Count Vladimir wiped his hands, shoving his food to the side. He was obviously in no mood for visitors. He was more traditionally dressed than his brother-in-law, in half-robes with a gold chain around his neck and an elaborate hat. He did, however, snap his fingers, and a goblet of something was brought for Olaf, who politely took a sip.
“You will not believe the tale I have to tell you. It is so terrible!” Olaf put his head in his hands for a moment. He did truly look stricken. “You know—we have not been on good terms, I admit, but you know my daughter miscarried last year.”
“Yes,” Vladimir said, and nothing else as his food was taken away.
“I did not—I did not think anything odd at the time,” Olaf said, nervously running his hands through his hair. “We were both so upset, the countess and I. But we assumed it was all part of the natural process. But now… now my son is ill. With what, the doctors know not.” He paused, as if terrified with what he was about to say. “You know I do not believe in magic or superstition. I am an enlightened man.”
“We all are,” was all Vladimir offered, very coldly.
“We like to think so, yes. But then we see something so incredible before our eyes—we cannot help but believe,” Olaf said. Elizabeth had to suppress a smile. He was really getting into his part. “It seems—a curse has been put on both our families.”
“Ce vrei sa spui?”
“I mean—our family has been cursed!”
Count Vladimir took his meaning immediately, various emotions registering on his face before he slammed his hand on the table. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Brother Vladimir, please, be calm,” Olaf said, appearing frightened. “Allow me to introduce you to someone I never wished to meet—or believed in, before last night.” He rose and bowed, shaking, to Caroline. “Vladimir, this is Muma .”
Caroline did not curtsey. She approached the table with her “minions” hobbling behind her, pulling their hoods up to reveal one warty, disgusting face and one hairy one.
The effect was as intended. Vladimir stood up, then jerked back, knocking over his chair before recovering enough to bow to her. “It cannot be so.”
“It is,” Olaf said. “She cursed our children years ago. It seems my sister made a pact with her.”
“A pact?”
“It is true,” Caroline said in strangely accented French. Olaf had told her to make up whatever accent she wanted, as long as it was odd. “Nicoleta made a deal with me. She knew your desire for a male heir would kill her, and she wanted me to exact revenge. So I cursed your daughter and this pitiful man’s as well. And now I will take his son.”
“As punishment,” Olaf said, “for your crimes.”
“You made my daughter barren? My Nadezhda?” Vladimir was entranced by the whole spectacle. “Where is she? Where are you keeping her?”
“I am not. She ran away because she knew you would kill her if she could not conceive.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is,” she said. Elizabeth watched in amazement. Caroline Maddox was a fantastic actress when it required her to be composed and tough. “She’ll return to you when she can conceive.”
Vladimir sat down, trying to compose himself. “I’m not saying I believe you—or Olaf—but why now? What do you want?”
“Your hostages,” Olaf said.
“I’ve never… had Englishmen.” The line actually called for her to say “eat” but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. “They’re worthless to you, anyway.”
“We’ll see,” Vladimir said, and signaled to a servant, who rushed over and took a quiet order. “Please—sit.”
Caroline looked skeptically at the chair that was brought for her. She was good at looking at things with disgust. Grégoire yelped for good measure, it came out fairly well, and she finally took a seat.
From the corner door, Trommler appeared wearing a long coat and looking very much the part he was meant to play or had agreed to play the day before. He looked skeptically at Caroline and Olaf before exchanging some words with Count Vladimir in a hushed Romanian.
“Well, she could easily be a vampiress of some kind,” Trommler said in French.
“They exist?”
“Of course,” he said without blinking. “They eat children, and they drink blood. That is why they have red hair.” He made a nod to Caroline.
Even Vladimir didn’t seem to believe what his logical, scientific advisor-spy was saying. “I thought you didn’t believe this nonsense.”
“I believe in what I can see and touch, and I have seen and touched such things,” was all Trommler said to that. So he was going to play along.
