“Do not be so naïve, Aurel. Even his first wife’s brother kept him a prisoner for thirteen years. When you live by the sword, you die by it.”
“Even if what you say is the truth, how did the stories come to pass?”
“His men invented them to conceal their crime. Why else would they come back with such a story?”
Aurel shrugged. He had long believed the established version of events.
“People love a tale of terror to share around the fire on a cold winter’s night.”
Florescu chuckled to himself. He poured himself a cup of plum wine and returned to the window.
“Yes, but none that involve one so famous.”
“Why not? A story of a famous man is far more interesting than a story of one whose name no one knows. There were enough stories spoken of him when he was alive. So why not when he is dead? When there is no fear of reproach.”
“I still do not accept that.”
“Perhaps there were some who could not accept his death. They needed the story for something to hold onto.”
“Who knows, Alin? It is legend for the now. We might never know the real truth.”
“That is the first sensible word you have spoken this night.”
Aurel shrugged again. He would never sway his friend. “Perhaps what you say is the truth. I am still open to all possibilities.”
“That is your choice.”
“I cannot understand how you are so quick to dismiss it.”
“I am not privy to such foolish talk.”
“Then how do you explain the night in the forest a month ago?”
“It is certainly not the work of Dracula. Is that what you think? That he did it?”
“The Draculesti family despises the name Florescu.”
“The Draculestis are all gone, save one. And Mihnea Dracula has not walked in Brasov for a long time past.”
“Yes, I know.”
“That is not to say he was not involved.”
“You think he could have been at the back of it all?”
“Who is to say he was not? It is possible.”
“I do not think so. But he does have a son, Mircea. He is prone to start trouble wherever he can, even though he is young.”
“You have to view things as I do. Someone did kill those men. There is no dispute in that.”
“I know it. I saw what was left.”
“What you have to think on is who could have killed so many men. Who had the power to do it? And most important of all is who had the most to gain from it?”
“What is your opinion on that?”
“The one who stands to gain from it most is Craiovescu.”
Florescu perked up at the theory that met his ears. The notion had crossed his mind too. He had as much faith in the ghost stories as Alin did. Only one with a strong military presence could have pulled off such a coup.
“Why do you throw that name into the pot?” Aurel asked him.
“His father was a close ally to our boyar. He did marry a Florescu too. That means Vintila is his uncle. With Victor and Anton gone he becomes a legitimate heir to the Florescu estates.”
“You are as wily as a fox,” Aurel said, seeing the sense in his logic. “But he controls Sibiu. What would he care for Brasov?”
“When does a man like him ever have enough? To add Brasov to Sibiu, what is to stop him controlling the entire country? If it is anyone, then I would say it is he.”
“You should not say that so loud. It might cost you your head.”
“Nonsense. I am most loyal to the Florescu name. I have nothing to fear here.”
“I was thinking of Craiovescu.”
“If he makes a move here then I shall leave. I would not serve another master.”
“We shall have to see. If you are right, he may not take too long in calling.”
“Let us hope that is not any time soon.”
The men paused to reflect on their conversation. Florescu had heard enough. He stepped away from the window and sat down in his chair. It was the most plausible explanation for what had happened that he had heard. But to murder his son and then send him his head? That was personal and indicated a real grudge. Could my nephew dislike me that much? It gave him plenty to ponder.
He gazed at Victor’s head, where it had spent the last four days on the table in front of him. His tears had long dried up now. They would do Victor no good. He was a broken man. If Death were to call, he would be welcomed. Florescu sighed hard, and then, drinking the last of the wine in his cup, he drifted off to sleep.
His dreams took him back to another time. He was much younger then. Dead bodies littered the streets from the fighting. Smoke hung over the city from the buildings that burned in the aftermath.
A woman stood naked at the gallows with a rope hung around her neck. He grinned at her, though she did not seem afraid. Even then, as her moment of death was upon her, she showed only strength. She stared at him, her eyes full of hate. He hated her as much, but secretly admired her resolve.
Her face remained engrained there in his mind. He had pushed her down on her bed, naked. The bed she had only ever shared with her husband. He forced her to watch in the mirror as he took her from behind. Holding her by the hair, their eyes met in the glass. The first silent exchange of hatred passed between them.
He then sat in a chair. One after another, his men took turns with her while he watched. He loved every one of her cries, though she fought hard to stifle them. Pound the Draculesti whore, his men encouraged each other. One at a time, they did.
Her face remained there. Purple and swollen, it turned as the rope tightened around her neck. Her legs dangled free, kicking aimlessly against the cold night breeze. A tongue, black and swollen, protruded from her mouth. Her eyes bulged as the noose slowly choked the life out of her. Yet, still they burned into his.
He turned his focus on a man much younger than he. A son crushed by the image of his mother dangling from a rope. One who had already brought himself much honour on the battlefield. Battered and bruised, he looked up defiantly. On his knees, he cursed them, each and every one.
