Strigoi

by Tony-Paul de Vissage

  “Nonsense. He’s only twenty-four in True Years.” Karl-Josef’s words were defensive. “Age doesn’t mean much unless centuries are involved.”

  “Don’t be insulted, sir.” Marek remembered both Karl-Josef and his own father had been past their third century mark before marrying. “Just see my reaction as that of a brother dismayed he’s been shown his little sister’s no longer little. I want the best for her.”

  Nodding, the Graf said, “Be assured, if she and Joachim make a match, she’ll be getting the very best.”

  There wasn’t a bit of conceit in the words. Karl-Josef truly believed his son was the most suitable person in the world to marry Ruxanda.

  Laughter made them look again at the youngsters. Taking several bows, Joachim tied them together, making a crown. He offered it to Ruxanda who placed it on her head while the others laughed.

  “As I said, sir…” Marek made his voice mild as he smiled at their foolishness. “…allow Ruxanda the luxury of being an eligible and sought-after young woman before we make her a bride.”

  “I think it’s time we ladies left you gentlemen to your coffee and tobacco.”

  With a hand on Ruxanda’s shoulder, Margarette guided the girl from the room while the other mothers did the same, shooing their daughters before them. At the door, she paused, giving Karl-Josef a meaningful glance and a slight smile, then pulled it shut after her.

  “Oh, gods,” the Graf whispered, staring at the closed door. There was such longing in his voice Marek was startled. “My boy, I do hope you appreciate my wanting to accompany you.”

  He took a black lacquer humidor from Werner, offering its contents to his guests.

  * * *

  In the solitude of his rooms, Marek paced, waiting for all sound in the household to cease so he and the Graf could be on their way.

  I have to tell Xandi tonight. There was no way he could delay any longer.

  She was a reasonable child, always had been, and she’d do as he wished if the Graf’s son didn’t make things difficult. He didn’t dare let the boy court Ruxanda. There was a good chance no one would ever find out about her, but Marek didn’t want to risk it. If he were stupid enough to allow young von Blitzensturm to marry her, and her real identity were discovered, his father being Sectiuna wouldn’t protect Joachim. As for what would happen to Ruxanda...

  The faces of all to whom he’d given the Prince’s justice flooded his mind.

  Tonight. As soon as we return home. I’ll tell her then.

  He’d changed from evening clothes into ones more serviceable for roaming the streets at night, and now dropped into his chair, staring into the fire. From downstairs came a shuffling and a sudden clatter.

  Will they never get to bed?

  Around his neck, János’ locket gleamed, reflecting firelight off its soft golden finish. Marek touched it, fingers stroking the roughly-chased edges of the leaves decorating its surface.

  What did she look like? The woman my father loved. And her baby?

  He knew the story of the child who died. Anastacza had flung it at János one night in Marek’s presence. His father turned on her so violently it startled Marek. It was the only time he’d ever seen his mother looked frightened.

  Aventurieri males always bred true in their sons, but would a half-human child have been blond like János?

  Was that why Anastacza hated me so?

  Did her husband’s mistress bear a blond infant while she, by some quirk of Fate, gave birth to a black-haired son? That made him think of Stjpan Trecator’s…Mircea Ravagiu’s… daughter. How safe would an infant be in such a household? Even if the child were his own flesh and blood?

  There was a light tap at the door. In a moment he was on his feet, shrugging into his coat and opening the door. His blond hair slightly mussed, Karl-Josef stood there, looking very harried and panting heavily. He was tying his neckcloth with trembling fingers.

  “Sorry I took so long.”

  Marek was startled to see a flush in his uncle’s pale cheeks.

  “I explained to Gretta. She took it badly. Refused to let me leave before we’d... I had to show her my affection. Couldn’t rush such a thing.”

  He sighed and stepped back to allow Marek into the hallway.

  “Uncle, stay.” Conscience struck him. “Go back to the Gräfin.”

