by Ana Calin
“Do you also know why they called him that?”
“I know he did some pretty nasty stuff, like cutting the hands off of thieves, taking away the goods of boyars and putting them to forced labor that usually killed them, impaled his enemies by driving a stake up their bottoms, and once he even nailed Turkish messengers’ turbans to their skulls. He sure did some evil shhh.” I clear my voice. “Stuff.”
“You did your homework, miss. The Prince will be impressed.”
“If I get to show off,” I whine, looking around. “I don’t see how I can get to him and, if I don’t work today, he’ll probably write me off as a waste of time and send me home.”
He takes my forearm softly, bringing his mouth to my ear. He smells of stories and books. “Then go down there. Into the tunnel. I’m pretty sure that’s where he took his visitors, to the private collection of ritual items. There’s an iron door behind a No Trespassing tape. If he went in there with his visitors, they probably left the door open until they come back out.”
“The rituals, yes,” I’m reminded, looking at him with a question in my eyes. “I haven’t found anything special about rituals in my research.”
“That’s because official history is a sort of journalism, Juliet. It tells you only what it wants you to know. No matter how wicked and terrible, Dracula couldn’t have defeated the Ottomans by himself, not even with help from his Western allies.”
“Whose support was rather moody anyway,” I can’t help adding.
“Exactly. The Ottomans were a world force, not to be trifled with. So he relied on help from a less known, shadier historical figure, and someone he kept in his complete confidence—Radu the Handsome, his brother. Now Radu the Handsome was a different kind of beast, and his specialty involved rituals.”
Synapses fire inside my brain like electroshocks. My pulse speeds up as I understand, my eyes widening, my jaw falling. “Radu the Handsome. Radek Basarab. He is a descendant from—”
“Go down into the tunnel, Juliet. This is the only day you’ll get access to its secrets, and those secrets will answer your questions.”
I scurry by him, unable to get inside that elevator fast enough.
“Juliet,” Lazarus calls right before the doors close. “Be careful, though.”
Juliet
THE ELEVATOR MAKES ominous sounds as it descends. It’s slow, and panic gags me—this is the old castle well, the elevator system modern but still used only a few times a year. I’m not claustrophobic, but I fear wells and pits like a motherfff, not to mention heights. According to the sticker on the door, this thing is going down over thirty meters.
I keep facing the mirror wall opposite the doors, trying to steady my breath, but the moment the elevator halts with a clang and a jolt, my heart leaps. It seems a ripple goes through the mirror, like a snake underneath silk. Anxiety can really make you lose it.
The moment I step out of that box I realize my pulse is thudding in my ears. It’s not a panic attack, it’s the pressure down here, I keep telling myself as I take careful steps down a semi-dark rocky corridor. Orange lighting spots line the ceiling, throwing misty cones of warm orange light over the stone. The cones of light feel warm when they touch my face, but outside of them the air is chilly, misting my cheeks like the breath of ghosts.
The further I venture inside the tunnel, the wetter it seems. The lighting spots become less frequent, the sidewalls seem wet, and I wonder what happened to the tourists that came this way. Finally, I see a light to the side, illuminating another tunnel filled with armors and weapons in protective glass cabins, some of them separated by stanchions. I recognize the tourists from upstairs strolling and snapping pictures, a glass door separating my tunnel from theirs. Eager to get out there, I push the wooden latches. But the doors won’t open, and I start to panic.
“Hey!” I call, slapping the glass pane. “Hey, help me out here!” I call again, growing so scared that I hope to God the glass will finally break, even if it cuts me. But it’s obviously highly impenetrable glass, my calls muffled against it, unable to reach the other side. Everybody goes about their business as if this door doesn’t even exist.
I look desperately around. The others must have gone inside that tunnel some way, right? Breathe in and out, Juliet, you can do this, there has to be a solution. There has to be something easy to see, to find, otherwise they couldn’t have gotten in there either. But there’s nothing around the door, no control panel, no card slot, not a lock, nothing.
Then it hits me—could it be that something happened and I got off at the wrong level? Yes, this must be it! The others must have reached this other tunnel from another place, the elevator must have left them somewhere else.
The elevator is already too far away for me to see, but I gather all my strength and run back the same way I came, wanting to cut the time I spend down here as short as possible. I run until I’m breathless but, apparently, I either went in the wrong direction or this corridor just won’t end. It seems to grow tighter until it becomes more of a passageway, making me panic. My breath hitches—I need a way out.
There’s a spark of hope when I need it most—a set of stairs carved into the rock, leading upwards. Upwards, to light of day and air, I hope. I keep climbing, praying for the second time since I was six, praying for the stairs not to turn out as endless as the corridor until I bump into what Lazarus had told me—An iron door, separated from the passageway with No Trespassing tape. The door is obviously very old, the iron naked and reddish like a mixture of blood and rust. I crawl under the tape, take a deep breath, and press the latch, hoping the door is open.
But the latch won’t give in. I cry out in frustration, now so desperate I’m combusting on the inside. I press the latch repeatedly, hard, with both hands and crying out until I can feel my neck swell. Then, surprise. The thing gives in, the door springing from the lock, revealing a thin stripe of darkness from inside.
