"He will be back for you," the old woman said quietly. "You know he will come. There are three locks remaining . . . it might be enough. You must wait for him here."
Jeanette's eyes widened with fear, but Mama's own gaze held no compassion. Perhaps it was there, buried deeply, but on her face was the still-mask of icy determination. "But, he will kill me, I . . ."
"Do you love him, girl?" The words were sudden and sunk in like daggers.
"You know I do. He is my life, even now."
"Then you must wait. I will do what I can, and, gods willing, we will still have something to say in this, eh?"
Jeanette nodded dumbly, not trusting herself to speak. She had been frightened in the swamp, horrified by what was happening, the shame and degradation, the pain, but this was worse. Terror was a cold liquid, flowing through her veins, and in the swamp, she heard again the blood-curdling cry of her destiny.
"Here," Mama said quickly. "Keep this with you, and, if he comes at you, you must thrust it at him without fear. If you do this, perhaps you see the sun again, eh? Now, give me the keys. I must be ready with the locks." She was holding forth a small pouch, tied about carefully with the thorny stem and blooming bud of a single red rose. Jeanette took it, passing over the ring of keys.
Then the old woman was gone, a fading vapor-vision in the darkness, and Jeanette was alone. She could see the tree-line of the swamp clearly in the brightness of the moonlight, and she waited, rocking slowly back and forth in the wheelchair and listening to its soft scratching at the floor. It seemed that her heart was a great drum, pounding louder and faster as the moments passed. Again the beast howled.
* * *
Trees and shrubs split and passed away in surreal blurs. The taste of the blood was at his lips and the moonlight glistened off the droplets that had spattered his silver-gray fur. It had been long and long, years piled on years, since he'd tasted the blood, and it was robbing him of his thoughts, stealing his focus.
Behind him, decaying to join the peat and the mire, already feeding the beasts and the heart of the swamp, the man-thing lay dead. With his death had come the blood, with the blood had fled his sense of purpose. He knew who he sought. He knew her scent, the temperature of her warm, flowing blood. He knew her eyes -- last seen masked in terror. He did not know why he must seek her. Thought was fading. Man was falling to beast, will to instinct, and the search had melted to hunt in a bloody haze of lust and insatiable hunger.
The scent led him to the edge of the trees, and from there he could see the silhouette through the bars of the window. There was a familiarity to the scene, the face, the pulsing sound of the heartbeat he could just make out over the din of the night birds and the chirping of crickets. He moved like a shadow from the line of trees, squatting further into the four-legged gait that was becoming more and more familiar.
He saw the woman draw back from the window, heard her gasp and rise, as if to move for the door, but he was too quick. He noted, in passing, that a third presence lurked near the door, but the blood there was older -- less appealing and flowing with a stagnant, over-ripe consistency. He focused on the doorway, the woman, and when he reached the open doorway, he leaped inside with a snarl.
As if from far away, he heard the woman's screams, her words. He heard names, wails, things he should know and did not, and it infuriated him further. All he could see was the vessel that flowed with the blood he craved, the clean, pure blood. He launched himself forward, jaws gaping.
Jeanette, realizing that he was not listening, that he would kill her, thrust the bag that Mama had given her forward, tossing it in terror at his approaching jaws and flinging her arms over her eyes to remove the sight of her fate. She prayed that it would not linger, that it would be swift and sudden, and final.
She felt his clawed arms reach for her, felt the impact as the huge, furred body slammed into her and smashed her into the chair and the wall, knocking her half-senseless and re-animating the pain of her earlier bruises. She closed her eyes and silently awaited the closing of those massive jaws on her throat, the final moment of release. It never came. There was the one crash, the one impact, a soft moan, and then nothing. No sound. No movement. No death.
Finally, when her heartbeat and breathing had slowed to where she could move, she opened her eyes. There was a horrible snapping, grinding sound, and she flinched, but nothing touched her, and she sat up quickly, looking over at Paul's suddenly inert body.