  “Don’t tempt me, but I’m here and dressed, so…” Karl-Josef caught his arm. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 39

  The hospital was dark and utilitarian, stark and ugly among the graceful architecture surrounding it. Fashioned from granite and mortar, it exuded coldness and a sense that whoever went inside on a stretcher might come out in a hastily-assembled wooden box.

  “There it is.” Karl-Josef waved a hand. “The trauma ward’s on the top floor.”

  Looking up, Marek suppressed a shudder. “Please the Oracle, none of mine ever need to go in there.”

  “A wise prayer.” Karl-Josef nodded. “Never put faith in a human’s doctor, lad. Let none but your own medical thralls treat you. Dieter?” Looking over his shoulder at the coachman, the Graf ordered, “Secret yourself in a side street and wait.”

  Touching the brim of his hat, the driver slapped the reins over the horses’ backs as Marek and Karl-Josef hurried to an unlit door on the alley-side of the building. It led to an enclosed stairway opening to each floor. They simply had to climb until they reached the top. When they appeared inside the trauma ward, such a foul-smelling wave swept toward them Marek clapped a hand over his nose and mouth.

  “Merciful gods, what’s that stench?”

  “That, my boy, is the smell of human sickness.”

  It was barely light enough for them to see the rows upon rows of beds, two dozen in all, each filled with a bandage-swathed body. Though there was a full moon, the windows, smudged and dust-frosted as opaque as milkglass, let in little light. The only actual illumination was the feeble glow from lamps held by three attendants moving among the beds. As they watched, one of them set down his lamp, pulled up a thin sheet and draped it over the face of a bed’s occupant.

  “Another soul for their heaven,” Karl-Josef murmured.

  “Gods, this place is filthy.” Marek looked around in disbelief. “The floor’s covered with dust, and I hesitate to guess what those stains are.”

  He gestured at a row of chamber pots standing under a window, brimming with urine and dissolving clots of defecation, the overpowering smell of ammonia wafting toward them. Nearby lay a large pile of used bandaging, stiff with dried pus and blood.

  “Don’t these people know sick rooms should be kept clean?”

  The Graf shrugged. “You should know by now humans have varying opinions concerning personal hygiene.”

  Dropping his hand to his side, Marek took a step forward. The movement jarred the bandages, causing the stack to shift. They toppled over, striking his boot. Recoiling, he kicked the stained strips away.

  “Which is the one we want?”

  One of the attendants, a burly fellow wearing a dirty apron over his clothes, saw them and walked over. “May I help you, herren? Visiting hours are long past.”

  “We’ve been sent by the police.” Marek stepped forward. “Herr Schell thought perhaps I might identify the victim who was pulled out of the river.”

  The man’s expression became so stern, he felt a pang in his heart.

  “He is still alive, isn’t he?”

  “Barely.” He gestured into the room. “Come this way.” He led them to one side of the room, stopping at a cot in the far right corner. “Look all you want. He isn’t going anywhere, except to the morgue.”

  The man turned and walked away.

  “His concern for a fellow human is overwhelming,” Marek muttered.

  He looked down at the man on the cot.

  His eyes were closed, face gray as the sheet on which he lay. The servant was dressed in a thin nightshirt looking as if it had been through many washings without soap, its original c
olor faded dirty yellow. His face was covered with bruises black and thick with blood, as were the arms resting upon the sheet. He’d put up quit a fight not to die. Around his neck, several cloth strips had been wrapped and taped into place. They were spotted with blood.

  “Wake up.” Marek knelt by the bed. He kept his voice soft, calling to the man in a way that wouldn’t frighten him, while making certain the attendants didn’t hear. “Can you hear me?”

  The waxen eyelids flickered and opened. Eyes dulled with pain and opiates wavered, then saw Marek. He blinked, focused, and managed to look surprised.

  “You? Wh-what are you doing here?” His voice was dry and husky, and very weak.

  “I came to see how you are.” Marek doubted if the man would live many more hours.

  “That’s kind of you, Herr Graf.” He broke off, closing his eyes, shaking his head. “I was going to send you a message...”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  The man opened his eyes. They appeared a little clearer now.