The count hesitated a moment before whispering again in Romanian to Trommler, who nodded respectfully, and left the way he came. “So,” Vladimir said to Caroline, “you will lift the curse.”
“Yes, if you provide the payment.”
“And why should I do this when my daughter is still missing? Only Olaf would truly benefit.”
“Vladimir! You would save your nephew’s life!” Olaf said, appearing to be horrified.
“You know one does not mean anything to the other, Brother,” Vladimir said. He seemed to think he was in control now that he realized he had what they wanted. “I want my daughter back.”
“Why? If it’s just all about an heir, why not remarry and produce a son, with the curse lifted?” For this, Olaf’s voice wavered, but it was barely noticeable.
This, sadly, Vladimir did consider.
“No one will marry me now,” the count said.
“That is hardly my fault.”
Vladimir sighed as Trommler reappeared, whom he looked to for guidance. Behind Mr. Trommler came two guards, but they were not the items of interest. They dragged along and dropped to the ground at Vladimir’s feet two very dirty, very hairy men. Vladimir gestured and the guards pulled them up by their hair so they were kneeling on the floor.
Elizabeth bit her tongue to keep from showing any other expression. She looked only briefly at Caroline, thankful she was wearing a veil over her face. She could at least hide her emotion. Elizabeth had never seen Darcy or Dr. Maddox with a beard; the chief way to tell them apart was the differing color of their hair, as knotted and tangled as it was. But they were Dr. Maddox and Darcy. Darcy still had the tattered remains of what had once been his beautifully tailored green vest. Neither man recognized the scene before them or appeared to even be completely conscious.
“So,” Vladimir continued, “I have the Englishmen, but no daughter. You have the curse on your daughter and son, and this person you say is the Muma . Surely, if that were true, she could further curse me, no?” He looked to Trommler for support.
“This would be true,” Trommler said, “if she were so bloodthirsty.”
“Then we should ask for an exhibition of her descântece?”
Elizabeth did not know what that word meant, but she could logically conclude that it meant something along the lines of “magic” or “curse.” Caroline gave her the briefest of glances; they were not prepared for this eventuality. Surely they could talk their way out of it?
“I have a much less dangerous solution,” Trommler said, “for all of us.” The rest of them tried to hide their sighs of relief.
“Please,” Olaf said. “I would like very much to hear it.”
“Very simple,” Trommler said. “Your Grace, you have for months now extended your hospitality to masters of the profane and otherworldly. Why not put them to good use for a change?”
“Their predictions are valuable!” Vlad said. “Fine, summon them.”
Trommler had this prepared, because he only had to wave his hand and the guards retrieved two men, a European and an Asian man, both not dressed for court. They bowed to the count.
“Mr. Izmaylov,” Trommler said, with all the false poli
teness usually in his words when not addressing the count, “do vampires exist?”
“An odd thing to ask in Transylvania,” the European said, squirming. “Yes, of course they do. Why do you ask?”
Trommler pointed to the group, specifically Caroline and Elizabeth. “They call her Muma , the Forest Mother, and she drinks blood, as do her minions. She has cursed His Grace’s family, or so Prince Olaf says. In payment to lift it, she demands two Englishmen.”
Izmaylov seemed legitimately confused; he didn’t seem to be in on the plot, but he was a quick thinker, “Then I suppose His Grace is lucky he is in possession of two Englishmen.”
“Yes, how convenient,” was Trommler’s answer. Even after four thousand pounds, he was not making this easy. “Surely your mystic Uzbeki has some way of banishing vampires and forest demons.” He added in English so the count wouldn’t understand, “Unless you are the charlatans we both know you to be.”
Izmaylov’s expression wavered, then hardened. “Let the Englishmen go,” he replied in an accent. His accent was, of all things, American. “They’re nothing to you.”
“You’d be surprised. Play your cards right, and they’re worth a great deal.”
