Strigoi
Page 34
Elsabeta. That was another chore he was going to tend to.
Soon.
The fool woman had become obsessed with keeping Diana from him. To do so, she also stayed away.That also meant he was never alone with the bitch long enough to dispatch her. As soon as they arrived at the château, she moved the girl into her own chamber. Diana would sleep with her, she said. Knowing there was no way he could get to her without the girl as a witness, he’d ordered Diana back to her own room.
She must never know he’d killed Elsabeta.
“Your mother’s becoming delicate in her mind, child, as this clearly shows.” Obedient as ever, Diana hurried to do as he said while he turned on Elsabeta viciously. “Do something like this again and you won’t live to see another night.”
Obvously Elsabeta believed he was going to forced himself on the girl, the fartherest thing from Mircea’s actual intent. Infuriated by the thought, his lust as well as his anger aroused, he flew into the countryside and attacked a lone traveler, ripping open the man’s throat, and drinking his blood. Afterward, he stripped away the rest of his clothing, smearing the blood on his body and dipping his cock in the rapidly-thickening liquid before flying into the shadows of the trees to spend himself against the trunk of a twisted oak. He then set the tree afire.
The entire episode was so satisfying he nearly forgave Elsabeta her defiance.
…but not quite.
Leaving his study, Mircea went up the grand staircase to the first story of the château and down the hallway to Diana’s bedchamber. Thoughts of her helping him wipe out the remainder of her family sent desire pulsing through him. He might have to scour the countryside for a victim tonight.
What he saw nailed around the frame of her bedchamber door made him stop.
Crosses. Dozens of them. Driven into the fine, polished wood by heavy nails.
“That bitch!”
Growling with anger, he seized one of the crosses, wrenching it from the frame and hurling it to the floor. One by one the others followed, splintering and bouncing down the hallway. When he held the last one in his hand, he stalked down the corridor to Elsabeta’s rooms. Flinging open the door, he stamped inside.
“I see you found them.” She didn’t cower as he expected, looking from the cross to the fury on his face.
“You stupid whore. Did you think these puny relics would keep me out? Because we aren’t supposed to look on the things doesn’t mean they’ve any power over us.”
He was so furious he could feel froth forming on his tongue.
Hell take the bitch! Why do I allow this stupid female to infuriate me so?
He forced himself to calm. He had a vision of his human servants nailing the crosses to the doorframe, exchanging confused glances as they did so. He flung the cross at her. She winced and turned her head.
Do it. Now.
He leaped the distance between them, seizing her by the shoulders and springing his fangs. With a snarl, he sank them into her throat. Hands beating against him, Elsabeta struggled, trying to escape his embrace, but he simply held her tighter, and began to drink...
…and continued sucking until her struggles stopped…
…and her hands fell to her sides…
…and her body hung in his arms, light and limp as a rag doll.
When Mircea raised his head with a long sigh of satisfaction and relief, Elsabeta was a mere husk, drained of all blood and life. Seizing the dessicated corpse by one arm, he dragged it down the backstairs. Ignoring the dull thump, thump echoing down the corridor as ithe body struck the steps, he stalked across the courtyard to the mausoleum in the château graveyard,.
Unlocking the massive marble door, Mircea went inside. He slid out one of the vaults built into its walls, tossing her body on top of rotted bones, then slammed it shut. After relocking the door, he returned to the château, rehearsing how he’d tearfully tell Diana her mother had abandoned them both, and then that other truth-littered lie.
Chapter 43
From Marek, Marquis Strigoi
To Bogdan Strigoi, his Cousin
Please forgive me for not answering your numerous correspondences sooner. Be assured you and my brothers are in my thoughts continually, as is my dear little Ruxanda.
That wasn’t exactly a lie. He did think of them. Every time he wrote one of these letters.
Don’t think because you haven’t heard from me that I’ve been lax in the mission bringing me here. I’ve quite literally searched this city from one end to the other, its streets and alleys, buildings and homes, questioning any aventurieri who might have knowledge of either Ravagiu or Stjpan Trecator, but thus far, have found nothing. Céline has even given me the benefit of using her title and her servants to aid me in my task.
Should he have written that? Dan was quick. He’d immediately pick up on the fact that Marek had used the Sectiune’s name instead of her title. Well, better break the news.
I imagine you’re wondering why I consider myself in such a familiar position as to refer to the Sectiune by her given name. I trust I’m not being indiscreet when I tell you I find myself in a variety of positions with Madame la Marquise. She’s a truly intriguing woman. Something about her reminds me of my Lily. Know I’ll always love my Lily and no woman can ever replace her, but Céline has eased my pain. I consider myself fortunate she takes time from her duties as Sectiune to favor me.
Marek studied the last paragraph. That should be good enough explanation without my going into flowery, poetic spasms, although he certainly wanted to. For the first time in his life, he wished he could speak flattering, romantic words without seeming false. He knew Céline sometimes expected it, but hoped she understood such coming from him would be out of character.
