by Ana Calin
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the author except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews.
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction,
the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to real persons or events is
coincidental.
Copyright 2019 – Ana Calin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER I
Rux
I HAVE A STALKER. NOT the kind to send flowers, chocolate, or even dick pics. No, he sends my dates skidding under speeding buses, or slipping on tiles and cracking their skulls in the men’s room. Wanna date me? Might as well watch Final Destination just to warm up.
He’s a shadow. A curse. Kept me a hormone-raging virgin to date—I’m twenty-three. But, no matter how many men this curse puts in the hospital, there’s always a new guy eager to dare the fates. Today, as I do my hair and prepare for work, one of them goes wild, bombarding me with text messages.
‘I can meet you anywhere.’
Ding.
‘Shall I pick you up from work?’
Ding.
‘Or we can meet for lunch at the cafeteria.’
Ding.
‘Why don’t you text me back?’
Ding-ding-ding as his texts hit my cell, the display flashing on the bed until I pick it up. The guy’s profile pic that appears along with the text shows a long face, bald head, big nerd glasses. He looks like a middle-aged science freak with mental issues. Half as bad as the leather jackets and tattoos, but I still block him.
I swing my purse on my shoulder and close the door behind me.
Half an hour later, on campus, the elevator opens at the library level, leaving me a corridor away from my workplace. A smile along with the occasional nod is my default response to greetings—most students know Miss Len from the library, and they think I must have taken special notice of them, too. I didn’t. No, believe me, I do like people, and I love the vibe of campus life, but I try to avoid close contact. It drains me.
Carrying a mocha to go in one hand, I’m digging in my purse for my staff card when I see him. The guy from the profile picture is standing right in front of the library doors where I can’t avoid him. I stop in my tracks, my jaw clenching.
Tall and willowy, he looks nervously left and right, pushing his glasses up his nose. When he spots me he stiffens and clutches his briefcase like a shield to his chest, sweat glistening on his bald head.
“Good morning, Miss Len,” he says in a shaky voice as I approach. His upper lip twitches over mousey front teeth.
I try to walk past him. He grabs my elbow, and my heart beats harder, but it’s more with rage than anything else. I’ve had so many daredevils pushing for a date that it’s not even funny anymore, it’s fucking annoying.
“Please, Miss Len, just listen.”
“No, you listen.” I take a step closer, not even bothering to struggle from his grip. “If you insist, bad things are going to happen, okay? Asking the cursed girl out shouldn’t be a fucking game.”
He swallows hard, and I pull my arm out of his grip. He lets me walk by him to the library entrance, but then he calls after me.
“I think I can help you get rid of the curse, Miss Len.”
I stop with my staff card in my hand, looking over my shoulder. That’s a first, nobody offered ‘help’ before.
“Aren’t you the one who’s been messaging me like crazy since five in the morning?”
“I am. But I wasn’t writing because I wanted to dare the fates and ask you out. But because I think I know why this is happening to you.”
I turn to him, giving him a once over. I have to admit, he doesn’t fit the pattern of a daredevil. He seems terrified to be even talking to me, clutching that briefcase like his life depends on it, sweating profusely, eyes wide behind his glasses, upper lip trembling over his front teeth.
He’s probably never been on a date in his life, much less with a notorious cursed woman. The other guys were the leather-wearing, Harley-revving kind of bad boys, race car drivers, even high-profile gamblers that would have made hundreds of thousands if they managed to get into my pants without breaking a bone.
“Don’t take this wrong,” I say, my tone softer. “You seem like a decent person. But don’t you think I already tried everything?” I motion to the elegant library doors behind me. “I’m a librarian. I know how to do research, and research I did to exhaustion.”
“But did you look down your own bloodline?”
My silence encourages him to walk over.
“You probably went the classic way,” he says, talking too fast to hide his lisp. “You’ve probably been looking for similar cases in history, researching the kind of stalkers who created the illusion that supernatural things were happening, you probably even looked into myths and legends. But you’ve never stopped to wonder why it’s happening to you of all people, have you?”
“I did, but I never used it as a research angle. The other similar cases in history didn’t seem to be related by blood. I feared researching my bloodline would be a waste of time, unnecessary effort—because it would be an effort. I’m adopted, with no ties to my biological parents.” I never made a secret of that.
The nerd looks left and right to ensure privacy, then he leans down to me.
“Miss Len, forgive me for being so direct, but I think your bloodline leads back to Vlad the Impaler, the Prince of Blood. And I think he is related to your curse.”
It takes a moment until I realize—he’s making fun of me. A feeling of betrayal engulfs me. For a moment there he had me fooled, thinking he was a decent guy.
“You think this is funny?” I say between my teeth.
“I know it sounds crazy.” He gropes in his pocket until he finds a handkerchief, and wipes the sweat off his bald head. The smell of perspiration wafts over. “But let me tell you how I came to this conclusion.”
“Stun me.”
He looks around again, as if watching for spies.