“Trommler!” Vlad’s patience was wearing thin, especially the language barrier. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Only to say that for what you’re paying them, your mystics ought to at least be able to expel some vampires.”
“That’s not precisely what we do—”
“Yengi is a great holy man of the Kazak steppes!” Trommler boasted, quite loudly and sarcastically. “Surely he can do something against these unholy creatures.”
The mystics exchanged looks, and the Oriental stepped forward, shaking in his boots and began to chant, waving his staff with the metal tip and roller on the end of it. When he was close enough, Grégoire, as instructed, leapt at him like a dog and tackled him. The mystic was much smaller than Grégoire was, so it wasn’t hard to hold him down.
“Useless!” Trommler proclaimed. “And what of you, Artemis Izmaylov? Her werewolf is making short work of your holy man.”
Artemis glared at Trommler and jumped into the fray, pulling Grégoire off Yengi the mystic with surprising speed and strength. Still, he would not approach Caroline or Elizabeth, the latter of whom spat at him.
“I know you’re not vampires,” he said to them in English. “I don’t know what your intentions are—”
“Enough!” Vladimir rose, speaking in German. “Must my house be infested with demons over two Englishmen?”
“A problem I will be taking care of shortly,” Trommler said and, with an arrogant smirk, reached behind a tapestry and removed a gigantic wooden cross, so heavy as to be almost unwieldy, with its silver tips and gold inlay. “Be gone, monsters!”
Caroline, Elizabeth, and Grégoire all took the cue to hiss and look away from the cross, but they were drowned out by the two men who stood between them and Trommler, who actually were cowering and growling. Artemis grabbed Grégoire by the neck and said quite clearly in English, but in a very bestial growl, “I know you’re not really a werewolf. Tackle him and I’ll save the Englishmen!”
This was not according to script, but Grégoire was not really given a choice. Artemis pulled him up with one hand and flung him at Trommler, sending them and the cross right over so they were wrestling over it. Artemis shouted something to Yengi in the language of the Orient, and the two of them leapt up on Vladimir’s table, then over, and grabbed Darcy and Maddox, hurling them over their shoulders. Vladimir tried to shout for his guards, but he could barely get the words out as Artemis growled at him—a real growl—and went right back over the table, Yengi following. “Go! Go!”
Their play came to an abrupt end. Elizabeth and Caroline helped Grégoire up and away from Trommler, and they all made a break for the door, Olaf taking up the rear with his own sword and leaving a cursing Vladimir and Trommler weighted down by his own holy weapon.
Fitzwilliam was waiting for them with the getaway carriage, of course, but the crowd that he saw was not entirely what he expected. It was the American Artemis who threw the Englishmen inside and climbed up on the top with him as the women climbed up to be with their husbands. “Go, man! Go!”
“Who are you?”
“Does it matter? Go!”
Inside the carriage, Caroline tore off her veil. Beneath it, she was crying. “It’s over, Mrs. Maddox,” Count Olaf said across from her as the carriage started up. Now that he had broken character, he looked exhausted and emotional himself. “We have them. We won.”
“Thanks to Trommler’s enemies, it seems,” Grégoire said, pulling off the fur on his face. “I’ve never tackled a cross before.”
“As it was all in good service of saving lives, I think God will be quite understanding,” Elizabeth said, patting him on the knee. Beside her, Darcy was soundly asleep, resting his hairy head on her shoulder.
They were deep in the forest when the carriage came to a halt. Fortunately they were not being pursued. “These are my lands. We should be safe,” Olaf said and climbed out of the carriage and into the snow. Artemis and Yengi climbed off the top of the carriage and landed beside him.
“All good things come to an end,” Artemis said in French, as Olaf didn’t understand much English. “Thank you for the ride. I wouldn’t want to stay with Count Vladimir so angry at us.”
“Impressive thinking with the cross,” Olaf said. “It seemed as if you were really harmed by its presence!”
“Yes.” Artemis squirmed. “It did.”
“But we cannot leave you out in the snow like this. Where will you go?”
