by Finley Aaron
“If you say so.” I return to the dining room and set the drinks next to the chickens. “Let’s eat this miracle chicken, then you can teach me how to play blackjack so we can get to translating the book.”
The chicken is quite tasty, and, as advertised, not too dry. Constantine washes his hands before pulling out decks of cards while I finish eating.
“I will be the dealer.” He lays out the dining room table like a blackjack table, even going so far as to enlist the plastic deli trays of our discarded chicken bones to stand in for other players. “Henrietta,” he names one pile of bones. “And Mister Cluckins.”
“I’m going to feel really stupid if I lose to Mister Cluckins.”
“I will be playing for Mister Cluckins and Henrietta.”
“I’m going to lose to Mister Cluckins,” I predict as I finish off the last of the chicken meat, resisting the urge to crunch down the bones. Chicken bones are quite tasty, and a good source of calcium, but I don’t want Constantine to see me eating them or he might ask questions, because last I checked, normal people do not eat chicken bones. Dragons eat chicken bones.
But I don’t want Constantine to suspect anything.
I add the bones to Henrietta’s tray, wash my hands, and refill our drinks before announcing I’m ready to play.
“You have no blackjack experience?” Constantine confirms.
“None.”
“Then don’t worry about counting cards yet. Today, we will work on learning to play the game.”
For the next few hours, Constantine deals the cards and makes betting and playing decisions on behalf of the chicken bones, both of which end up with higher winnings than I do. Several times, Constantine has to refresh my dwindling pile of chips (they’re not even potato chips or tortilla chips, but plastic betting chips similar to those used in real casinos).
“I’m sorry I’m not any good,” I apologize when Constantine announces we’ve played enough blackjack for one day.
“You are improving. Besides, it is not your job to win. It is your job to count. Don’t confuse the two.”
While Constantine excuses himself to the restroom, I carry the chicken bones to the kitchen, and gobble up some of the crunchy spine pieces before I toss the rest in the trash.
Mmm, those are so good. Seriously, it’s like I get some kind of vitamin deficiency when I don’t eat enough real dragon food.
“Ready for translation?” Constantine asks from the kitchen doorway, way sooner than I expected him to return.
“Re—dcck.” I cough on the chicken spines.
Constantine grabs my water glass from the table and hands it over to me.
I’m still coughing too hard to hold the glass, so when I wrap my fingers around it, he’s still holding on.
His fingers are so cold where they touch mine.
Almost ice cold.
But that’s part of the vampire mythology, too, isn’t it?
Clearing my throat is made more complicated by the fact that I don’t want Constantine to see what I had in my mouth, but I get enough control over my hacking to manage a sip of water. Once that goes down without stirring anything up, I drink again.
“All better?”
“Better. Thanks.” I set the glass on the counter and wash my hands. “Let’s get to that translation.”
As I’d hoped, Constantine doesn’t waste any time, but opens the book and picks up right where we left off, with Mircea, Vlad, and Radu Dracula. He tells me the three sons of Vlad Dracul were raised to be military leaders, learning from a young age how to ride horses, fight with swords, and use a lance—a javelin-like spear most commonly used in the warfare of the day.
“A skilled warrior,” Constantine notes, “would not just knock his enemies from their horses, but could actually impale them as he rode past. Vlad, in particular, became quite skilled with the lance.”
This tidbit is unique to the rest. “His obsession with impaling began at a very young age?” I clarify, adding the words to my notes.
“Ah, yes.” Constantine nods soberly. “He felt frustrated by the limitations to his power. He lived under constant reminders of the Ottoman threat, and when practicing the joust, he would boast about how many of the enemy he could impale. But it would be many long years before he could make good those claims—and by then, it was no longer a game.”
For a moment, Constantine’s face bears a far-away look. Then he launches back into the translation.
It’s a complicated story with many players. Not only did Vlad Dracul have to constantly assuage his powerful neighbors far away, but he also had to keep the peace among the various parties near to home. For the next hour, I’m jotting names, places, dates—so many I can barely keep them all straight, even with my baseline familiarity after all the research I’ve done.
Finally, in the midst of this saga, Constantine reaches the part of the story that was a major turning point in Vlad Dracula’s life—the great betrayal.
I know the story well.
In 1443, Vlad Dracul was caught between political promises and embroiled in skirmishes on every side. Though the oath he pledged to the Order of the Dragon required him to protect Christendom against the Turks, nonetheless, he was obliged to pay homage to the Ottoman Empire. Summoned to Gallipoli by the sultan, Dracul had little choice but to go, or risk provoking the Turks.
Having been lied to many times already, and perhaps suspecting a trap, Vlad Dracul left his oldest son, Mircea (then about 15 years old), in charge of his kingdom, and traveled with his two younger sons, Vlad and Radu. Technically he was expected to bring all of his sons, but he sent a rumor ahead that Mircea had been killed in battle.
No sooner had Vlad and his sons reached the city, than the sultan had the three of them seized and held prisoner. It wasn’t until Vlad swore to pay a yearly tribute of both gold and boys for the sultan’s army, that Vlad Dracul was released, alone, to return home—on the condition that he not engage in any aggression against the Turks. His two sons were held as a kind of collateral, binding him to his agreement in exchange for their continued survival.