“Not here. Please, meet me for lunch. I promise this isn’t a date, and I will explain everything, but we need complete privacy. Trust me, Miss Len, this will be worth it.”
He looks into my eyes full of hope.
I let the entire thing go through my head. What do I have to lose? I tried all the logical ways, I might as well give the impossible a chance.
“All right. But you better have convincing arguments.”
“I do, Miss Len. Thank you for your trust.”
“No, no trust yet. But maybe hope. It’s been years, and I’m getting tired of this whole curse business.” Not to mention I’m yearning to feel a hot male body pressing on mine at least once in this lifetime, which won’t happen unless I finally lose the curse that’s been plaguing me for years. I look the nerd up and down again. “Where?”
We agree on a pub downtown. We have to avoid running into people who know me, simply because they would stare and eavesdrop, so he says he’d res
erve a booth.
When I ask him the obvious—isn’t he afraid of the curse?—he says he isn’t; he’s certain it applies only to men who have certain intentions with me, and who actually make a move.
He finally leaves, his step quick and jerky, betraying he’s excited. I turn around, sliding my staff card through the device to get inside the library, wondering if a Dracula enthusiast could really hold the answer to my problem.
“I’M DALTON, BY THE way,” he says as we sit awkwardly across from each other at the pub. We’re in a booth by a crown glass window, everything around smelling old and moldy.
“Nice to meet you, Dalton.”
Awkward silence.
“So,” I break the ice. “You’re a Dracula fan.”
“Dracula is an interest of mine, yes.” He pauses, and looks back down into his cappuccino. I roll my eyes, my shoulders sagging.
“Okay, listen. I’m not a people person. I became a librarian because I preferred books to people, so please don’t put a strain on my very poor socializing skills. You wanted to share your theory with me, but now you’re having me work for it. So please, if you have something to say, just say it, or give me something to read, and I’ll extract the information myself. Like I said, I’m more comfortable with that than with conversation anyway.”
He blinks behind those big glasses.
“As a matter of fact, I did bring reading material,” he says, and bends to the side to pick up his briefcase from the floor. He opens it, and uses both hands to take out a big, medieval book with a beautifully carved silver cover that catches the light filtering through the crown glass.
My jaw drops.
“Where in the world did you get this?” I whisper, touching the book with the reverence I would touch a shrine, my eyes drinking it in.
“You know what it is?”
“I know it’s a highly valuable medieval artifact, worth hundreds of thousands,” I whisper.
“So you’re certain it isn’t a fake.”
“No, it’s real.” I hesitate, but then I tell him how I know. “My entire family deals in rare artifacts and books. Hundreds of originals and fakes have passed through my hands, all I need is a glance to tell.”
So much silver in my hands at once makes my scalp prickle. Great joy begins to build inside my lower belly, rising to my stomach—that same feeling I got every time I touched the rare books dad examined. It’s all I can do to keep myself from becoming high with the feeling, my eyelids fluttering as I drink in the beautiful carvings of what looks like gargoyles with tongues sticking out of their mouths.
“Well then, read the title,” Dalton encourages.
Vlad the Impaler, Prince of Blood.
And, under it, also carved into the cover, Years of our Lord 1449—1499.
“Why would they put the years on the cover?” I whisper.
“Because this isn’t a book, Miss Len. It’s a chronicle.”
“Please, call me Ruxandra. Or Rux—easier to pronounce.” I touch the book tentatively again, opening it with reverence.
“Ruxandra—a Romanian name. It’s your name that drew my attention in particular when I heard about your curse.” He stands and moves over to my side, so that we can look into the book from the same angle. “May I?”
He starts turning pages. The gentle but expert way in which his fingers move, turning fragile yellowed page after page, the writing faded but coiling beautifully, fascinates me. All chapters seem to have a date instead of a title. He stops at July 5th, 1450.
“These chronicles have been recorded at a medieval monks’ monastery,” he says, but then loses his battle with shyness again. It seems talking to me is a continuous struggle for him.
He’s now too close to me, the smell of perspiration and dank old suit taking away my book-and-silver induced feeling of euphoria. His upper lip trembles over his teeth, and the page quivers between his fingers.
“The language,” I begin in a soft voice, trying to make this easier on him. “It doesn’t look Romanian, it looks German. Old German.”
“It is. The scholars leading the monastery were from Nürnberg—you must have heard about the Nürnberg Chronicles that documented the life and actions of Vlad the Impaler.” He looks at me when I don’t reply. “Sorry, I don’t know where to start, because I don’t know how much of the Impaler’s history you’re familiar with.”
“Honestly, not much more than what I saw in Dracula movies. But—” I narrow my eyes, going through my memories. “My mum is some sort of Dracula scholar, a fact that I never really took seriously.”
“So your mother might be aware of your family ties with the Impaler,” he says, his voice jumping with hope.
“Rather my dad. His ancestors come from the Carpathians. But he didn’t talk about that much while he was here, in England.”
Dalton nods, his lips pursing.