  “H-he went to one of his clubs, sir...a proper one...came back agitated, told us to prepare to leave. I didn’t want to go, told him I’d had enough.” His voice broke, filling with tears. “Oh, sir, I was so stupid. I threatened him.”

  He closed his eyes, shoulders shaking, tears seeping from under his lashes. Marek’s fingers went to his brow, stroking gently.

  “Shh, don’t think about that… I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.” He didn’t want this man to die completely unknown.

  “Viktor, sir.” The man opened his eyes again, his expression calmer. “He sent the servants ahead in one of the coaches, his wife and daughter in the other, told them I was to stay behind and close up.” His words were shorter now, with breathless pauses between them. “I...refused...said I wouldn’t... He sprang at me... he looked...a...demon...from Hell... All fangs and claws. That’s all I remember, until I found myself being pulled to the banks of the river by someone, and later...a voice said, He’s still alive.”

  Viktor stopped, looking exhausted.

  “Where was he going, Viktor?”

  “P-Paris...” There was a long sigh. The weak voice rallied a moment. Viktor raised his head, tried to sit up. “You’ll make him pay, won’t you sir? Like you said?”

  “I promise.” Marek placed a hand on his chest. He could feel the failing herbet underf his fingers.

  “Thank…you, sir.” Viktor fell back onto the pillow. The words were whispered in a trail of exhaled breath as the servant shuddered slightly and lay still, eyes staring.

  “That poor bastard. He’s gone, Uncle Karl.” Marek got to his feet. Gently he pressed down the colorless lids, then pulled up the gray sheet and tucked it around Viktor’s head. “Let’s get out of here before the attendant comes back and starts asking questions. I imagine he’ll be telling Herr Schell about our visit, and we don’t have time to bother with that right now.”

  As they walked away, the attendant turned. He looked from them to the covered form, shook his head, and went back to the patient he was tending.

  Outside, they ran to the coach. Above them in the driver’s seat, Dieter smiled at his master and jumped down to open the door. Once inside, Karl-Josef settled himself and leaned back.

  “So, Ravagiu’s gone to Paris. Now what?”

  “Now I go after him.”

  “Tonight?”

  “It’s almost dawn. Tomorrow night. As soon as I awake.”

  “Dieter’ll drive you,” Karl-Josef decided, raising a hand to forestall Marek’s protests. “He’s taken me to Paris many times and knows where all the coach-stops are. I’ll compose a Letter of Introduction to the Sectiune of Paris. She’s an old friend. That may help.”

  Emotionally shaken by his uncle’s offer, Marek shook his head. Thought of all that had happened threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Nein. None of that,” Karl-Josef looked stern for a moment. “We’re all men here, and none for the weakness of tears. Revenge, Marek. Revenge for my friend’s death, the insult to your family’s honor and my own. That’s what you want.”

  The wound on Marek’s wrist began to burn.

  * * *

  Once more in the guest room at the Graf’s, Marek found himself unable to sleep. The thought that at last, after more than seventeen years, he was going to have his revenge upon his family’s killer kept him awake. Thinking of how the manservant had been savaged, he was filled with fury.

  How can the Domnitor allow creatures like Ravagiu to remain alive?

  He should slaughter them all, not wait until they committed innumerable atrocities before pronouncing an armate. Death at the first revelation of being a rapitor.

  Perhaps it would be the best thing if the one-eyed king does appear and destroy us all, rather than let beasts like Mircea Ravagiu and his brother exist.

  He could feel the sun rising, its rays striking the town house, but visions of his father and Anike, little Károly, and the others filled his mind...Ilona, little more than a child herself, tending Ruxanda...the vita, willing to exchange their blood for food and shelter, the brave gardi giving their lives to protect their ghidaj...and Lily-Magda, his beautiful crimson Lily, hidden forever in that dank vault beneath the castle and with her, his love.

  He couldn’t sleep while their images waited for his search and their vengeance to come to an end. At last, Marek slung back the covers and got up. Pulling on his dressing gown, he staggered to the fireplace, pouring himself a glass of wine.