The bag had scored a direct hit on his gaping maw. Whatever had been in it, it had been effective, and sudden. The rose dangled from the closed jaws, dripping with saliva and blood, and his face was rippling -- his whole form, actually -- shrinking, warping, reforming. The wet snapping sounds nauseated her, and she turned her head to retch, half fearing those feral eyes would snap open again and spear her through the heart. They did not.
It was over in moments. She stood and looked down at the inert form of her husband, unmoving except for the regular rise and fall of his chest. The eyes were vacant, and the blood was now mixed with a thin trail of drool that ran down from the corner of his mouth and onto the floor.
She turned and noted that Mama Duvalier had done her part. The three dead bolts were locked tight, and she knew they would remain so until morning. It did not matter. She moved across the floor, stumbling as the pain shot through her legs and her abdomen, until she reached her husband. Kneeling, she raised his head softly and sat back, laying it gently in her lap.
She wiped away the blood from the corners of his mouth, but she dared not remove the rose. Leaning back against the wall, she softly caressed his hair and allowed her eyes to close once more. She searched deep, searching for memories of an older time, a better time, and the night melted away to darkness. As she drowsed, she leaned forward, kissing him once on the lips. She slept with a bittersweet taste on her tongue, the taste of blood and roses.
The Death-Sweet Scent of Lilies
The sound of dripping blood was hypnotic, drawing him away from the reality of the moment and into the recesses of his mind -- of his memory. The stakes surrounded him like a small forest, their grisly cargoes twisting and turning slowly downward as the sharpened tips worked their way through flesh and around bone with the help of gravity. The dying sun drew grisly shadows that trailed away from the corpses and drained into the growing night.
Only a couple of those impaled had the strength left to fight. Only one of them still lived. He was vaguely aware of the woman's eyes, glaring down at him, struggling through the pain to concentrate on him, as if desiring to take his image to the hereafter, where they might meet again.
He paid her no attention. Let her die with her fantasy, he would die with his own nightmares, and they had come for him again, though he was awake and aware, dragging him inward.
* * *
The cell in the sultan's palace had been cold and damp, but the chill that had set into the marrow of his bones went far deeper than physical discomfort. He had been punished before, many times, and yet this time, somehow, he knew it would be different. This time he felt his life teetering in the balance. While the thrill of it was delicious, still he feared.
It had been a small thing. One of the princes of the palace had wanted a particular girl -- Myrna; Vlad had wanted her as well. Myrna had chosen Vlad. Officially he was a guest at the palace, though all knew the truth of it -- that he was hostage against the good faith of his father, he and his younger brother Radu. If it had ended at the girl, all would have been well, but of course, it had not.
Ahmen, the prince, had not been satisfied with defeat. He'd come upon Vlad in the gardens, weapon drawn, and he'd insisted that they fight. He would, he'd said, avenge his honor on this "son of a dog" -- thus making it personal. Vlad was no stranger to fighting -- he'd done more than his share of it since arriving at the palace -- and he'd set about teaching the young prince a lesson; that lesson was that a dog is no mean adversary.
The cuts, and the young man's pride, would heal,
though there would be a scar on his cheek until the day he died to remind him of Vlad Dracula. The sultan's anger was less easy -- less malleable. There was no fighting allowed, especially no fighting wherein "guests" injured princes. No matter the cause of the dispute, Vlad was at fault, Vlad would be punished.
They had brought him to the cell in the early afternoon, leaving him with nothing but a skin of warm, brackish wine and his thoughts. He had never been in this particular section of the dungeons, and his sense of direction, usually without peer, was failing him. He knew only that his prison bordered a garden or what had once been a garden, before decay had set in, and that the barred window in the far wall looked out over that barren, lifeless place.
There was something about the way the light slipped through and over the court, but never seemed to touch it, the way the shadows held their ground and relinquished nothing to the dying rays of sunlight, that sped his heartbeat. The hairs at the back of his neck were standing, prickling, and he nearly jumped from his boots when a key slipped into the lock and the door grated noisily behind him.
