Lord of the Vampires

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  How long must I wait?

  I sigh, impatient, as I write this while Elisabeth and Dunya still lie sleeping in the great bed. I sigh, and write: Enough! I must maintain my sanity; dwelling upon my captivity will only serve to torment me. And so, now that restlessness has come upon me, I write.…

  Yesterday I woke at morning’s first blush (how strange to write these words again, after so many years) in Elisabeth’s arms, and stared for a time out the unshuttered window as the grey light warmed to pale rose. (We had missed our afternoon nap, and so used the darkest morning hours for rest.) After a time my darling stirred and gazed up at me with a sleepy smile, her long sunny curls spilling with delightful haphazardness over her ivory shoulders, back, breasts. The warmth of her body was pleasant, the morning cool; I therefore remained beside her, and we indulged ourselves in languid conversation beneath the covers. I, as always, asked: How long? How long? And Elisabeth, as always, replied, Soon, soon.…

  Presently our conversation turned to Vlad, and her demeanour became markedly curious. She sat up suddenly, letting the covers drop away (though the early morning air was cool)—and, knees bent with long, slender arms wrapped round them, she demanded:

  “You have spoken before of the covenant Vlad had with your family, and with the villagers. But I have not heard yet of the covenant he surely has with the Dark Lord. What do you know of it?”

  At the sound of that entity’s name—and at the diamond-hard, diamond-brilliant intensity in her eyes, focussed keenly on mine—I shuddered. Yet I answered honestly and in full: that Vlad had offered up to the Dark One the eldest son of each generation of his family. That a sacrifice was required each generation in order to purchase Vlad’s renewed immortality. That in 1842, my brother Arkady had (as both mortal and subsequent vampire) resisted being pressed into Vlad’s evil service. Arkady’s second death—as a vampire—should have brought Vlad’s immediate destruction, but did not because my brother had left behind an heir, which his wife, Mary, took into hiding. So long as the heir lived and there remained a chance that Vlad could deliver his soul to the Dark Lord in place of Arkady’s, Vlad survived.

  But Vlad’s weakness had come about because this heir—whose name had been deceitfully changed from Stefan Tsepesh to Abraham Van Helsing by his mother when she fled with him to Holland—was told by his father, Arkady, the truth of his heritage. And so Arkady instructed Van Helsing in the foul art of killing vampires.

  Yet Van Helsing, a mere mortal, was no match for Vlad’s strength, and his efforts to destroy the Prince of Wallachia met with utter failure … and my dear brother’s death.

  However, the wicked Van Helsing soon discovered another terrible truth—that by destroying other vampires (those of Vlad’s victims who died, were not properly destroyed, and subsequently rose), Vlad’s powers were gradually sapped. Thus, over the past two decades of Van Helsing’s killing spree, Vlad and I had grown weaker and weaker, until we had become the pathetic remnants Elisabeth greeted upon her arrival.

  She listened with fascination and care and, when I had finished, added, “Clearly Van Helsing was preparing to come here and dispatch you both. Vlad is too suspicious to trust anyone, least of all me; for him to beg for my aid means that he was in terror of death.… But here, my darling! Why this sudden unhappy shower?”

  For I was quite overcome with grief at the memories that assailed me at the telling of this sad history; and I cried harder still when she lifted her hand and tenderly brushed away my tears. Sobbing, I said, “Because, those twenty years ago, I was lonely, dreadfully lonely, because Vlad had emotionally forsaken me. And so I took Van Helsing’s little boy, Jan, as my own immortal companion. Just a baby, he was, barely able to walk and talk, and so sweetly innocent—and Van Helsing murdered him!”

  She held me, patting my back as if soothing a wailing infant, then withdrew and gently held my arms. “And did this beast also murder your poor brother?”

  I shook my head. “No. Arkady died in an encounter with Vlad.… He is here in the castle. Would you like to see him?”

  Her lips, pink and glowing as the dawn, parted abruptly in unmasked amazement. “His body has survived all this time? Zsuzsanna, that is impossible!”

  “Possible or no, do you wish to see him?”

  “At once!” she cried, springing gracefully from the bed and pulling on her dressing-gown with such alacrity that, before I could myself rise, she was already holding out my gown to me.