Céline has been a comfort to me, but I fear I may be somewhat of an embarrassment to her. Her sub-Sectiuni object to my presence...the wild aventuriera from the Decebral, ignorant of the niceties of France. Apparently, my sojourn in Vienna didn’t educate me to the ways of civilization one jot. I charged into her life and took over, and though I apologized for trying to run things, my only excuse is that I’ve done it for so long, I know no other way to act. She assures me she welcomes my assistance in her affairs. They call it interference, and insist I intend to usurp her power, and to that extent, have wielded their authority and banished me from any meeting when they’re present. I stand abashed and chastised, and chafing in my role as lover but not lord.
Be assured I won’t let my love for Céline keep me from my mission. However, when this is over, be warned I don’t intend to return to Vienna. Whether I rest in its soil or live to stay with Céline, I plan to make Paris my home. I’ll send for all of you as soon as I discover anything.
Marek had made his decision. If he lived, he would remain in Paris, with Céline…for as long as she would have him.
I am always, dear Cousin, your faithful kinsman...
Folding the letter he sealed it and looked up at the mirror hanging on the wall over the escritoire, critically studying his image. Except for the high, broad cheekbones, the face staring back at him could’ve been that of any Frenchman, from the dark hair trimmed a la Titus to the waist-length Spencer coat and scarlet silk stock.
He’d protested having his hair cut, though Céline insisted.
“Non, I’ll have none of those lappets of hair hanging around my face like a hound’s ears.”
In spite of that, he found himself seated in a barber’s chair wrapped in a muslin cape while the black locks were whittled away with scissors and razor. As he looked at the rapidly thickening pile of hair falling to the cloth spread on the floor, he felt an overwhelming sense of dismay, as if he were losing part of his identity along with it, and said so.
“Hush.” She learned forward and kissed him, placing a forefinger on his lips. “You’ve enough hair elsewhere to make up for what you’re losing.”
When he viewed himself in the barber’s large hand mirror, however, he had to admit he did look well-groomed
and definitely in style, though he felt light-headed without the below-shoulder blade locks. His hair was trimmed at the nape of his neck, feathered in front of his ears and across his forehead in little spikes.
Céline’s reaction made up for all of it. She returned to his bedchamber while the barber was finishing up. Smiling, she brushed his hair back from his forehead, kissing him lightly.
“Now, at least, you look like an Incroyable, mon cher.”
“Just incredible?” Marek laughed. “I thought I looked at least fantastique.” He shrugged. “Ah well, better an Incroyable than a Sans-culotte, any day.”
“Later,” she promised, “we’ll see just how incoyable you’ve become.”
She gave him a quick course in French history, beginning before what was becoming known as the Reign of Terror and to the present, so he’d be knowledgeable in polite conversation. Marek was astonished by what had been happening in France while he and the others were battling Ravagiu in the Motherland.
Executing reigning monarchs and other nobles? How had they dared? No aventuriera would attempt raising his hand to the Domnitor. His own expulsion, merely for disobedience, was proof of that.
Nodding at his reflection, he forced himself back to the matter at hand, and called to Hans-Claud, “Here. Take this to Étienne to be posted.”
“You’ve written Master Dan, sir?” The boy looked over at him from the chiffonier where he was placing new shirts Marek had purchased. “Good.”
On the bed lay other garments also commissioned at Céline’s request, though Marek made a show of paying for them himself, so the tailor wouldn’t mistakenly assume he was la Marquise’s jean-de-lis, her Light John.
Hans-Claud took the letter and started for the door. As if suspecting some sort of criticism in that one word, Marek frowned, but the boy continued out of the room. He told himself he was reading something where there was nothing, though Hans-Claud had been rather nagging lately about his laxity in corresponding with his cousin. Following the boy, he stood at the head of the stairs and watched as he handed the letter to Étienne, who promised he’d give it to the next courier going to Vienna.
The door to Céline’s study opened and three men came out. Each acknowledged him with a deep glare and a bare bow as they swept past to the front door, where the butler began providing them with hats and greatcoats. Céline hadn’t followed them to the door as a good Sectiune should. He could see her sitting at her desk, elbows leaning against it, chin resting against her hands. He waited until they were gone before he went inside the office.
“Chérie, what is it? You seemed agitated.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, ma cher.” She got to her feet. “Just a bit of a disagreement between myself and my sub-Sectiuni.”
She looked up at him and smiled, but he thought her expression a little forced.
“Are the bastards still complaining about me?
“Give them time. They’ll adjust.” Placing her arm through his, she turned him toward the office door. “Why don’t we go into the drawing room and share a glass of wine?”
When they came out of the office, however, Hans-Claud was standing there, holding a large, cream-colored square.
“I thought I told you to post that, Hansel.”
“I did, sir. This letter just arrived.” He held it out to Marek who ignored it, looking instead at Céline.
“Put it in the drawer with the others. I’ll read it later.”
“But sir…”
Hans-Claud’s protest died away, as Marek led Céline to the drawing room. Going over to the armoire near the door, he opened the shallow drawer and placed the letter on top of the dozen others resting there, all waiting to be read. The drawer was so filled he had to close it very carefully. Sighing, Hans-Claud went back upstairs to finish putting away his master’s new clothes.
