’s own clothes, smiled at Marek, then broke into a broad grin as he glanced past him to the Graf.

  “Herr Graf. So good to see you after so long. Please, come in.” He stepped back so they could enter. “It’s been quite a while since you’ve graced us with your presence,” the black man went on, taking the Graf’s coat and hat as well as his gloves.

  He give Marek an appraising eye as he took his outer garments also, and winked.

  “Ah, you devil, sir. Gone back to your old ways, have you?”

  Marek flushed and began a protest as Karl-Josef laughed.

  “Hardly, Pompey. You know I’ve been a staid, old married man for years.”

  “Married, perhaps, sir,” Pompey replied, with a flash of perfect white teeth. “But staid…or old? Never. So…who’s this lovely youngster?”

  “This is my foster son, come to visit, and I’m determined to open his eyes a little.”

  “I think he needs more than his eyes opened, sir.” Pompey’s dark gaze rested on Marek’s crotch before flicking away. “I’m certain some of our ladies will be more than pleased to participate in his debut.” He gave Marek a sideways glance. “Some of our lads, too, if he’s so inclined.”

  “Right now, I think we’ll merely drift around,” Karl-Josef answered, before Marek could speak. “Be onlookers for a while, and let the boy decide what he wants.”

  Stepping from the entranceway into the foyer, he gestured for Marek to follow him.

  The foyer was dominated by a central spiral staircase divided at the top left and right to the second and third stories. To both sides of the main floor were drawing rooms, presently empty. Behind the staircase, separated by a beaded curtain, a long hall stretched like a tunnel through the length of the house, rooms down each side opening into it. The decor was heavy with gilt on walls, fireplaces, banisters, and even in the veins of the marble making up the foyer floor. Crimson velvet adorned the windows, heavily-fringed sashes holding back curtains allowing candlelight to shine into the street.

  It was lavish and grand to the point of garishness.

  Sweeping aside the beaded curtain, the Graf entered the hallway, leaving Marek dodging pearls and brilliants as it fell into place. A sound from an open door to his right made him turn that way. What he saw sent him freezing in shock.

  In the center of the room, a red-haired young man sprawled face-down on a rounded tabletop, fingertips clutching its edge, his knuckles white with the strain of his grip. He was coatless, shirt pushed up over his ribs, trousers around his knees, while a brute of a man nearly twice the boy’s size stood between his legs, thrusting viciously into bare white buttocks.

  Marek’s mouth dropped open.

  Another man stood next to the first, his hand on his shoulder. He held a pocket watch. Others gathered around the table shouting out numbers. It took a moment for Marek to realize they were counting, their words timed to the first man’s thrusts while the other man timed them.

  “Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine! Thirty!”

  A touch to his elbow told Marek the Graf had come back for him.

  “I see you’ve discovered that little game,” he said, quietly.

  “Gods,” Marek breathed. “What game?”

  “Delve Hans-Claud.” He gestured with his cane. “I imagine the one having the fun has bet his friend at his elbow that he can rut the boy…oh...85 strokes or so before he spills. The friend has probably bet he himself will do it in 100.” He tugged Marek’s arm. “Come.”

  “That bastard’s twice his size. He’ll be split in half.” Pulled along by the Graf’s hand, Marek continued staring into the room.

  The look on the young man’s face, grimaces appearing to be total pain, the gasps escaping from his body, made him want to rush in, seize the big bruiser and toss him through a window.

  “Don't worry about Hans-Claud. He’s the one who proposed the game. He’ll get 50 marks from each for trying, and a 100 more from the winner. Come on.”

  The incessant movement of the man’s hips was becoming faster and more frantic. He seized the boy’s thighs tightly, his face contorted, animal-like grunts issuing from his lips.

  Marek looked away, a violent queasiness coiling in his belly. As the boy’s gasps changed to moans of “Deeper, deeper,” he felt his stomach turn.

  “Take a slow breath.” Karl-Josef’s hand went to his shoulder, “Don’t let anyone see.” As Marek obeyed, he muttered, “Perhaps I’ve moved
a little too fast.” His fingers tightened. “You’ve never been to a brothel, have you?”

  There was sympathy in his voice.

  “No sir, I admit I haven’t.” Marek inhaled deeply a second time. “Does it matter?”

  “Might I ask why not?” The Graf was keeping his voice low, though no one paid them any attention. “You’re past an age…”

  “I’ve been busy raising my family and tending to the running of my castel.” Without intending, Marek became defensive. “I had no time, and no need, for such earthy frivolities. Until I met my Lily.”

  For the gods’ sake. Am I going to have to admit to him I had my first seige only two years ago? That’ll be like saying I'm still a virgin.

  “Oh, lad.” Karl-Josef shook his head. “This is something you should’ve experienced a score of years ago.”

  Hand still on Marek’s arm, he guided him down the hall. They hadn’t taken more than four steps, however, when someone came out of a door on their left. A woman…

  …totally naked except for a pair of black stockings tied with red garters and large red bows. She was extremely blond, hair cascading in ringlets over her shoulders and curling around full, pink-tipped breasts. The rest of her body, even the little mound at the meeting of her thighs, was shaven bare.

  She stopped in the doorway, one pale hand sliding up the frame to rest above her head, fingertips tapping the wood gently. In her other hand, she held a small bowl-shaped object with a thin, straw-like stem.

  “You’ve something to say, handsome?” She fixed Marek with a heavy-lidded blue gaze.

  “Ja.” Pulling away from Karl-Josef’s grasp, he took a step closer. “You’re beautiful.”

  “You’re a flatterer.” The hand holding the object tapped the stem against his cheek.

  Smoke spiraling out of it curled across his face, burning his nose. Marek coughed, swatting the smoke away.

  “Ah, Hilde, still smoking, I see.”

  “Of course, Herr Graf.” She held out the pipe. “Care for a puff?”

  “Danke.” Taking the pipe from her, the Graf placed the stem in his mouth, drew on it, and blew smoke into the air. He offered the pipe to Marek.