For Vlad Dracula, who was then merely 12 years old, the experience was more than terrifying. A veritable prisoner in a hostile, foreign land, his life at risk at every moment, he learned he could trust no one. He was subject to, and witness to, horrific acts of torture, the details of which I will spare you because I can’t stand thinking about them.
And though he learned quickly to obey his captors, during the long years of his imprisonment, Vlad Dracula dreamed of his revenge.
He got his chance in the most awful of ways.
Dracula’s father, Vlad Dracul, had returned home to rule, but the continued pressures from without and within did not make life easy for him. Dracul was fully aware that any perceived aggression against the Turks could result in death for his two sons who were still being held captive. However, the locals were not nearly so invested in keeping the sultan happy.
By November of 1447, Dracul’s rivals at home could no longer be contained. They’d spread unrest among the populace and hatched a plan to lure Vlad Dracul and his eldest son, Mircea, into their hands, to overthrow them, and to rule in their place. After a series of complicated intrigues, the usurpers managed to separate the two, trapping Mircea, torturing him, and ultimately burying him alive.
Vlad Dracul was chased to the marshes, where he was assassinated. And though his faithful followers claimed to have given his body proper burial, its resting place has never been officially identified.
Vlad Dracul’s end was a tragic one, but it was only the beginning for his son, Vlad Dracula. Part of the sultan’s long gamble in keeping Vlad and Radu prisoner was not just to have sway over the current leader, but to impose his values upon the future leader.
As his father’s heir, Vlad Dracula was released and sent home to rule with the support of the sultan.
“He had many injustices he wanted to avenge,” Constantine laments. “But those had to wait until he cou
ld establish himself in power. He needed the support of the sultan and the power of the Turkish threat behind him in order to rule his own people. And that is another very long story, for another day.”
Constantine closes the book.
I’d beg him to keep reading, but I’m too tired. And from what I know of the story, there is too much for him to tell it all tonight, even if I wasn’t already exhausted. The book is long, and he’s less than a third of the way through it.
Besides, he promises to pick up where he left off tomorrow.
But when I exit my last Thursday class the next day, Constantine is nowhere to be seen. The day is overcast—the clouds are so thick, the street lights are on.
I get an uneasy feeling as I walk home, not unlike the feeling I had before my backpack was stolen, although right now I’m surrounded by people leaving class, so I should be relatively safe.
Should I call Constantine? Perhaps I should be glad for the reprieve. We’ve been spending so much time together lately. With any luck, my father should be arriving in the next twelve to twenty-four hours. Maybe I should lie low until then.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I hurry home, lock my front door behind me, and stretch out on the sofa to wait, phone in hand. After so many late nights, it’s no wonder my eyelids feel heavy.
A thump at the front door startles me awake, and I glance at my phone.
Midnight.
I’ve been asleep for eight hours. But who’s at the door?
Is it my dad? I doubt he could have gotten here so quickly.
The doorbell rings several times in quick succession, and the door rattles against its frame. Whoever is on the other side is growing impatient.
Well, they’re just going to have to wait. I’m not opening the door for trouble. I flick on the porch light and peer through the peephole at the figure on the other side.
It’s Constantine.
I fling open the door and he staggers inside.
“Stay back. Blood.” He drops my slashed-open backpack on the floor and stumbles past me, clutching his shirt. It’s one of those black t-shirts like he’s worn before, and I can’t tell but maybe it’s soaked with blood? Anyway, he’s not dripping on the floor.
I lock the door behind us. Seriously, am I having another nightmare?
“Towels.” Constantine’s voice sounds strained, almost strangled, as he staggers past me toward the bathroom. “Towels you don’t ever need to see again. I will have to burn them.”
This has got to be a dream. Everything is too weird.
And yet, it feels so real.
“Are you okay? Can I help you?” I grab a few of our oldest bath towels from the linen closet beside the bathroom door, step into the bathroom doorway, and gasp.
Constantine is standing in the shower, fully dressed, one hand still clutching near his ribs. With his other hand, he gingerly tugs his shirt up toward his mouth, sprouts fangs, and rips into the shirt with his teeth, tearing it down the middle. He shrugs it off each shoulder in turn.
It falls in a bloody pile on the floor of the shower.
But that’s not why I gasped.
There’s a chunk of wood sticking out of his body, between his right lower ribs.
Someone tried to impale him with a wooden stake.
Chapter Ten
“Toss me the towels. Stay back. Don’t get any blood on you.”
I toss the towels. “Do you need—”
“I’m fine.” He catches the towels with his free hand. “Stay back.”
I step out of the bathroom, but I’m still watching around the edge of the door as Constantine grimaces and tugs the wooden stake out from between his ribs. Before much blood can gush out, he covers the wound with the towels.
It’s a long stake. Seriously, the thing was nearly long enough to come back out his back. Aren’t there vital organs over there? I know the appendix isn’t vital, but you’re still not supposed to stab it open or any of that. Is he going to die?
This is a nightmare.
