Strigoi

by Tony-Paul de Vissage

  “Yes, Mamma.” Dutifully, she gathered book, paper, and quill, and hurried through the doorway.

  “Would you close the door, please?”

  Nodding, she did as she was bidden, giving Mircea a worried backward glance. Elsabeta waited until she could no longer hear Diana’s footsteps.

  She whirled to face Mircea. “What were you doing to that child?”

  “I wasn’t doing anything to her.”

  He gave her a sardonic look, calmly giving his attention to retying his cravat. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her of this revelation. She’d probably laugh. Mircea Ravagiu…touched by the gods? Would they dare?

  “It was what she was doing to me.”

  Once the neckcloth was tied to his satisfaction, he closed his eyes, sighing loudly, knowing that would dig into her and cause her concern.

  “Believe me, it was totally satisfying.” Satisfying? Hell, it was as close as he’d ever come to being frightened.

  “How could you?”

  “You can ask that? Very easily, my dear. She’s Strigoi. That says it all.”

  “You’re truly depraved.”

  “You’re just discovering this?”

  Ironic that where Diana was concerned, the words he spoke to Elsabeta were lies. He’d never do anything untoward to the girl. That is,… he amended the thought: He’d never do anything untoward to his daughter. He had just been reminded in no uncertain terms that Diana wasn’t his daughter.

  “Come, don’t pretend to be shocked. Not after all this time.”

  “She’s your daughter.”

  “Is she?”

  “You raised her.”

  “Has it been so long ago you’ve forgotten why, my incredibly stupid wife?” His fingers caressed his throat where Diana’s mouth had touched as he closed his eyes in remembrance. Tongue sliding across his lower lip, Mircea gave a soft, sensual sigh. He liked the way Elsabeta stiffened in response. It felt good to see her so disturbed. “Did it escape your mind I’m raising Marek Strigoi’s sister to be part of my revenge? Because if it didn’t, I can’t believe you’re that dense.”

  “Stay away from her, Mircea. If you don’t, I’ll…”

  “Do what? Lock her in her room? As if that would keep me out.” He rose from the chair, towering over her. Elsabeta took a step backward. “Will you offer me your body in exchange? I don’t want you any more. As you might’ve realized since I haven’t been to your bed in over a year.”

  He spat that at her so contemptuously Elsabeta trembled.

  “You bore me, woman, and you’re becoming an irritation. If you continue opposing me where Diana’s concerned, you may find yourself watching the sun come up. From outside!”

  Shouting those last words, he started to the door.

  Elsabeta caught his arm, attempting to stop him. “Whatever you’re planning, I won’t let you—”

  “Get out of my sight.”

  She didn’t have time to dodge as his hand shot out, knocking her to the floor.

  Pusing herself upright, Elsabeta touched her mouth, staring at the blood on her fingers.

  In his present emotional state, the sight aroused him.

  With a snarl, Mircea seized her by the shoulders, pressing his mouth to hers, licking the blood off her lips. Pushing Elsabeta against the wall, he trapped her with his body, one hand pulling up her skirt while the other opened the front panel of his trousers. He was more than ready, driving into her so quickly she had no time to cry out.

  Three vicious thrusts and it was over.

  Releasing her, he let her fall to the floor as he stalked out, calmly adjusting his clothing.

  She’s getting in the way. I may not wait much longer to rid myself of this whimpering bitch. I think it’s time my wife had a fatal illness.

  Chapter 33

  The coach pulled up outside the little coffeehouse where Hans-Claud usually met his friends. As the footman leaped down and opened the door, Marek got out and stood studying the building. Unlike Kaltenbach’s, the place was genteely shabby. No picture window with gold etching, but simply a wooden placard on rusty hinges swinging above the entrance.

  As he pushed open the door and went inside, he saw most of the customers were students, artists, or others having little money and using the place to simply socialize. There was a soft buzz of voices in the air, rising and falling with the emotion only the young have for various causes, worthy or not.