Turning swiftly, he found that the sultan himself had entered the cell, alone, and that the door was closing again behind him.
"Your eminence," he said, barely hiding the sneer in his voice. "This is a surprise."
"Oh, this moment has been long in coming, young Vlad, but it was as inevitable as death." The sultan's voice had a merry lilt to it, as always, but his eyes were cold, like those of a serpent.
"I trust you have had some time to think over your transgressions...do you know why you are here?
"To soothe the wounded pride of a very stupid and physically inept prince, I believe," Vlad snapped.
"Oh, that..." the sultan made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "You may have actually done Ahmed a favor. He is much too quick to provoke a fight, and now he has learned that when you do so, you risk losing. He is lucky it was only his pride."
"Then," Vlad's tone changed, his brain racing,"why am I here?"
"You remind me too much of your father, young Vlad. He had been nothing but the greatest of thorns in my side, and I see him in your eyes, only it is much more dangerous because, where your father is wild, impetuous, and strong, you are all of that and much more intelligent."
Vlad said nothing, his senses on full alert for a sudden movement, or a trap.
"This leaves me with a problem, you see," the sultan went on. "You will be free one day, assuming your father manages to keep himself in check long enough to ensure it, and on that day we will no doubt become enemies. Do not try and deny it, it is in your blood.
"I have something to show you that I hope will help to even the odds. There are secrets even your father cannot have told you, things very few know of, things that make a difference. Do you believe in God, Vlad Dracula?"
The question took him completely by surprise. He had been raised in the church. All that his father stood for, all that they fought for, was so heavily enmeshed in the church that it was part of their lives, their souls. Did he believe in God?
"I do not know," he answered slowly. "I have been taught to fear God, and that is a hard lesson to unlearn. In that respect, I believe in God."
"I will show you a new fear," the sultan said softly. His voice was still light, but his eyes were dancing now, and deep within their depths, Vlad saw the fear the man spoke of surfacing.
His own heart sped accordingly. This man had locked him here, was threatening to teach him fear, and yet he feared himself. Whatever was to come, it was either safe for neither of them, or simply horrifying enough that, even without personal risk, it made the sultan nervous. Vlad grinned.
"You will show me something that will bind me to you?" Vlad asked slowly, not wanting to let his true feelings show, his contempt. He could imagine nothing, death included, that could bring such a thing about.
"I will show you something that will bind you to nothing," the sultan replied quietly. "I will show you something to shake your belief in yourself, your God, and your world. I will show you something to pale the threat of death.
"You are wise and strong beyond your years, Vlad Dracula, but you have not lived those years. Your experience limits you."
The sun had fallen steadily as they talked, and the shadows that had ruled in the corners and nether-regions of the ancient courtyard beyond the window stretched forth to swallow it whole. Vlad could think of nothing to say, and he was afraid, in any case, that a catch in his throat might give away the dread that was stealing over his soul with the vanishing of the light. He stood in silence, and the older man came to stand at his side, watching.
Suddenly, there were sounds in the courtyard, the scuffing of feet, the rattling of chain and the scrape of metal against metal. There were soft curses and a whimpering, keening cry -- muffled, but forlorn and so bereft of hope that it stood the hairs on Vlad's arms and at the nape of his neck on end. He reached up to grip the bars on the ancient window, fought to split the shroud of darkness to see what, and who, was there.
They came into sight moments later, illumined by a soft glow of moonlight that had begun to trickle down through the withered trees. He could make out three figures. Two were larger, men, and the third was dragged between them. He could just make out a woman's robes . . . no, only a girl. She struggled wildly in the grip of her two captors, but to no avail. She was bound, hand and foot, in chains.
As they drew closer, Vlad could make out the soft lines of her face. It was Myrna, she over whom he and Ahmed had fought, and her eyes were wide with unbridled terror. He could see their whites as they tried to roll in upon themselves. What would instill such fear?
