by Finley Aaron
“If you’ve got one to spare.”
By the time I return from upstairs with an extra-large t-shirt (extra-large is always my second choice when larges are sold out. Mediums are just too snug. Though I prefer to think of my size as above average. That has a kinder ring to it than large.), Constantine is done cleaning the bathroom, and is tracing his path from the front door, wiping down the hardwood floor with a bleach-soaked handful of paper towels, I guess just to be sure he’s got everything.
When it comes to vampire blood, he doesn’t take any chances.
I could ask him a lot of questions, like how he got the fire started or whether he thinks the vampires will leave me alone after this, but the most pressing question on my mind is, “If they don’t have the book, and we don’t have it, then who has it?”
“I don’t know.” Constantine frowns. “If we’re lucky, the book was stolen by a relatively innocent Dracula scholar—someone fascinated by the story of Vlad Dracula, but otherwise unaware of the secrets his biography might contain.”
Constantine finishes wiping the floor and heads to the kitchen to wash his hands.
Though I’m dreadfully curious about the secrets Constantine’s referring to, another question is more urgent. I follow him into the kitchen. “And if we’re not lucky?”
“If we’re not lucky—and, frankly, this is the more likely scenario—the book has been stolen by one of the many immortals who desire to learn its secrets.” He dries his hands on the kitchen towel and heads back to the living room.
“Immortals?”
“Yes. Vampires and the like.” He plants a hand on the back of one of the dining chairs, supporting himself. He looks sincerely lightheaded. “Can you help me with the shirt? I don’t want to reach my hands above my head—it might pull out the stitches.”
For an awkward moment, I struggle to get the shirt in place over Constantine’s head. This requires me to stand quite close to him. It’s like we’re dancing. Or hugging.
But obviously not hugging because the injury at his ribs is still slightly oozy.
“Be very careful not to come into contact with my blood,” Constantine warns me, raising one hand just to shoulder height so I can stretch a sleeve over it.
He smells good. I should not be smelling him, but it’s not like I can just stop breathing. And I kind of want to inhale a deep lungful of his scent, like the woods on a cool fall day, or coming home to a feast of roasted meat.
No, no. I need to think about something else.
“Why did they stab you with a stake?” I ask.
His answer is exactly what I’d have guessed. “The only way to kill a vampire is with a stake through the heart.”
“Yes, but why kill you? I thought you knew things. Why would they want you dead?” I’m struggling to stretch the second arm-hole over his other hand. Really, his shoulders are a bit too broad even for the extra-large shirt. When my fingers brush his skin, I feel his icy coldness, and it reminds me again that I’ve never clarified what parts of the vampire myth are real. Is Constantine undead? Is that why he’s always cold to the touch? But he’s answering my question about why the others tried to kill him, so now is not the time to change the subject.
“It was my stake. I went in armed, got the backpack and at least a little information, and tried to tell them to stay away from you. But I was outnumbered and we fought. One of them took a stake from me and used it on me.”
“Do you think he meant to kill you? Or is it possible they missed on purpose and this was just a warning?” Finally, I get the fabric stretched over Constantine’s arm.
“He aimed for the heart.”
“You dodged it?”
Constantine’s smirk is almost wistful. “At most any other point in my life I would have welcomed death—would have leaned in to be sure the stake struck home. By most calculations, my death is five hundred years overdue. But I realized I had to stay alive.” He grips the chair back again and closes his eyes as though it’s too much effort to keep them open.
“Because of the book?” I have the shirt in place. I can step away and put some space between us. Any time now.
But he’s opened his eyes again, and the pull of his gaze is too strong.
“Because of you.”
For a second it’s as though all the air has been sucked from the room.
How many seconds pass, I don’t know. Part of my brain is trying to sort out whether Constantine is flirting with me, but why would he do that since we’re two different species?
Part of my brain is still fighting the urge to press my nose to his shoulder and inhale. That would just be too weird and awkward.
And part of my brain is thinking whatever danger we’re up against must be bad, if he felt he had to dodge death on my account, just to keep me safe.
That is what he’s referring to, isn’t it? Keeping me safe?
All he said was, because of you. That could almost imply there’s something more between us, some future—
No.
No, there can be no future between us. We both know that.
His eyes meet mine from inches away. “Shall I translate for you, or do you prefer me to go? It is late and you need your sleep.”
I’m quick to take a step back. “I fell asleep right after I got home from class, so I’ve basically had a full night’s sleep already.”
Constantine gives me one of those wry smiles that’s almost a smirk. “I am turning you into a nocturnal creature.”
“Eh. College students are practically nocturnal anyway.” I dismiss his claim. “But don’t you want to drill me in blackjack?”
“I had intended to, but if it is indeed true that Melita’s translation is in the hands of one of the immortals who is vying against us, then I wish to convey the contents of the original book to you as soon as possible.”
For a moment, it’s all I can do to stare at Constantine and wonder, for the thousandth time, what I’ve gotten myself involved in.