“I heard about your dad in aristocrat circles. He’s a character that intrigues me—Radek Len, the dealer in rare books and artifacts.”
“My dad is a very private man. He’d hate to know he drew attention. But we didn’t come here to talk about him and his dealings, did we?”
“We might have to talk about them, in order to clarify your connection to the Impaler. Just look at the big picture: Your father, Radek Len, coming from the Carpathians, dealing in rare books and artifacts. Through him, you had enough experience with rare books in order to recognize a medieval original at once. And your mother is a Dracula enthusiast.” He looks at me as if from here the conclusion is obvious.
“But all this is irrelevant, Dalton, because I’m adopted. Wouldn’t it make more sense that we focus on my biological family, if it’s my bloodline that matters?”
“Depends. Your adoptive family seems related to the legend, too. And then there’s your name.”
I frown. “You mentioned that. What does my name have to do with it?”
He turns his attention to the book and puts a finger on a certain word.
I look down at the medieval page, my eyes fixing on the word right above Dalton’s finger. I don’t need to know the language in order to understand what it says.
Ruxandra.
I glance at the word in front of it, and the one after.
Lady. Basarab.
“There has been a lot of speculation regarding Vlad Dracula’s first wife,” Dalton begins. “Most sources refer to her as Elizabetta, some as Anastasia, some blatantly wrongly as Cneajna, who was actually his mother. But the noblewoman Vlad married in his youth, soon after he came back from his soldier’s training at the Sultan’s court, was Ruxandra. She was only seventeen at the time, he wasn’t much older either. They fell in love like only heart-driven teenagers can fall in love.
“But their romance was short-lived. Upon the Turks’ first attack on Dracula’s castle, Ruxandra threw herself from the window of their marital chamber, and perished in the river flowing at the bottom of the castle’s rocky base. To this day, the river carries the name of Lady’s River. Before she jumped, she told the servants who fought to keep her back that she’d rather die than become a slave to the Turks.
“Days later, when Vlad returned from battle, Ruxandra’s lifeless body was lying inside the castle chapel. The priests damned her, telling Vlad that her soul was forever lost; suicides would never be allowed into the kingdom of God. It is said that was the day Vlad lost his soul. That same day he started on a blood-shedding frenzy, impaling every one of his boyars that he thought might have betrayed him and driven his wife to kill herself. Since that day he hated the Turks with a passion.”
He turns the page, magic filling the booth at the rustle of old paper and his voice. I don’t think I’ve been so taken with a story since grandma Magda used to tuck me in.
“This chapter was written in 1450, while Ruxandra was still alive. But it tells a slightly different story than the official one I just recounted for you.” He pauses for the effect of his words, drinking in the fascination in my face.
“
Well,” I invite.
“Seems Lady Ruxandra Basarab had a secret. One she hid within the walls of this monastery, where this chronicle was written. In later chapters, this book reveals that her suicide didn’t have to do with the Turks, but with this secret. She killed herself before the Turks could torture the truth out of her.”
“And what was the truth?” I push, looking at the beautiful writing again. The monks’ hands had moved with care and reverence—writing itself was an art back then.
Dalton lowers his voice, filling with gravity and magic. “Seems Ruxandra had pledged herself to a demon, performing a ritual at this specific monastery.” He turns pages. “The next chapter tells of people in the village mysteriously dying if they said the slightest bad thing about Lady Ruxandra. Once, a boyar expressed his dislike of the Lady, and Vlad wasn’t there to defend her honor. She just looked at him with her—” He looks into the book, quoting. “Deeply black eyes, the black of the demon. The man fell to the ground, taken by violent convulsions that killed him.” He looks at me again. “There are mentions of Ruxandra’s demonic spells over the boyars in later chapters as well, many cases in which people died after she’d given them the ‘black in her eyes’. Now, returning to what is happening with you, six centuries later....”
I wait for him to continue, but he keeps staring at me as if I should have already understood, and now he expects a reaction. I shake my head, frowning.
“I’m sorry, I still don’t see how this whole thing led you to me, or determined you to link my case to this—” I gesture towards the book, looking for the word. “Story.”
“Can it get any clearer than this? Lady Ruxandra’s name, her eyes.” Again that pause and expectant look—after all, it’s so obvious, isn’t it? Because of my ink black eyes I must be as evil as a woman who’d pledged her soul to the devil.
In moments like this I remember why I resent human contact.
“You know a lot about Lady Ruxandra,” I say, a long-forgotten meanness seeping into my voice. “But I must wonder—how much do you know about me?”
“I knew that you were adopted by two high-profile traders in rare artifacts and books before you told me,” he says eagerly. “Both people of powerful secrets. You, their daughter, are haunted by a curse that puts your suitors in the hospital. The papers flared with stories about you, but your father somehow managed to get an injunction. Still, the articles were enough for me.” He looks at me with the pride of someone who thinks they know everything, and that they know you better than you know yourself. God, how I want to slap it off his face, but I refrain, speaking slowly, clearly, but through my teeth.