He looked at Yengi, who clasped his hands together and bowed. Artemis copied the gesture. “We’ll find our way.” Without further comment they turned and walked into the darkness, until all that could be heard was Yengi’s chanting and the swinging of his metal prayer wheel.
“An odd pair,” Fitzwilliam said from his position as the driver. “What’s this now about the cross?”
Olaf crossed himself. “I suppose we’ll never know. Perhaps it’s better that way.” He shivered, not against the cold, and climbed back into the carriage for the rest of the trip.
***
The ride back to Count Olaf’s manor was mercifully short. Fitzwilliam checked on Darcy and Dr. Maddox as soon as they came to a stop. “They’re drugged,” he said. “Just mildly. I don’t think it is poison.”
“To keep them from speaking,” Olaf concluded. “Or trying to escape.”
Just inside, a guard was tending to Dr. Maddox’s wound but was practically pushed aside by Caroline, who embraced her husband. “Darling,” she said. He responded by resting his head on her shoulder, but raised one hand—the one that wasn’t bandaged—enough to grasp her hand, if only weakly.
Elizabeth spotted Darcy wrapped in blankets, coughing into a bucket. She kissed him on the small part of his cheek that wasn’t covered in hair. “Darcy,” she whispered. It was not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire, or Fitzwilliam Darcy. It was just Darcy, her husband, her beloved.
He seemed to be struggling to say something but was unable to. She wrapped her arms around him, around a thin frame under the blankets. They would do everything together—the three of them. “You don’t have to speak,” she said. “Don’t strain yourself.” Instead she just placed his hand on her stomach. Though not visible beneath her shawl, there was a small swelling there of what she hoped to God would soon be their next child. His eyes remained unfocused, and he was unable to verbalize whatever it was in his mind, but his hand caressed her belly, slowly and cautiously, in silent acknowledgement. She had told no one—not intentionally—before this moment. This was how she wanted it to be—Darcy, the father of the child, showing the first signs of joy and affection. It was limited to his hand motion, but it was enough.
Chapter 19
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br /> Soldiers of All Types
It was understood that they could not stay past the night. Count Olaf was overjoyed at having pulled the wool over his brother-in-law’s eyes, but he could not house them for long. He told his men to begin loading up their wagon as the others returned to their chambers.
Elizabeth approached the count, “I know we’ve been such an intrusion, but might I bother you for a—”
“—change of clothes, yes.” He smiled tiredly at her. “It really is no trouble.”
“There is no way we can possibly repay you to the extent that you deserve—”
He put his hand up. “I have already secured a favor from the monk. That is enough.” He turned and walked off before she could ask him what it was.
That left her with what to do with Darcy, while Fitzwilliam studied the maps. Grégoire was still at his brother’s side when she entered her husband’s chambers. Darcy had been sleeping since their arrival. It seemed almost cruel to wake him for something as simple as a change of clothes, but— “Darcy?” she said as Grégoire propped him up. He did not respond to stimuli. His eyes fluttered opened, but he made little acknowledgement of either of them.
“Could you hold him up?” Grégoire said, and she held Darcy upright as he cut away the ruined vest and undershirt that had once been white. Grégoire had no visible reaction to seeing most of Darcy’s rib cage, but Elizabeth gasped. “I don’t think we should try to shave him now. The beard will help in the cold.”
“Agreed,” she said numbly, staring at her skeleton of a husband. At least there were no apparent injuries on his body or signs of disease. “Darcy,” she whispered, wiping the dirt away from his forehead. He groaned something incomprehensible. “It’s all right. We’re here.” In response, he only coughed.
Elizabeth put a clean white shirt over his head and let him lie back down. His socks were disposed of along with his shirt, and he was finally let to rest, which he seemed to be doing regardless of their ministrations.
As Grégoire excused himself, Elizabeth stopped him. “What did you promise the count?”
Mr. Darcy's Great Escape Page 19