  Once again clothed in the threadbare suit he’d worn at the Inferno, Hans-Claud sat at a corner table with two friends, both as poorly-dressed as he, other toss-boys, probably. Marek walked toward them, stopping behind the boy.

  All conversation ceased as the others noticed him.

  “I think we need to—” Hans-Claud stopped as he realized his companions were staring at someone behind him. He turned and looked up, jumping to his feet. “My lord. What are you doing here?”

  Marek took a deep breath. “Come with me. I’ll do it.”

  At the edge of his vision, he had the impression of eyes widening and mouths dropping open before creasing into knowing smiles. Seizing the boy by the arm, he dragged him away from the table and to the door.

  “Wait.” Hans-Claud pulled away. “My hat and coat.” He snagged them off the tree as Marek opened the door and pushed him through.

  “Please. Be gentle with him, sir.” The call was accompanied by a loud snicker.

  Marek didn’t turn around or acknowledge the words, but hurried Hans-Claud to the waiting coach.

  Inside, the boy settled against the seat smiling. Marek gave him a baleful stare.

  “When we get home, I’ll tell you what it involves, and if you want to go through with it, we will.”

  He didn’t say another word until they were back home and in his bedchamber.

  * * *

  “Well? That’s it. Do you still wish to become my thrall, Hansel?”

  Hoping to intimidate him, he’d made the boy sit so he could tower over him while he lit only one lamp, filling the room with sinister shadows, Marek’s own cast grotesquely upon the wall like a hovering raptor.

  Hans-Claud didn’t notice any of it. He simply looked up at Marek, listening attentively.

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “First, I think I should explain my hesitation was brought on by the fact that being a Strigoi thrall’s very dangerous,” Marek went on, stifling the desire to seize the boy by his lapels and shake that calm out of him. “Also because of your extreme youth. I felt you might not thoroughly understand the consequences.”

  “You’ve explained it well, sir, and I do, I assure you.”

  “Very well.” Marek stepped back a few paces. Now that Hans-Claud had made his decision, he wanted to get it over with. “Stand up. Let’s get it done, then.”

  The boy obeyed, taking off his coat as and placing it on the chair.

  “Open your cuff.”

  “You aren’t going to take it from my throat?” He looked disappointed when Marek shook his head. “May I ask why not, sir? I know you said it could be taken from any place, but I’d think the throat would be the easiest, with that very large vein.”

  “I prefer the wrist.” Marek’s temper flared. He didn’t want to do this, knowing he’d been manipulated by this half-pint toss boy.

  Damn it, I’m not this human’s keeper.

  “Taking blood from the throat’s too intimate. Give me your hand.”

  The boy obeyed. Marek clasp it gently, thinking how small and childlike it looked within his own.

  “Do you fear intimacy, sir?”

  “What does that mean? I’ve no fear of intimacy, with the right sex. I’ve loved women.”

  “No, sir,” Hans-Claud corrected. “You’ve had sexual congress with whores. That’s not love, and it isn’t being intimate. Intimacy’s tenderness and concern for another. I know, I’ve experienced it once or twice, and I wonder why you avoid it so.”

  “If you wish to become my thrall, you’ll cease that line of t
hought right now.” Marek didn’t look at him, tightening his grip on Hans-Claud’s wrist.

  The boy fell silent. Marek brushed his fingers across Hans-Claud’s eyes, pressing slightly to make the boy close them.

  “Sleep.” He whispered the words he’d read in János’ book that long ago day in his father’s library, the same ones he murmured with a slight variation into the ear of the child who became his darling little sister.

  Hans-Claud didn’t move, other than wavering slightly as if unconscious on his feet. Steadying the boy with a hand to his shoulder, Marek turned his wrist over.

  It was done as quickly as he could make it.

  Fangs dropping, he bit into Hans-Claud’s wrist, drew in the blood in quick inhalations. Not the scant mouthful as he had from Ruxanda, but four full ones as the instructions ordered. Swallowing and noting it held none of the drug-taint he expected, he raised his head. Once more brushing his hand across the boy’s eyes, he told him to wake.