  I led her down the stairs and through a rotting and rusted oaken trapdoor bound with iron, to the cellar—a subterranean cavern beneath the castle’s stone foundation, a place I have come to think of as the first circle of Hell. Years ago, I wept as I carried my poor brother’s body there—a dark, mildewed womb of earth laced with spiderwebs, sprinkled with dust and the faeces of rodents. Oh, yes, the bones of martyrs rest in the catacombs of that grotto; the bones of so many hundreds of unfortunates who served as Vlad’s supper that the servants had no more room—and came to dispose of later victims in the forest.

  And chief of those martyrs is my brother.

  To spare myself the need to tread upon too much Death and suffering, I had laid Arkady’s body in one of the first empty catacombs, those which were not enclosed by heavy rusted iron bars hung with chains and disintegrating padlocks. I had constructed for him a catafalque of stone, surrounded him with tapers, and draped a banner of black silk upon the rough earthen wall.

  There we found him, lying just as I had left him on that terrible day: impaled through his bloodless heart by a stake so thick I cannot encircle it with one hand. And so handsome at rest, with his narrow but prominent nose, his severe black brows and hair, his long-lashed eyelids closed forever over the gentlest hazel eyes I ever knew.

  At the sight of him, I wept openly. For though his last desire was to see me and Vlad destroyed—as he put it, to free our souls (as if we could ascend to Heaven instead of fall straight to Hell)—he still loved me, and I him. The bonds of mortal siblings are not easily broken, even by the afterlife or differing loyalties. So overwhelmed by grief was I when I first laid him to rest that, had I been capable, I would have offered up my own existence gladly if he could return. Given the chance, I might do so even now.…

  My compliments concerning his physical appearance are not due to sisterly bias; even Elisabeth gasped at the sight of his perfect and beautiful corpse, and could not extinguish the gleam of lust in her eye quickly enough to hide it.

  “Zsuzsanna!” she exclaimed softly. “How can this be? He should have crumbled to dust, or at the very least decomposed in some fashion.…”

  I kept my gaze fastened upon my younger brother, my sweet little Kasha, as I replied, “The stake killed him, a vampire. But the regenerative powers of the undead are so great that, because his head was never separated from the body, he has maintained his form. I suspect the instant they are twain, the physical form will dissolve.” Again, the burn of tears as the images returned to me. “Just as Van Helsing no doubt accomplished with my baby, my poor little Jan!”

  Elisabeth put her arms round me, and stroked my hair as I rested my cheek upon her shoulder. “What sort of bastard is capable of murdering his own child?” she fumed. “Don’t cry, my darling. I shall see that he meets his long-deserved fate. You shall be doubly avenged, for should Van Helsing die, then Vlad himself shall do the same—or rather, descend into the arms of the Dark Lord—shall he not?”

  “Yes,” I murmured into her soft, silk-clad shoulder.

  “Then that is what we will do, dear Zsuzsa. We need only kill Van Helsing to see Vlad destroyed.”

  Reassured but sad, we walked together back up the stairs. I felt a small gnawing hunger and should have liked to visit our gentleman, but Elisabeth became very stern: I had been taxing poor Harker of late, and if we did not allow him another day’s rest, Vlad would certainly notice and take action against us. (Him again! Sometimes I become annoyed with Elisabeth; she possesses such amazing powers, but tiptoes round Vlad
as though secretly afraid. Oh, yes, she says she does it out of her own hunger for the chase to come, that without such games she would grow bored of existence—but I grow madder with boredom each hour I remain here!)

  I yielded to her reluctantly, and together we returned to our chambers. Though she tried valiantly to cheer me with more of the usual gown fittings and hairstyles, I remained restless. At last she made to me the presentation of a small velvet box, a gift that she had meant to save for our first night in London.

  I opened it with as much show of delight as I could manage, and was truly moved and delighted to find nestled within a pair of striking earrings—large round diamonds from which hung suspended even larger sapphire tears—and to match, a gold necklace from which hung a great pendant of the same design, a diamond weeping sapphires.

  I was enormously honoured and flattered to receive such an expensive token of Elisabeth’s affection, even more so when I asked her when and how she had managed to purchase such a gift, and she replied:

  “They were mine, given to me in marriage as a token of esteem. So I give them to you with the same meaning.”