  In a few days, it’ll be over. In a few days, I’ll kill Mircea Ravagiu with more mercy than he gave those of my castel. I’ll rub his blood on my wrist and heal this wound, and his wife and daughter will…

  Why had he thought of them? They didn’t enter into it. He’d kill Ravagiu, but not in front of his daughter. She wouldn’t see him die the way the twins witnessed Károly’s death. No one with a shred of mercy would make a child endure that.

  No, he’d spare the girl that horror. Tell Ravagiu’s wife and daughter it ended with his death. They’d be left in peace, and the girl…

  Why did he continue thinking of her? Why bother with her sensibilities at all? Were he as ruthless as his family’s murderer, he’d make certain she was a witness, but she was very young, still a child almost, as young as Ruxanda.

  I’ll tell Ravagiu’s wife I’ll spare them if they agree to let the feud die. She can take her husband’s fortune and live peacefully. If she refuses... I won’t think of that. If Mircea’s mistreated her as Viktor said, surely she’ll be grateful for her husband’s death.

  Tossing down the wine, he returned to the bed, but lay there many hours before sleep finally appeared.

  He still hadn’t spoken to Ruxanda.

  Chapter 40

  The following night Marek told the others what he and the Graf had learned, and that he was leaving for Paris. They wanted to go with him, of course.

  “Damn it, Marek. We’ve as much right to seek răzbunare as you,” Andrei spoke up, displaying his unhealed wrist.

  “True, but I’m still the leader of this family, unless you wish to challenge me. And I say you’ll stay here.”

  Taking a deep breath, Andrei bit back whatever else he’d been planning to say.

  “When I find him, I’ll send for you,” Marek promised. He stood behind a chair by the fire, leaning his elbows against the back as he looked at them. “If he appears to be gathering himself for another escape, I’ll not wait for your arrival.”

  He looked around at all of them, waiting for arguments. One by one, they nodded.

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “Something more?” Dan frowned.

  “It’s about Mircea’s daughter.”

  “What?” Vlad’s reaction was vicious. “Why worry about his brat?”

  “She and her mother won’t be touched by this. Our vengeance ends with Ravagiu’s blood.”

  “Why?” Andrei was on his feet, face crimson with anger. “Why give them quarter? Did Ravagiu s
how any to our family?”

  “We can’t allow ourselves to sink to his level.” Marek’s voice rose before he caught himself. “I know I showed no mercy when I was Taietor, but I had no choice. We do, and I say we won’t become like the monster we’re killing. Mircea Ravagiu dies, and it’s over.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Dan agreed in a matter-of-fact tone. “If we find ourselves incapable of showing mercy, we’re no better than renegades ourselves.”

  “Very well,” Andrei said. “The Widow Ravagiu and her child won’t be harmed by us.”

  Vlad nodded his agreement.

  “Then it’s settled. I have to pack. I’ll give you my final instructions before I leave.” He walked out, leaving them sitting in disgruntled silence.

  As soon as the study door swung shut, Andrei was on his feet, heading for the sideboard and pouring stiff drinks for all of them.

  * * *

  “Marek, you and I need to talk.”

  “Not now, Dan.” Intent on packing his valise, Marek didn’t look up.

  “Yes, now.” Dan put a hand over his, preventing him from stuffing a garment into the bag.

  “We’ll talk before I go. I’ve much to do and a short time to do it.”

  “You need to speak to Ruxanda. You need to tell her who she is.”

  “I’ve tried, believe me. Every time something intrudes. I’ll do it when I get back.” He pulled away from his cousin’s detaining hand, reaching for the next item.

  “Suppose you don’t come back?” Dan went on.

  The sudden anguish in his cousin’s voice made Marek look at him.

  “Have you thought of that?”

  “Damn it, I haven’t.” Marek gave his cousin a rueful smile. “Thanks for reminding me of my mortality. Very well. I’ll make time to tell her.”

  Flinging open the door, he walked out and down the stairs, Dan trailing behind.

  * * *

  “Are we clear on everything? Are there any questions?”