  Hans-Claud blinked and opened his eyes, looking bewildered. The boy took a deep breath, cringing andthen trying to hide the movement as he saw the pointed canines curving below his master’s lip. Glancing at his wrist and seeing the open veins and the bloody bubbling, he went white.

  “Oh, sir!”

  Damn, he hadn’t thought how the boy might be affected by seeing his own blood flowing. Marek dragged his tongue across the little wounds, holding the wrist up so Hans-Claud could watch them heal.

  “Now then.” Marek untied his cuff, leaving the ruffled edges open. He raised his hand, dragging his fangs across his wrist. As the blood welled thickly to the surface, he held it out to the boy, forcing the impatience out of his voice. “Go ahead, Hansel.”

  Surprisingly, Hans-Claud didn’t hesitate. He took his hand and pressed his mouth to the wound, recoiling as the heat of Marek’s blood touched his tongue. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a mouthful, swallowed loudly, and repeated the movement again, then a third and fourth time.

  “That’s enough.” Marek touched a hand to his shoulder. He was startled to feel his tone and attitude change. With the completing of the ceremony, he felt differently toward the boy, almost—oh gods—paternal.

  It was only right. Now, he was Hans-Claud’s creator. He was his father.

  Pulling his hand from the boy’s, he licked away the blood and closed his cuff. Hans-Claud wiped a hand across his mouth, then glanced at his fingers. There was nothing on them and he looked surprised.

  There was a discreet knock at the door, as if whoever was on the other side didn’t want the household to hear. At Marek’s call, Sabine opened the door and peered around it.

  “Sabine, good timing.” Marek and turned to Hans-Claud. “Dr. Lavelle’ll see you to your room, Hansel, and sit with you tonight. In about a half-hour, you’ll experience some pain as my blood combines with yours. The doctor’ll make certain you don’t suffer too much.”

  “Come, Hansel.” Sabine put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push toward the door.

  The boy went with him, looking slightly dazed, holding his wrist protectively, though it no longer bled, didn’t even have a scar.

  Marek watched him go, and was startled at the sudden elation filling him.

  I have a blood-thrall. A creature I myself created, one with loyalty to me alone.

  Each ghidaj was expected to produce his own thralls. With Hans-Claud, he’d begun that duty to his House.

  Later, however, as he prepared for bed, Hans-Claud’s words came back to him.

  Do you fear intimacy?

  He wasn’t about to explain, would never bare his soul to a servant and reveal how he’d lost his capacity to love. I’ll never be intimate with anyone again. Getting physical pleasure during relief from the High Blood would be enough.

  * * *

  The next night, Marek tried once more to speak to Ruxanda in private.

  “I’d like to continue the conversation we were having last night.”

  “About the play?” She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “I didn’t like it. Would someone really do that to one he loved? Could a person allow himself to be fooled so?”

  “I didn’t want to talk about the play. It was what I was about to say when I was interrupted, something important.” He caught her hand. “Come into the study and sit down.”

  “Master Marek?” Sandor stood in the doorway.

  “Not now, Sandor.”

  “But, sir, this message was just delivered for you. He said it was important.” There was a small white envelope resting on the card tray Sandor held. Marek took the envelope and opened it.

  I have answers to your questions. Come to The Cat o’ Nine Tails at nine o’clock tonight.

  Request Room Seven.

  “Who brought this?”

  “No one I knew, sir. A scar-faced fellow, but otherwise nondescript.”

  Stuffing the letter into his pocket, Marek glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was now eight-thirty.

  “Get my coat and call for the carriage.” He started out the door. “Ruxanda, I’m sorry. Our talk’ll have to be delayed.”

  “Why? What did the note say?”

  He thrust his arms into the sleeves of the coat Sandor held, removing the eyepatch from the pocket and tying it around his head. She caught his arm.

  “It’s about Ravagiu, isn’t it?” She hugged him tightly. “Be careful.”

  Nodding, Marek went out the door.