I stare at this new possibility of salvation. The door was unlocked, it just needed more strength for the latch to give in. I push it slowly, without worrying when it gives a long, rusty creak. I’m not trying to keep my presence secret anymore. In the end, I’ve almost screamed my lungs out just moments ago so, if I should be hiding from anyone, here goes nothing.
The room is completely dark apart from a faint white glow that resembles fog. I squint, adjusting my eyes to identify the source, walking slowly deeper inside the room. Turns out the light comes from white masks sticking out from the walls, the light they emit converging on an object standing in the middle of the room. The hooded statue of a monk, sleeves hanging off hands held together in front of him, his face hidden behind a mask of his own.
As I approach the monk, I notice in fascination the walls are lined with angled gilded mirrors between the masks, deflecting the light toward the central figure. Now close enough, I can inspect the mask.
It depicts the face of a vampire, a beautiful one. Big almond eyes drawn upward a little at the corners like Asian eyes, the holes dark and compelling. The features are angular, a bit pointy, the lips full and red, and the sparkling fangs emerging from under his upper lip seem crafted of ivory.
“The Prince of Midnight,” a musical male voice ripples behind me. I turn on my heels, and catch a flash of movement in one of the mirrors.
“You mean Dracula?” I know I’m talking to Prince Radek, even though I didn’t get a good view of him.
“No. Dracula was the Prince of Blood. It was his brother who was known as Prince of Midnight.” He stops between two of the mirrors, a white mask right above his head. The mirror surfaces seem to curl flowingly, surely from the play of light from the other masks and mirrors across. My heart beats in my throat, and I swallow audibly.
“The legend of the Prince of Midnight is very old,” he says darkly as he walks to me. “It says he used to wander at night with the mask of a vampire on his face, hiding a monster less appealing to the senses.” He stops just inches away from me, tall, regal, his p
orcelain face with those eyes like blue storm literally magazine-worthy. “It is said this is his sleeping form, petrified for centuries. One may approach, but must always beware and never take the mask off. One look upon the Prince of Midnight’s face can infect the onlooker with a terrible curse.”
“What curse?” I whisper, my eyes attracted without a hope to his dark red lips. I try to force myself to look away, but the man is so magnetic. By the way he fixes me with his chin up, smug, defiant, it’s clear he’s aware of how he makes me feel.
“There’s no human alive today who still knows that,” he says as he circles me. “Would you take the risk to find out? Would you remove his mask to look upon his true face, even if that would make you forever cursed?”
I turn to him. “Are these two figures your legacy? I mean, does your own personal history trace back to the Prince of Blood and his brother, Prince of Midnight?”
His perfect nose flares a bit. He seems a hellcat, everything about him irresistible. “We’re talking legends here, Juliet, not history.”
“I signed a contract about drawing up a personal profile of you in order to build you a public persona,” I explain. “Legends can help construct a badass profile—since I doubt you really want the truth out there.”
He just nods, a smile still on those lips the color of dark red roses. Jesus, the man is more beautiful than I can bear.
“And what do you think the truth is?”
“You already know my theories, and even admitted they were spot on.” I raise my chin. “I think you and your group of friends block infrastructure projects in order to keep parts of the country inaccessible. Ensuring that foreign investment doesn’t make it to the core of your country, and get to the source of your riches.”
He smiles. “It’s not the country’s riches that we’re trying to protect, Juliet.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand at this point. Not because your mind weren’t sharp enough, but because it’s not prepared to accept certain things as even possible.” He joins his hands behind his back and starts circling me like a philosophical predator. His scent is the strangest thing—he smells of rain, and cold and fog. I can’t help but close my eyes and breathe him in. He awakens all my senses.
“What do you mean?” I manage.
“I told you last night at dinner—most people see only one face of this world. But reality has many faces and many layers.”
“Forgive me, Prince, but, if you refer to, let’s say, metaphysical layers, let me remind you that your wealth is very material. Your power and influence on government level quite palpable, and those pictures of you on my phone speak of your grip on the newest technology. So you’ll excuse me if I don’t buy the esoteric talk.” Keeping my cool is a struggle. The attention of those turbid blue eyes set on me is intimidating.
“Juliet, with every word that leaves your pretty mouth I like you more.”
“Quite a strength,” I dare pointedly, pushing my chin even further up. “It is said only truly powerful men like a smart mouth in a woman. Most of them prefer to feel the better.”
“I’m sure your brains got in the way of many a hot affair for you, despite your attractiveness.”
Attractiveness. He finds me attractive? I gulp down the knot in my throat, making a sound that sends a hot flush to my cheeks. I cast my eyes down.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to take a compliment.”
Radek doesn’t say anything, which compels me to glance up at him to gage his expression. My eyes bump into his intrigued face, his eyebrows furled as if I puzzle him.
“You are unusual to say the least.” He turns and moves away from me, his figure slowly lost in the semi-shadow. The light emitting from the masks around seems to dim, and fear of staying back here alone rises in my chest.