  I rose and kissed her upon each cheek, and she solemnly returned the gesture. And so she began to speak of London again, and the different places she intended to take me shopping—to Piccadilly and Hyde Park, and Savile Row, but I could not feign interest for long. My frustration at being trapped inside these stone walls would not ease, so at last she tore off my clothes and carried me to the bed, where she attempted to relieve my anxiety in a more sensual fashion.

  As I write this, it occurs to me that this was the first time we had made love without blood smeared upon our bodies, and without my having recently fed. Elisabeth was determined to better my mood, but her efforts were curiously lacking in passion. When even her pale enthusiasm began clearly to wane, I waved her away. Offended, she stormed off—where, I cannot say, for even with my preternatural hearing, I could detect not a sound anywhere in the castle. I did not see her again until after dusk.

  By then the full moon had risen, large and yellow and ringed with a radiant halo of mist in a starry indigo sky. It was a warm, beautiful night—even more beautiful because I sensed that Vlad had departed the castle, leaving behind an atmosphere of ease—and unbearably romantic, especially now that my Elisabeth was gone. Before I met her, the full moonglow used to pain my eyes so that I avoided hunting then; but tonight, it seemed delicious, inviting, and the moon’s incandescent whiteness, rippled through with pale gold, reminded me of my lover’s skin and hair.

  Fortunately, by that time, Dunya had risen from her coffin and I distracted myself from my loneliness by talking to her; she was too sweet-natured to show it, but I know she is becoming jealous of Elisabeth’s obvious favouritism towards me. Here I sit in new gowns and jewels, marvellously coiffed, and Dunya still spends the day in the worn (but fetching) dress I bought her twenty years ago in Vienna, with her dark reddish hair braided and coiled in the same fashion Vlad’s serfs wore four centuries ago. Since she joined us undead, I have tried consciously to treat her less as a servant and more as an equal, but there is a clear class distinction which cannot be violated. I think when she is reminded of it, it hurts her feelings. What Hell to know one is doomed to remain a serving-girl for all eternity! But there is nothing to be done.

  At any rate, I did my best to reassure her. I had, I told her, demanded that Vlad bring us food, which was bound to arrive very soon. This heartened her a bit; for although she is slightly stronger than she was, hunger has again weakened her to the point where she cannot hunt for herself. (Even if she could, thanks to Vlad’s foul magic she probably would find herself trapped inside the castle, same as I.)

  But just as I finished my tale, Dunya sat up in her chair, and lifted her nose to savour the air.

  “Warm blood!” She rose at once and hurried to the door of her bedchamber, following the scent. “Doamna, there is a mortal here!”

  She projected herself with blurring speed out into the sitting-room. I followed, and heard her release a small gasp as our gazes beheld, at the same time, the Englishman.

  He was sitting at the desk, pen in hand, writing furiously in a pocket-sized diary in the glow of lamp and moon. We both had rushed into the room with such haste that his mortal eyes could not possibly have perceived our entry, but he is clearly a sensitive, for he glanced frowning in our direction.

  “Sleep,” I said. Straightway, he rose, pen and diary in one hand, and clumsily pulled the long couch into a bright pane of moonlight in front of the grand window—the one which looks down onto the great chasm and the forested valley far below, and the mountains far beyond. At once he lay down—on his side, fortunately, so that the snoring which immediately commenced was less stertorous than usual. (If he is indeed engaged, I pity his poor wife-to-be.)

  Dunya clapped her hands and giggled, gleeful as a child introduced to a new present. “How handsome he is!”

  “Vlad’s visitor,” I murmured, as I silently agreed with Dunya’s comment. Awake and dressed and neatly groomed, he looked even more attractive and gentlemanly in vest and shirt and trousers, and brown curls sternly pomaded. He also had the beginnings of a dark beard, which gave his boyish features an agreeable severity, and made his jaw and cheeks appear thinner and more sculpted.

  So deeply did he fall into trance that the diary and pen, which he heretofore had jealously clutched, dropped from his now-relaxed ringers onto the couch. Before I could react, the nib fell directly onto the centuries-old brocade and the ink was immediately absorbed, leaving a small black starburst that could never be washed out.