  Chapter 34

  From the moment he stepped inside The Cat o’ Nine Tails, all Marek could hope was that his brothers had never been there. As young as they were, he was certain they were probably more knowledgeable than he concerning the wilder side of life but The Cat was for those whose excesses might earn them permanent lodging in a madhouse were they to become public knowledge. Truly, he’d never realized such practices existed, and on those few occasions he’d ventured there, it had taken all his control not to become physically ill because of some of the sights he’d seen.

  Now however, he walked in brashly, demanded Room Seven, and felt a sudden pang as the doorman gave him a shocked look. He was escorted there with great speed. Once inside, he saw nothing to cause such an expression.

  At first.

  Pushing up the eye patch, he discovered, as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, a great cross suspended upon the wall. His first thought was to shield himself from the holy relic, but after a closer look, he realized it wasn’t a religious symbol at all.

  The object was turned so it resembled a gigantic X, manacles and chains at the end of each crossbar. On the walls around it were whips of varying lengths and designs, and other metal objects of assorted shapes and degrees of sharpness, as well as leather masks and chestplates.

  Holy Oracle, this place is a torture chamber.

  The door opened and Marek whirled, hand going to his sword. Men always came armed to The Cat. He’d learned that on his first visit.

  A small man came in. He was well-dressed though not ostentatiously. The only thing remarkable about him was a V-shaped scar on his left cheek. Marek hurriedly replaced the eye patch.

  “You sent that message?”

  There was a nod.

  “What answers do you have?” As much as he wanted to know, he was impatient to get back to Ruxanda, his wish to discover Ravagiu fighting that thought inside his head.

  “I think my master’s the one you seek.” The man didn’t raise his voice above a whisper, as if afraid the walls might be listening.

  “Why?”

  “He’s like you.”

  “I think you’d better clarify that.”

  “You know what I mean.” There was a whine in the man’s voice. He looked around furtively. “Do I have to say it?”

  Marek didn’t answer.

  “All right. He’s a vampire.”

  “I’m sorry.” Marek managed not to react. “I don’t understand. A vampire?” He affected an angry expression, making his voice affronted. “If I’ve
been called here for some type of practical joke, I assure you I don’t appreciate such.”

  He pushed past the man, reaching for the door handle.

  “Wait.” A hand came down on his wrist. “Perhaps I’m mistaken about that, but I know he’s the one you want.”

  “Go on.” Marek released the handle.

  “First, tell me what you’ll do if he is.”

  “I intend to kill him.”

  “Good.” There was a long, relieved sigh. “I won’t ask why. He deserves it.”

  “Then tell me what I came to hear. Who’s your master?”

  “His name’s Stjpan Trecator.”

  Marek was certain he staggered. For a moment he could only stare at the man.

  Can it be? Trecator appeared well-known in Vienna. Even Herr Schell had met him. But he was blond.

  Fool! Didn’t we all agree he might be in disguise?

  In spite of that, he’d continued thinking of the renegade as he looked the last time he saw him. Tall, blue-eyed, dark-haired.

  Eyes of the Oracle. Am I at last to find my enemy?

  “Why do you think he’s the one I seek?” He had to make sure before he went any further. An attack on the wrong man would be disastrous.

  “I’ve never seen anyone so cruel. To the world at large, he’s a model citizen, a good father and husband, but behind the doors of his town house he beats his wife.”

  “Men often do that.” Mark tried to sound matter-of-fact. “That doesn’t make them deserve death.”

  “He hurts the servants. Brutalizes the women and the men. I’ve seen marks on their throats. He bleeds them.” There was a convulsive swallow. “He patronizes the worst den in this town.”

  The man spoke quickly, words coming in disjointed sentences as if he couldn’t say them fast enough.

  “Only a few members…prices astronomical…go there and you can do anything... beat a girl to death and fuck her as she dies...force a poker up a young boy’s ass until it punctures his guts, then bathe in his shit. Sir, I don’t even want to speak of the rest of it.”

  “Where’s this place?” He had to see Trecator, make certain.

  “It’s called the Schwarzengarten.” The man gave the address. “If you go there, take several weapons with you and a great deal of money. It costs a small fortune to get through the door if you’re allowed inside.”