* * *
I should’ve been an actor, Mircea thought as he finished his explanation to Diana of how Elsabeta had run away. He’d done it superbly with an occasional break in his voice conveying how much this event had shaken even his iron exterior.
Truly, he was tempted to take a bow.
The girl was devastated, of course. She loved Elsabeta in spite of the growing animosity she’d sensed between the two people she considered her parents.
“Now…” Mircea heaved a deep, regret-filled sigh. “I must tell you something even more shocking, little one.”
“What else could you say that might upset me more than my mother abandoning me, sir?” Her question was tearful.
“Simply this…and I’ll say it quickly.”
Wasn’t it said the quick stab is the least painful?
“She wasn’t your mother, and I’m not your father. I’m your guardian.” He waited a moment for his words to penetrate, for the confusion to show, then hurried on as if wanting to get it all said, a confession of painful secrets long-hidden. “Those villains who killed my family murdered your parents, also. Your father made me promise to protect you. It was his dying wish that we wed, but you were a mere infant and I had a mistress...yes, dearest, that’s all Elsabeta was...my mistress. Now, she’s gone, and… Diana, do y-you…” He allowed his voice to tremble. “Could you…”
He swallowed, as if he couldn’t get out the words and was shocked to realized the lump in his throat was real, that his next words were actually genuine.
“Dare I hope you might forget our former relationship, and grant your father’s dying wish?”
“Sir?” She stared at him in shock.
“I know I’m so much older,” he hurried on. “Your father felt I’d be better able to defend you. I confess I’ve long felt more than paternal affection, knowing I’m not your true parent but I’ve ignored it. Now, however…” He gave the ultimate plea, filled with a tremor of desperation while inwardly wincing because he felt an unaccustomed and hitherto unknown stab of uncertainty. “Diana, speak to me…” he hesitated, then added, “Please?”
It galled him to use that word, to sound as if he were begging, but in truth, he was. In that moment, he realized this girl, this child, held his future happiness in her hands—and Mircea realized he wanted that happiness, that unknown quantity, in his life.
With her.
She was going to accept him. He could see it in those clear Strigoi eyes. She was an obedient daughter. He’d raised her as the men of the Motherland did their women, not allowing them the freedom those in Europe attained, teaching her to follow parental wishes. She’d do as that fictitious dead father wished.
“I have to think on this, Fa—sir.”
For the briefest instant, Mircea felt doubt, then a flare of triumph as Diana continued. “If that was my father’s wish…it may take me some time, but…if you’ll allow me to teach myself to stop thinking of you as a parent and begin considering you my betrothed, I’ll strive to obey his last request.”
She allowed him to kiss her, not on the cheek or forehead as mere kinsmen did, but on the mouth, as spouses and those affianced kissed. Mircea felt his blood rush as those soft lips pressed against his own, making him nearly cry out with the pleasure of their touch.
It was all he could do to keep from seizing the girl and sweeping her into bed then and there, but he wanted her to give herself to him freely. There mustn’t be the least distrust between them. Briefly, he would experience that emotion as other men did, the wonderment of love, and then…
I’ll have my final revenge, Strigoi, as her blood sustains me.
* * *
“I hate you!” Ruxanda cried, looking at him reproachfully from eyes brimming with tears. “You’ve abandoned us for that woman. Marek, did you forget why you went to Paris?”
Marek sat up gasping. It was as if he couldn’t get his breath.
Beside him, Céline slept peacefully, her breathing soft in the quietness of the room. He rolled over, taking her in his arms and placing a kiss on her temple. As usual, whenever he touched her, she responded, coming awake and resting a hand on his chest.
Briefly, he told her.
“It was just a dream.”
“Vraiment, but a truthful one. I’ve let you distract me from the reason I came here. I’ve let my love for you keep me from finding Ravagiu.”
“You haven’t found him, because he isn’t here,” she protested. “You’ve scoured the city. No one’s seen or heard of any one called by either name.”
“He must be here under another alias. He’s wily and devious.” He shook his head. “He fooled Karl-Josef for years. If his valet hadn’t tried to escape his hold, I might never have known.”
Viktor’s gray, dying face rose into his mind. He released her and sat up, turning his back. She touched his shoulder, stroking its bare expanse. Marek shrugged from her touch, and Céline let her hand fall.
“Marek, I swear I’ve tried to help. I’ve had my men search everywhere, question every visitor, every servant, anyone who’s been in this city for more than five days. Even those who’ve lived here for over a decade.” Her voice rose. “If Ravagiu’s as dangerous as you say, I’m afraid for you.”
“I have to find him. No matter the danger to myself. Céline, if that madman’s within your boundaries, he could be a threat to anyone. Even you.”
“I don’t want you hurt, but I don’t want you to lose your self-respect, either. Damn it. I’ve never felt so powerless.”
Marek looked over his shoulder at her, then away. To his horror, he realized she was about to burst into tears.
“I’m La Marquise duCharne, Sectiune of France. Others come to me for justice and protection, but I can’t help my lover avenge his family.” Gripping his shoulder, she pulled him around to face her. “Mon amor, j’e suis désole.”
She began to cry, burying her face against Marek’s chest.
“Stop this. Don’t lose your dignity this way.”