  “Thoughtless guests!” I exclaimed. “Really, have they no concern for others’ property?” And I slipped the pen into his vest pocket—nib down. The diary, however, I took into my hands, hoping to fool Dunya into believing I had never before met the genteel Mr. Harker.

  “Hmph! What sort of chicken scratchings are these? Why does he not write in English?” I peered up from the small book to address the sleeping man. “Well, you shall, sir, from now on,” I commanded, in the voice of a mesmerist. “You may think you are writing in this bizarre scrawl, but you shall in truth write everything down in proper English. How else shall I indulge my curiosity?” And I bent low and slipped the diary next to the pen.

  When I rose, I glanced over to see poor Dunya transfixed—staring down at Harker with lips parted, sharp, shining teeth bared, and eyes filled with a wild hunger that was painful to see. And yet she was restrained by an invisible wall of fear.

  “I must not!” she whispered—to neither me nor Harker, but to herself. “I must not! He would destroy me.…”

  He meaning Vlad, of course, and I opened my mouth to say, There is no more reason to fear Vlad anymore, dear companion. The man is yours. Take him!

  But ere I could speak, I sensed rather than heard the rustle of soft skirts against stone, and the click of hard, tiny heels. And there in the arched entryway stood Elisabeth. How had I failed to sense her approach … unless she had intentionally kept her movements silent?

  To my relief, she was no longer angry; indeed, she was smiling and cheerful, and glanced at Harker with amusement as she entered briskly, skirts in her hands. “Ah! Our Englishman seems to have wandered astray.”

  I left Dunya slavering over our unexpected visitor and sidled up to Elisabeth, who put her hand upon my waist and kissed my cheek as though her furious departure had never occurred. Thus I dared ask her—in English, which to the uneducated Dunya might as well have been Chinese: “I cannot bear to see her suffer so any longer, or to fear Vlad’s wrath needlessly. For my sake, let her drink safely, as you have let me.…”

  I half expected more anger from her, or at least an annoyed repetition of how it would be better not to overtax her powers until the time came for us to leave.

  But she was in as jolly a temper as I have seen her, and she merely sighed with affectionate annoyance and stroked my cheek with her hand. One corner of her red mouth quirked
up to reveal a deep dimple beside it as she turned to face Harker and his desperate admirer.

  “Dunya, my darling. Take the visitor; he is yours. Only mark that you do not drain him to death, else I will not be able to protect you from Vlad’s anger.”

  Atremble with desire and terror, the little servant glanced up at Elisabeth with wide, confused dark eyes. “But, doamna, if I do, then the prince shall see the mark!”

  I stepped forward. “He won’t. Elisabeth can cause the marks to disappear.”

  On her face, darkness warred with light: darkness, as she wondered how I should know such a thing unless Elisabeth had done it for me—which meant that I had withheld from my loyal companion nourishing blood, this visitor’s blood. Light, as she tried to repress doubt and anger and focus instead on this hope-restoring marvel, that she could drink deep at Harker’s well without danger of retaliation.

  As always, rage succumbed to hunger. She bent low over the Englishman, whose eyelids fluttered; clearly, he was watching her with the same delicious anticipation she directed towards him, for as she neared, his lips parted sensually to draw in and release air more quickly. His sighs caused a warm, rapid thrill to course down my spine, at whose termination I felt as though I had burst into flame.

  Closer she drew to him, and closer, with the most erotic reverence I have ever witnessed, until her mouth opened wide and her teeth pressed ever so gently against his flesh—not piercing, merely touching. I do not think I had ever seen her appear quite so classically beautiful as she did at that moment: her eyelids half lowered with desire, her profile pale and fragile against Harker’s more rounded ruddy one. A single lock of her hair had escaped the long braid and fell straight onto Harker’s cheek, where it coiled, a red-black serpent.

  In that pose she lingered, and slowly closed her eyes, savouring the ecstasy induced by waiting.

  And I was hungry, hungry, hungrier than I had ever been, yet aware that my yearning could not be sated by blood alone. I pressed a hand to my heaving breast and looked at my beloved, my Elisabeth.