"Is this some sort of joke?" he said, spinning to the sultan in anger. "The girl means nothing to me; do you think her death will change me?"
"I have not grown to this age by being a fool, young Vlad . . . you would do well to keep that in mind. Watch. Learn. Fear. The girl is nothing."
This wasn't exactly true. Vlad could still remember the softness of her skin as they'd pressed together the night before, the touch and taste of her lips, the soft, flower-scent of her hair. She was not important, not exactly, but the point that was being made of her, at his expense, that was an insult that would be repaid. He kept his silence, and he watched.
The two men released her from her shackles, one at a time, but they held her tightly by each arm, as if awaiting some sign. Vlad looked out and caught Myrna's eyes, just for a moment, and they held his -- begging him, beseeching him. The futility of her trust in him angered him further, and he felt the muscles in his arms tense, felt his hands gripping the bars so tightly that either the metal, or skin and bone, would surely give.
What could they be planning? Rape? Torture? Were there wolves to be set free, or was it all a show to see if they could get him to react? What kind of lesson could this man, this "Turk," be planning? The man might be a dog, but he was no fool, as he himself had pointed out.
There was a high, keening cry from above, and the men, their own eyes awash in sudden dread, released their hold, throwing Myrna to the ground. They melted into the shadows quickly, and before she could rise to follow, they were gone. She was alone, except for her silent audience of two. Vlad's breath quickened.
Myrna did not move immediately. She seemed pinned to the ground, trembling and weak. Looking about herself frantically, she searched the encroaching shadows, never locking her gaze on any one point. She sensed something -- they all sensed something -- but there was no direction to it, only the acrid, bitter stench of danger. It burned at Vlad's eyes, dripped from him in the sweat that stained his tunic and froze, clammy against his thighs.
There was a skittering sound, like claws against stone, and the fluttering of a thousand moths, trapped against the glass of a lantern. Vlad could not tear his eyes from Myrna. She shivered now, melting to the ground without form or substance, unable to rise. Her gaze was devoid of thought or intelligence. He saw the animal in her, stark and unchained, and it was not a preda
tor he saw, but helpless prey.
Then his heart stopped. The window was blocked, no, not blocked. There was a face in the window, a creature, grasping the bars from the other side, eyes feral and yellowed, fangs bared in an evil grimace that mocked a smile. The creature let loose the high, keening screech once more, this time directly in his face, and he felt the heat of its breath, smelled the stench of decayed flesh and generations of death washing over and around him, trapping him.
The thing had its claws wrapped around his fingers where he grasped the bars, and he could not tear his hands away. He could not release his eyes, either, as he felt himself dragged easily into the things gaze. Behind him he was vaguely aware of the sound of scraping stone, aware that the sultan, for all his bravado, was making his exit. There was no time to spare for the man now. All was focused on those eyes, on the points where cold, icy flesh gripped his own, and the madness of the power he felt emanating from the thing.
As the door behind him slammed back into place, he wrenched himself free with a mighty tug, falling heavily back and slamming into the stone of the opposite wall. His head connected hard with unyielding stone, but somehow he managed to stagger to his feet. He tottered back to the window, careful to keep his hands from the bars, and he gazed into the courtyard.
His heart was hammering so fiercely that he felt it would burst from his chest, but he had to see -- had to know. Whatever that thing was, whatever it was going to do, he had to know. He had looked into its eyes, and he had not seen his death -- he had seen hunger, damnation far beyond the physical release of death -- madness. He had to know.
The thing had left the window as he fell away, swinging to face Myrna, who was pressed so tightly against the ground that she seemed no more than a small lump in the courtyard. Her eyes were as round as saucers, wider and more filled with dread than any Vlad had seen, and they were locked onto those of the creature. It advanced with mincing, prancing steps across the court to where she lay prone, and yet she did nothing to move from its path, did nothing to try and escape.
A Taste of Blood and Roses Page 11