by Ana Calin
An hour later, I’m heading with the stream of people towards the castle, my arm hooked around Dalton’s, who’s also wearing a medieval costume, and a terrified face. At least one of us firmly believes in vampires, and I consider giving him my hairpin.
The castle is a true monument of fairy-tale beauty; worth every gawking tourist. Made of fortified stone on top of a rocky hill, inside it’s all stone and a lot of artfully carved wood. I hear the Romanian queen lived here only a little over a century ago, when Romania was still a monarchy, so many people came and went after Dracula, occupying these rooms.
I wonder how long his energy imbued these walls. His life, from what I’ve read, was fraught with fighting, blood, and suffering. Though his purposes were higher, his life came and went as fast as any common human’s. I think what kept me dark and broody my entire life was this very awareness of life’s shortness and how much it can hurt—for nothing, in the end. Does it even make any sense caring about anything, or anyone for that matter?
I stop in front of the Impaler’s portrait, cradling a mug of mulled wine.
“He didn’t really look like that,” a deep male voice says. I spin on my heels to see the broad back of a man. He’s wearing a medieval tunic made of leather, and long dark hair. He’s big, really big.
“And what did he really look like?” I encourage conversation, a smile on my face.
“He looked like me.”
When he turns around, all the Dracula movies I ever saw run before my eyes, all of them falling short. This guy would have been the perfect fit to play the prince of vampires. If he ever existed, this is sure as hell what he would have looked like.
Rux
HE WALKS OVER, HIS boots clamoring with every step. I would look down at them to admire the medieval craftsmanship of leather and metal, but I can’t look away from his face. It’s strong, brutal, so clearly the face of a killer that it makes me shudder.
I’ve never seen a face like this before. Where I come from, in England, no matter how tough men want to come across, it’s all too clear that few have ever even been in a real fight beyond the monkey dance—puffed out chests, angry stares, clenching fists, push-push, punch, roll around in a monkeys embrace. This one—he’s the real thing, and it shows.
“Vlad the Impaler never posed for a painter,” he says, eyes on the picture that, indeed, has nothing in common with him. It shows a thin and bony man, with eyes protruding out of his skull, and very pointy cheekbones. The only part of him that resembles the large guy now towering over me is the long, rich dark hair.
His eyes rest on my face for a moment before he starts pacing around me, picking a mug of mulled wine from one of the passing servers. Jesus, he’s so fucking large, his mailed hand as big as a hammer. As soon as his attention rests on me again, the server scurries away.
“Such a frivolous pastime—posing. But I know the younger generations love indulging in it. Do you pose, Lady Ruxandra? I hear it can be well-paid work, that of a model, and you sure have the beauty to land such jobs.”
I can’t reply, I’m too stunned. He looks me up and down with wolfish eyes that add to his dangerous air. I don’t know what to make of the blood-red lips, though... They’re hypnotically attractive, sensual compared to the rest of him.
I come back to myself and narrow my eyes, taking a couple of steps closer to him, needing to see the exact expression on his face when I say this.
“I saw a hand drawn picture of your late wife in a medieval book. I know I am her spitting image. How can you look at me as if nothing? Don’t you... feel anything?”
His eyelids flutter just a little, but it’s enough for me to tell—he is taken aback, by my directness if not by my appearance. Or maybe by the fact that I know who he is, and that I accept it so easily. He grins, revealing long, wolfish canines.
“Do not be deceived by appearances, milady. I am a very, very old man. I’ve seen and lived too much to still experience feelings such as surprise, awe, or even outrage.”
“Outrage? Why do you think outrage would be a proper feeling for this situation?” I wave my forefinger between us.
His eyes the color of honey, the eyes of a wolf, move all over my face. Still, I can’t read the feeling behind this... inspection.
I shake my head, thinking I must be crazy.
“No,” I whisper, bursting into hysterical laughter, mug of wine in one hand, the other one on my stomach. All of a sudden I feel the corset is too tight, and I’m afraid I’m about to faint.
“There is only one way to tell if this is really true,” I manage before I pull the hairpin out of my braided chignon, and make to stab him in the throat with it, since his arms and hands are covered in leather and mail.
He moves out of the way quickly, laughing. Then, all of a sudden, he is behind me, huge mailed hand gripping my hand with the pin. The mail bites into my skin, the metal cold on my flesh. I drop the empty mug of wine, but he expertly catches it with his free hand, and places it on a small table by our side.
“My lady, please,” he says, laughing quietly. “Do not make a fool of yourself. I have a number of wars under my belt, I’m afraid it’ll take more than a shrewd lady’s hairpin to kill me.”
“I’m not trying to kill you, you madman,” I say through my teeth, noticing that people are staring at us. No one would dare intervene, though, I can see it in their eyes. They all stare at this large man with fear. Who wouldn’t? He sure looks like someone with the ability and readiness to crush bones.
“Then what are you trying to do?”
I look to the side over my shoulder. I can see a part of his upper arm, muscles bulging through leather. I’ll be damned.
“If you’re who you pretend to be,” I whisper, “then you’re sensitive to silver, am I right?”
He doesn’t reply. I clench the fist that’s now wrapped completely in his, fully aware he could squash my hand if he only squeezed a little.