“Where are you going?” I call after him.
“Let me show you something.” I hear his voice clearly around the room, like it’s coming from an all-surround system, but I don’t see him anymore. I move in the direction of his voice, soon distinguishing the door that I entered through. I breathe out in relief, and walk fast toward it.
I press the handle and pull, only to freeze in place with my mouth open. This can’t be happening.
CHAPTER VI
Juliet
I blink several times at the tunnel that was unreachable to me just a short while before. The tunnel with armors and weapons in glass casings, where all the tourists were strolling, and still are. They all go about their business as if nothing, all save a small girl with rich black curls and powder blue eyes who looks cheerfully up at me.
“Ești prințesă?” she says in her language.
“Excuse me?”
“Ești super frumoasă. Trebuie să fii o priențesă.”
A smile twitches on my face as I stare at her, clueless.
“Mai fă o dată magia dinainte.”
“Magic?”
“Erai acolo mai devreme.” She points to something behind me. “Și apoi, dintr-o dată, erai afară.”
I turn around to follow the direction of her pointed finger, and I gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth.
The monk figure with the vampire mask stands suspended in a tall glass casing, bigger than all the others, staring down at me from those Asian-like and almond-shaped dark eyes. Behind it, instead of a door, only a rock wall.
“This can’t be real,” I whisper, my mind frantically searching for a logical explanation.
“It was here just now,” I say, too loud. I’m talking to myself, trying to make sense of this madness, though I know I’m drawing attention.
“There was a tight flight of stairs and an old iron door, right there,” I tell them, looking desperately into their faces and pointing to the figure with the vampire mask.
A man puts a steady hand on my shoulder, and I realize it must be the girl’s father. “Miss, I’m pretty sure you came in the way we all have,” he says in a heavy accent. He points behind himself to the end of the corridor, where the green light linings of the elevator stand out. “That is the only entrance.”
Indeed, I must have gotten off the elevator at a different level the first time.
“No, you have to believe me,” I insist, grabbing his hand off my shoulder, holding it tightly in one of mine and still pointing in the direction that I’m certain I came from with the other. “Even before, I saw you through a glass door, there is another tunnel to the side.”
I let go of the man who’s looking at me with pity, his wife scrutinizing me from under knitted eyebrows, his daughter now holding tightly to the woman’s leg.
I run along the corridor, looking for the glass door around every other glass casing containing a medieval armor or weapon, but I’m already halfway through the corridor, and there’s no sign of it. I swiftly turn to the staring crowd, but bump into Miss Victoria’s stern headmistress face, her features drawn downwards, her brown eyes emotionless, her thin dark hair pulled up in a bun.
“I think you’ve caused enough disturbance, Miss Jochs,” she tells me in an even tone, her hands gripping my shoulders and forcing me to join her down the corridor towards the elevator. She keeps a grip on my upper arm along the way, and my body tightly close to hers. She’s about the same height as me, and skinny, but she’s clearly strong as a bull.
“Try to keep certain things to yourself,” she whispers in my ear.
“What is this place?” I demand, looking back to see the family I interacted with still staring after us, girl still gripping to her mother’s leg. The others have started to move away, back to their strolling and photographing, certain I must be nothing more than a crazy woman.
“Be quiet.”
“Quiet?” I tear myself from her clasp, forcing her to stop and face me. I narrow my eyes at her. “Why do I get the feeling you know exactly what happened to make me react like that? You know where I popped in here from, don’t you?” I take a step closer, nose to nose with her.
She holds her ground, not a spark of emotion in her eyes. “How did that happen? Where is the dark corridor with the secret stairs and the iron door?”
“You’re looking for confirmation that you’re not seeing things,” comes the even reply. “All right, let me confirm—no, you’re not seeing things.”
I snort. “I didn’t think I was imagining any of it for one moment. It was real as all reality I ever experienced. But how did it happen?”
“Reality,” she repeats, grabbing my arm again and walking with me towards the corridor. “Reality is a tricky word, Miss Jochs. Everything you experienced was real, every room you saw, every item, every person.” She glances at me. “But it doesn’t mean you accessed them through doors and hallways.”
THE DOOR TO MY ROOM slams shut behind me. I need to put my ideas to paper right now, before my mind starts to lose details.
I take a long swig of water from the bottle on the desk, then rummage in my briefcase for a new notebook—lost the old one in all the craze that happened downstairs. As I sit at the medieval desk, an idea hits me—the gadget that Isolde gave me! Now’s the time to use it.
I drink more water while unloading my purse on the desk, searching for the special paper and the special pen with feverish fingers. I start scribbling, the words crammed together to get as much as possible on the small pink slip. Somewhere in Berlin, probably in the top drawer of Isolde’s desk, the letters begin forming on the twin slip of paper.
I write about secret rituals, masks, and about two legendary brothers, one a beautiful vampire, the other a monstrous—Wait. I look up through the darkening window at the fading mountain contours. In what way could Radu the Handsome have been ugly? Did they call him “The Handsome” exactly because he was, in truth, unbearable to look at? And in what way were the people cursed who looked upon his face?