I thought it was bad when I had a dead bat on my kitchen floor. How am I going to explain away a dead vampire in my bathroom?
He’s never going to fit in the fridge.
“Have you got a sewing kit?” Constantine’s leaning against the back wall of the shower.
“Sewing kit?” I repeat, still trying to sort out whether I’m dreaming. Assuming I’m not, and I really do have a mortally-injured man in my bathroom, where could I possibly hide his body? It’s freezing outside now, so the garage is currently like a gigantic freezer case, but the weather will turn warm long before graduation, which means thaw and rot and stench.
This is going to have a majorly negative impact on our resale value.
“A needle and thread?” Constantine specifies. “String? Something sharp and some string, really, is all I need. I can improvise. Do you still have those chicken bones from last night? I’ve made a needle out of chicken bone before. They break easily, but if you haven’t got a proper needle—”
“I’ve got a sewing kit,” I recall aloud. It’s one of those cheap vinyl pouch numbers from the dollar store, but my mom thought it would be a good idea to keep one on hand, in case we ever needed one.
I think she envisioned something more like sewing on a loose button than stitching shut a vampire dying in the shower, though.
As I run upstairs for the needle and thread, my bare feet slap against the cold stairs, and I start to wake up a little more.
All my rational faculties are telling me I’ve got to be dreaming. But all my senses perceive the events as real. When I pinch myself, it hurts.
And I don’t wake up.
Instead, I clamber down the stairs to find my slashed backpack still on the floor near the front door. When I return to the bathroom, Constantine is leaning against the wall of the shower, waiting for me, his face even paler than usual in spite of his natural olive skin tone.
“Just place it on the sink there. I don’t want you coming into contact with my blood.” Constantine doesn’t reach for the sewing kit until I’ve withdrawn my hand and ducked back around the doorway.
This is real.
“What happened? You found the guys who took my backpack?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have to go looking for it. I can replace everything that was in there.”
“I wanted answers.”
“To what? Don’t we already know they’re looking for Melita Thorne’s translation?”
“That’s precisely what was bothering me.”
“What?” I’m too grossed out by the thought of whatever he’s doing on the other side of the door (no, I’m not watching), to really follow everything he’s implying. Plus, I’m still not one hundred percent awake.
“You said you located a copy of the book, but by the time you reached the library to check it out, it was gone.”
“Yes. They must have beat me to it.”
“Then why are they still after you?”
Constantine’s question hits me like a cold draft. Granted, there was always something not-quite-right about the whole scenario, but I’ve been so busy trying to sort out whether Constantine really is a vampire and how to stay safe from the other vampires, that I hadn’t sat down to analyze that part. Maybe in some ways, I’ve fallen into the classic scholar trap—so focused on my research I can’t see past it.
But now it’s as though Constantine has thrown open a window, and a frigid blast of reality has blown in.
“I—I don’t know. Maybe they think I know something…or have something? Maybe when they stole the book, they didn’t get everything they wanted? Maybe there was a page missing, and they think I took it?”
“Something like that.” Constantine’s voice sounds strained by pain. “When I caught up to them, I demanded answers. As usual, they did not want to give up any information that would give me any advantage over them. Still, they could not help giving away one critical detail.”
Constantine sucks in a sh
arp breath.
I dare to peek around the door. He’s got the needle in his hand, the thread dangling from the spot where the stake went in. He’s sewing himself closed.
“What detail?” I ask, my eyes pinched shut, my forehead pressed to the cool doorframe.
“They don’t have the book, either. When they went to get it, it was already gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. And then you showed up asking about the book.”
“But why would I ask for the book if I already had it? Surely the fact that I was asking about it would tip them off that I don’t have it.”
“I asked them the same question. They seemed to believe I was trying to throw them off your trail. Whether you have it or not, you’re the biggest lead they’ve had in decades, and the very fact you knew about the book enough to ask for it is a clue that, in their minds, warrants pursuit.” Constantine emerges from the bathroom carrying his shirt in a bundle made of towels. “I’ve mopped up the blood, but don’t go in there until I’ve sanitized everything. I need to burn these. Does your fireplace work?”
“Yes. Just let me get the plug out of the chimney.” I scoot the grate free and pull out the insulating cap that keeps the cold air from rushing into the living room.
No sooner have I stepped back than Constantine puts the whole bundle atop the pile of kindling I had in there, which came from a small branch that dropped in the yard last fall.
“Matches?”
“Let me look for some.” I retreat to the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, even though I doubt I’ll find any matches. My whole family knows how to breathe fire, so we don’t tend to keep matches on hand.
“Have you got any bleach?” Constantine calls. “And paper towels?”
“Bleach, paper towels.” I hold them out as I enter the living room.
He’s got a blaze going in the fireplace, licking up the towels and the stake and the kindling. I’m staring at it, surprised, as he takes the cleaning supplies from me.
“Thank you. I’ll just be another moment.”
I avert my eyes as I hand the things over to him. His shirt was in the pile of bloody things that are now burning in my fireplace. His otherwise-impressive midsection is marred by a nasty web of black stitches. “Would you like a shirt?” I call after him.