Constantine must be able to read the question on my face (of course he can), because he explains in a cautious tone, “They’re not playing games. I would never choose to involve you, but since they’re already after you, the best I can do now is let you in on all I know. Knowledge may be your strongest defense at this point. Should anything happen to me,” he pauses. His hand hovers over the spot in his ribs where the stake went in, but he doesn’t touch it. Instead he grips the chair back again and meets my eyes. “You may be the only one who can stop them.”
Now I’m holding tight to the back of a chair. Slowly, it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten since lunch. I’m light-headed for several reasons. “We should translate. I need to know as much as I can learn. But the book—”
“I do not have it with me. I’ll have to fetch it. Give me two minutes?”
“Take as long as you need. I’m going to fix us something to eat.”
Constantine nods solemnly, then disappears.
Quickly, I head to the kitchen, unwrap some steaks from the fridge, toss them on the griddle grill-plate of the gas stove, and breathe a blast of fire, searing the outsides nicely before I turn on the gas.
Constantine returns as I’m getting out plates.
“I thought you could use some iron after the blood you lost,” I explain as I lift the meat from the griddle.
“That is very thoughtful of you. I will translate while we eat. Where did I leave off?”
“Vlad Dracul was assassinated, Mircea was buried alive, and Vlad Dracula returned to rule in his father’s place.” I grab utensils for us both.
“Ah, yes.” Constantine sits and turns the pages to the appropriate spot, pausing a moment while I slice into my beef. “This is not such good dinnertime reading,” he apologizes.
I’ve already stuffed a bite of beef into my mouth, but I talk past it. “Just fill me in on the important things. You can read the Romanian in your head while you chew.”
Hopefully he can see the urgency on my face. The taste of food
has revived me, and I’m alert to the real danger now. Constantine had a stake driven between his ribs. They were clearly aiming for his heart.
We don’t have time for him to wait for the optimum moment to share his knowledge. The vampires out there are willing to kill for this information.
I can suppress my gag reflex long enough to hear him speak.
Constantine begins with the next incident in the timeline, which I’ve read about in other sources.
“Upon his return to his homeland, Dracula sought out those with knowledge of the place where his brother, Mircea, had been buried alive. He had the coffin exhumed and found that, indeed, the rumors were true. Mircea was lying face downward. There were claw marks all over the inside of the coffin, a testimony to his struggle to escape. His fingernails had broken off—”
I hold up one hand for Constantine to stop. “That’s enough detail. Let’s get on with the story.”
“Dracula was forced to bury his anger toward those who had tortured his brother. He had to work with them to establish his rule, but he did not forget.” Constantine eats bites of steak between paragraphs, relaying the political intrigues between the various parties as Dracula’s power increased over the next several years.
“Finally, by Easter of 1457, Dracula’s opportunity for revenge had arrived. He assembled those local rival leaders who were responsible for his father’s and brother’s deaths. After feeding them a lavish feast, Dracula had the most able-bodied among them put in chains. They were marched fifty miles upriver, and forced to labor making bricks, building his castle with walls thick enough to withstand cannon fire. They labored in their Easter finery until their clothes fell from their backs.
“But the worst of the offenders—those who had personally executed his father, who had heartlessly buried his brother, deaf to his pleas for mercy—those men, Dracula had impaled alive on stakes, and left their bodies there to rot as a warning to all.”
By this point in the telling of the story, I’ve finished eating my steak—which is a good thing, because I’m not sure I could swallow a bite with that picture in my head. But this pivotal moment in the Dracula narrative—the incident that got Dracula labeled The Impaler—has been greatly debated among historians.
I want to know the real truth. “How many?”
“How many?” Constantine looks up from his silent reading of the Romanian text. “How many what?”
“How many were impaled that day?”
Constantine’s lips twitch. It isn’t the full smirk this time, but something softer, almost regretful. “What have you read?”
“Oh, there were claims of hundreds—two hundred, even five hundred. But I’ve also read the courtyard where it happened isn’t big enough to hold more than forty. And the census records before and after the event hold almost all the same names, so unless the census counted the bodies on the stakes…”
“Six.”
“Six? Six men were impaled that day?”
“Yes. Though from the sound of their screams, which carried for miles around, you might have thought there were hundreds. Rumors spread and Dracula let them. It was in his best interest for the locals to fear him. His political enemies circulated pamphlets claiming inflated numbers, much the way political enemies launch smear campaigns today. Why does it matter how many? The only thing that matters is that Dracula had men brutally killed. He got his revenge. And yet, he did not stop there.”
For the next couple of hours, Constantine reads me more of the ups and downs of Vlad Dracula’s reign. At one point, since the fire has burned out, I rise and put the plug back in the chimney. At other times, I ask questions. But mostly, Constantine reads and I take notes.
And though the story is a fascinating, if detailed one, something burns inside me, its intensity increasing with each passing hour.
When Constantine reaches the end of a passage, I take a chance and voice my concern. “What about the gold?”
Chapter Eleven
Constantine raises one winged eyebrow. “You mean the tribute Vlad was to pay the sultan?”