Florescu looked down at the hot coals nearby. He picked out an iron, its metal red and glowing. A thousand sparks flew against the darkness when he blew on its tip. The young man eyed it with fear. He struggled against those who held him down, though it did him no good.
He pressed the hot iron against soft flesh. A loud hiss followed by the most horrible of screams. Then silence as the molten iron ate through all in its wake. Flesh and bone melted into one. He saw a blinded, convulsing body thrown down into an open grave. It was an image he could not escape.
Florescu awoke with a start. Voices close by had saved him from his nightly torture. Alin and Aurel, he thought. He rubbed a hand over his dry mouth. Groaning at the ache in his joints, he got up to pour another measure of wine into his cup. If he drank enough, he might sleep better. His mind might go to another place. Sweat trickled from his forehead and along his nose. He listened again to the two men. It was a welcome departure from where he had just been. He realised from the conversation that he had probably only dozed off for moments.
“Your theory does not explain how some of them were drained of their blood.”
“Perhaps they bled to death,” Alin argued.
“There was none on the ground. Someone or something drank it all from them.”
“The forest is full of wild animals.”
“An animal cannot drink a body of all its blood.”
“A bat might.”
Aurel laughed. “That would make you the one talking nonsense.”
“Well, you saw the puncture marks in the neck. That sounds like a bat to me.”
“A bat may drink a little. Thirty bats could not have drunk a man dry. And there was one bite to each drained corpse. It was no bat, or any number of them. It could only have been the work of the vampyr.”
“I have no other idea as to what could have done that. To suggest t
he vampyr is nothing but foolish superstition. There is no such thing, but for in fireside tales.”
“Of course you have no idea, but there is no other way to explain it. The cause is far beyond our understanding. I say Dracula did it from the grave.”
Before his friend could answer, they heard a large group of riders nearby. The two men stopped to look.
“Who is that?” Aurel wondered.
They waited until the group came closer. Alin’s fears were soon realised. “I was afraid of this. It is Craiovescu.”
The powerful boyar from Sibiu rode at the front of a group of fifty men. “Is your boyar in residence?” he asked the two sentries.
Florescu watched from the window. He knew this moment had to come. The only thing he wondered about was how long before his rivals killed him.
Craiovescu walked straight in and found him waiting. “Hello, Uncle,” he said, no warmth in his voice.
“Hello, Pirvu. It does not take the vultures long to circle.”
“I am not here to circle. I have come to swoop.”
“You cannot wait to take the rug from under my feet?”
“If I do not, then another shall do so in my place. Console yourself that I am family.”
“You are nothing to me. You are nothing like your father.”
“My father is long gone. I am my own man.”
“He was my ally and my best friend. He even took my sister as his wife.”
“I am not he.”
“That I know too well. I oft wondered how you are one of our kin.”
“If you have concerns, perhaps you should ask my mother.”
If Florescu were a younger man, he would have struck his nephew down. “I could never consider such a cur of a man as kin of mine.”
Craiovescu did not care. “Say what you will, Uncle. It matters little to me.”
“So what is to happen?”
“I am seizing control of the garrison.”
“You cannot. Sibiu is your domain.”
“If I do not, then all manner of scoundrel might come and sit in your chair. I shall not allow it.”
“You are building for the Wallachian throne. I have seen it coming a long time.”
“It is better than seeing a Draculesti remain there.”
“They are not!”
“Calugarul is a son of Dracul. That is a Draculesti to me.”
“That is why you manufactured this coup, and killed my son?”
Craiovescu gave him a steely look. “I shall forget you said those words. If we did not share the blood of my mother, I would strike you dead.”
“It makes perfect sense. My son and men are murdered. Barely are they in the ground, and you are here.”
“If you are seeking a culprit, then look no further than Varkal Gabrul.”
“He is dead somewhere.”
“Was his body found?”
He waited for his uncle to answer, but Florescu said nothing. “No, of course not. Your men went into the forest after him. At least, Anton did. He and another witnessed the murder of the peasant.”
“You mean Daniul Gravilan? And where is he these three weeks past?”
“Yes. He is at my fortress in Sibiu.”
“How convenient that is for you.”
“It matters not what you might think. He saw it all. Anton remained while he went for help, but ended with his throat cut. The woman they found inside the hut, raped and dead. Varkal is the man who has preyed on the women of Brasov.”
“And is he at your fortress too?”
The younger man ignored the remark. “You can enjoy an easy retirement here in your house. All your needs shall be met. The fortress, and the city, are under my control from this day forward.”
“I am retired!”
“Good night, Uncle.”
He left with his men for the fortress in the city. Florescu cursed him after he was gone. Arrogant bastard, he thought. Your father would turn in his grave if he could see what you have become.
The old man poured his third cup of plum wine. His head felt a little light and his stomach a little heavy. He sat back in his chair. What else did he have left? Nothing but to die quietly. He wished again he could pass away. His body felt tired and his heart felt alone. He had nothing left. Nothing but his nightmares, his one true and constant companion.