“No, I mean making gold. You told me your ene—fellow vampires,” I catch myself before we can squabble over terminology again, “are after the information you have about making gold. But you haven’t told me anything about that.”
“It is best understood in the context of the story.”
“But the story is a long one. We’re not even to Vlad’s Hungarian imprisonment yet, let alone his wars against the Ottomans. By the time you tell me the whole story, it may be too late for you to tell me what you know about the gold, and the other vampires will have the advantage.”
Constantine sighs. “I don’t know how to make gold. I only have pieces of the puzzle, and I don’t understand how they fit together. Perhaps, if I tell you some of what I know, you can help me try to piece it together.”
“Yes.” I’m relieved he’s willing to finally share some useful information. “What do you know?”
“The information I have gathered over the years, it has all come to me in different, ancient languages. I have made notes of these things.” He opens the Viața to a page near the back, and pulls his chair over next to mine.
“These verbs,” he presses spread fingertips against the page and runs his hand lightly down a complex chart whose symbols I barely recognize, “they are all in reference to making gold, yet none of these words is properly translated make, grow, create. No, they are better translated convey, deliver, carry, bring.”
“So, they’re not talking about making gold at all? They’re talking about mining gold?”
“Not mining. Not paying tribute. It is a sense in which, from the context,” he flips forward a couple of pages, “the gold is drawn forth from somewhere…”
“From the earth? Pulled out of the earth like with a magnet?” I’m trying to sort out what Constantine means. He asked me for fresh perspective, for insight. I fear I’m failing him.
“Not mining.” He flips back to the first chart and stabs a cluster of symbols with one fingertip. “Congealed.”
“Gold is congealed? It’s a unique element of the periodic table. You can’t stir a few different things together and expect to get gold, not even if you boil it down.”
“Boil it down,” Constantine repeats. “Draw it forth, isolate it—”
“Pull together scattered molecules?” I offer.
“Deliver. Bring forth—it is almost, in a sense, like being born.”
“Or giving birth?”
“How does life enter the womb?” Constantine asks.
“Uh, cells…replicate.” I am not giving him the birds and bees talk right now. A guy of his age ought to know already, and anyway, that can’t be what he’s referring to. “Do you mean gold can be grown like a culture in a petri dish?”
Constantine turns to face me. With his chair so close to mine, our noses are now inches apart. “What do you know about making gold?”
“I—I don’t. I mean,” I search for words. I don’t dare let on to him that my brother Felix made gold…and told me everything he knows about what happened, as he tried to figure out how to make it happen again. But Constantine’s eyes are so close to mine, searching.
“I’m not even sure,” I start to bluff, but his eyes immediately narrow.
He can read my face, can’t he?
Of course he can.
I’m an idiot. I close my eyes and shake my head. “It’s late. Or rather, early. The sun will be up in a couple of hours. I have a light class load today, and then it’s the weekend.”
“The weekend. Yes.” Constantine tucks the Viața back into the insulated lunch bag. “I had hoped you might be ready to play blackjack this weekend—”
“In Vegas? I’m not nearly ready.” Nor do I want to leave town just as my father might be arriving, but I can’t tell Constantine that.
Fortunately, he doesn’t argue. “You are correct—you are not nearly ready. But I can meet with you to do more translation, as well as pr
actice with the cards.”
“I don’t know.” I keep my face turned away from him at an angle so he can’t read my expression. Constantine can’t be around when my dad shows up. “Call me first. I’m way behind on sleep and schoolwork, and I need to go through the notes I already have. That paper’s not going to write itself.”
Even without looking at me directly, Constantine seems to pick up on my subtext. “I have been monopolizing your time. Forgive me.” He stands and heads toward the front door so quickly I have to hurry after him.
“It’s fine. I mean, you saved me from the bats and the vampires—”
He shoots me a guilty glance that reminds me he is a vampire.
“Anyway, I appreciate the time you’ve spent with me.”
“I hope I have been a help to you, not a cause of more trouble.”
Unsure how to respond without lying or confirming his fears, I look at him for an awkward moment.
And then he disappears.
*
I sleep as long as I dare, take a quick shower before my first class, and just make it into my desk before the instructor starts his lecture. The day passes without anything strange happening. No one tries to steal my backpack, nothing flies at me out of anywhere. Constantine doesn’t even call.
After the week I’ve had, and especially after last night, I’m too tired for even my fear to keep me awake. I head to bed early and sleep hard, awakening to a bright, sunlit Saturday morning. Crystalline snow has fallen overnight, coating every outdoor surface with reflective prisms like hoarfrost. It’s blinding outside.
Which, thankfully, means the vampires should all stay well enough away, at least until the sun goes down.
Today will be an uneventful day.
I could not be happier.
So I enjoy a delicious breakfast of steak and eggs, and I cover the dining room table with my notes from Constantine’s translation, then pull out my notes from my other sources, and start color coding everything with sticky tabs. I’ve got a large white board on one wall, and I’m making columns to represent the major points of my thesis.