He took some time to reflect on his life. With his wine finished, he placed his cup down. Slowly, his eyes closed and he drifted back off to sleep. He saw a naked woman standing at the gallows with a rope around her neck.
Chapter 20
TRANSYLVANIA. THE RESIDENCE OF
VINTILA FLORESCU AT BRASOV.
NOVEMBER, 1494. THE SAME NIGHT.
Dracula entered the room soon after Craiovescu had left. Ilona and Varkal stood at his side. As the Captain of the Guard, Varkal had despised Florescu. He felt no different now as he gazed down on the old man.
His father read his thoughts. He knew Varkal was about to kick the old man’s legs to awaken him. When he put a finger to his lips, his son relaxed again.
Dracula looked down at him in his chair. It was the first time he had ever cast eyes upon him. He once vowed to his father that he would avenge the murders of his mother and brother. Although his father had fallen in battle at the hand of Mihail Basarab, he blamed this man for that too.
Images flashed through Florescu’s mind of his mother. He saw a large room of men abusing her one after another on her bed, the room he recognised as the bedchamber of his mother in the palace at Tirgoviste.
He watched on in silence. The same men led his mother naked out onto the piata. John Hunyadi sat high on his horse nearby. They bound her hands behind her back and placed a noose around her neck.
“Look away,” Ilona said to him. “It is not good for you to see this.”
He raised a hand to quieten her. “I need to see it. I have to know.”
Varkal felt a little uneasy. He had treated many women in a similar way in his lifetime. The woman he could see when he looked at Florescu was his grandmother.
He knew Ilona hated him for the man he was, and had not wanted to save him from the noose. She was not one to tolerate any crime against a woman. It gave him cause to worry. His father had only rescued him because of their blood connection. He feared now that if his father could see into Florescu’s dreams, he might turn on him as well.
The rope tightened around his grandmother’s neck and lifted her almost three feet off the ground. Dracula groaned and bit into his fist. It was more than he could bear. Yet, still he watched. He needed to know his mother’s pain. The stories he heard about it had haunted him for all of his mortal life. He had to know what these men had done to her.
A crowd stood around to witness her humiliation and death. She fought it with all her strength. In the end, she succumbed to the rope. Her body swung gently from side to side in the breeze.
A thought suddenly hit him. He had stood in that very spot a couple of days after the city had fallen. A woman hung there from the gallows, naked, as his mother was now. The crows had attacked her face so that he had not recognised her.
He felt weak for a moment, his legs almost buckling beneath him.
“Look away, Vlad,” Ilona urged him again. “Or kill him, and be done with it.”
He glared at her. “Wait a moment.”
They all cast their eyes over the old man again. He stirred in his chair, but did not awaken. His dreams projected an image of Dracula’s elder brother.
“Is that Mircea?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
Mircea rested on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. His face showed the signs of a severe beating. He looked totally distraught and cried out something none of them could hear.
Dracula reached out a hand, as if to touch him. The image changed to a fire on the piata where the hot coals blazed a fiery red. He saw a poker drawn from it and held up against the night. It reverted back to Mircea. His face looked ashen with fear.
“I have seen enough. Strip him down like he did my mother.”
Varkal grabbed the sleeping man by the collar. He lifted him from the chair and threw him down on the floor. The sudden jolt ripped the shirt from Florescu’s back. In the same moment, Ilona tore away the clothing from the lower half of his body.
The images ceased as Florescu opened his eyes. He gasped in shock at the fright of them waking him so suddenly, and looked disoriented. His first reaction was to put a hand down to his crotch to cover himself. When he got his bearings, he saw Varkal standing there.
“Hello, Vintila. Do you remember me?”
He was too stunned to speak. Only then did he notice the two others in the room. He had no clue as to the identity of the woman. The man, although he did not know him, looked strangely familiar.
Dracula picked up Victor’s head from the table and rolled it along the floor until it stopped close to Florescu’s face. “We meet at last, Florescu.”
The old man looked terrified. It occurred to him that it was this man who was responsible for his downfall. “Who are you? Why have you done this to me?”
“This day has been due to you a long time.”
“You killed my son? Why?”
“I wanted you to know that pain. The same pain you caused me so long ago.”
Florescu turned his head away, as if trying to remember what it was he could have done to the stranger.
“Look at me! Can you honestly say you do not know who I am?”
He felt confused. “You are familiar, but I do not know you.”
“Give him a hint, Father,” Varkal said, enjoying the game.
“Father? That is not your father.”
Dracula kicked him in the ribs. Florescu cried out and rolled over onto his back. “Look again! You spent enough years of your life running from me!”
When the pain had subsided a little, he looked again. “You have a likeness to Vlad Dracul, but he is long dead.”
“His memory functions, at least,” Ilona snarled.
“I wonder if he can remember a night in Tirgoviste,” Varkal said. “Does the December in 1447 come to mind, you snake?”
“He remembers it well,” Dracula said. “He is taken back there every time he closes his eyes.”
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 158