“This is only a silver pin. Let me touch your skin with it. Let me see how your flesh reacts to it. Because it will react in a particular way if you’re a—” Heck, how can I even say the word without feeling stupid? “A vampire, won’t it?”
“I could do it,” he whispers, bending his head down to me, his eyes still on the crowd. Some stare directly, others at least pretend to be going about their business. “But you’d have to trust me enough to follow me to another room.”
Wait a minute—this guy is holding me prisoner in his arms. How come the curse doesn’t kick in? How come nothing falls on his head or something?
“What do you say?” he presses. “Will you take the risk of being alone with me?”
“To be honest, I’m so curious that I won’t be able to live with the uncertainty.”
He looks down at me, excitement lighting up in his eyes. He grins, his canines protruding like fangs, pushing into his lower lip.
“All right then.”
He starts moving with me backwards, but it feels more like we’re floating together rather than walking. Really like in one of those Dracula movies. Before I know it, the people around look away as if they forgot all about us by magic, and we’ve retreated through a hidden narrow door into a secret passageway.
Lord Dracula
I COULD FLASH BEHIND her, one hand on her shoulder, the other forcing her head to the side. Then I’d sink my teeth right into that delicate, rose-scented white flesh, straight into her carotid. Her precious blood, the blood of Dracula’s Grail, would swell out and fill my mouth, casting me in a euphoric frenzy.
I breathe in deeply as I fill two glasses of scotch in King Ferdinand’s old study, my back to her.
“King Ferdinand was a Dracula scholar,” I say as I pour the scotch. “I think he researched more on me than all of the other Dracula fans, maybe more than good old Mr. Stoker, and even Madam Rice, whose talent I very much appreciate.”
“Are you going to tell me what your favorite vampire book was?” she asks mockingly, but hell, it’s a good question
. I pick up both scotch glasses and think, leaning my head back and looking up at the painting above the fireplace.
“I think I liked Mrs. Meyer’s best, because it’s closest to the truth. A vampire’s flesh is indeed very hard, the skin impossible to penetrate using human weapons unless the one wielding them is as strong as a vampire or stronger. We do have warm flesh though, we’re not ice cold, even though our hearts beat very slowly. But in one thing they were all right—” I swirl around, eyes flashing into hers. “We don’t die.”
Ruxandra Len looks at me with irises so black it would make a human shudder. Her eyes are exactly like my wife’s eyes centuries ago, after she gave herself to the demon. No doubt the same poison runs through her veins.
“You’ve been here before, you know,” I tell her as I approach and hand her a glass of scotch, which she takes gracefully. Sitting there in the cushioned kingly chair, she’s a rare sight indeed. Skin as white as ivory, eyes as black as ink, hair like snakes of ebony up in a twisted braided chignon. There’s something deadly about her, like she could kill with one look. And humans sure sense it, which is why most of them are wary of her.
“You were ten at the time, your parents had just adopted you.” I take a seat in a chair that’s angled to hers next to the small wooden coffee table, both of us cozily facing the fire and each other. “You were directly linked to this power that’s been plaguing you for years, so tightly linked, in fact, that it was draining you of life.”
She stares at the fire, her delicate white fingers stroking the glass of scotch. She sips, and I grin, knowing she’s going to crack and ask more. I always know when people are going to talk but then... she doesn’t.
“You were very powerful,” I continue, baiting her more. “But you were also very weak, physically. So your mother and supposed grandmother, Magda, decided to cut you off from the supply of power. Then they took you away from here, away from—” Away from me, because I was about to suck you dry, but I can’t tell her that, can I? “From the center of things.”
She turns her head, gazing straight into my eyes.
“Will you take off your mail glove, please?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said we’re coming here so that I can have my proof.”
I smile, and place my scotch on the table between us. I take off my mail glove, and clench and unclench my fist, the usual gymnastics after losing metal attire. But Ruxandra stares down at my hand with big eyes and raised eyebrows as if she’s just seen a nuke.
“Is everything all right?” I offer her my palm over the table.
She blinks, shakes her head, then she puts out her hand and makes to touch me, but then withdraws.
“Go ahead. I won’t bite.” I grin, revealing my fangs.
“It’s just,” she says meekly, “your hand is so big and broad. Like you’re a whole different species altogether, not just a different form of human.”
I laugh, amused for the first time in ages. “It’s the hand of a warrior, Lady Ruxandra. Sadly, they don’t make warriors like they used to in the Middle Ages anymore.” I study her for a moment before I continue. “You grew up with button-hitters, wireless criminals, soft-handed superheroes. The new generations have moved so far away from body-to-body combat, where all you have is mere cloth between you and your opponent’s blade, that they forgot what combat really feels like. They don’t even conceive of certain skills. How do I explain this?”
I look around, searching for a comparison, and stop at the bookcase.
“As a librarian, you’ve read much more than most people, am I right?”
“I suppose.”
“Is there anything you think you know better than the rest of the world because of that?”
She smiles as she spots the thing. “I think reading is irreplaceable in the formation of the human mind simply because, when we read, we internalize the story and the psychology of someone else, because we read it in our heads, using our own inner voice. It basically means we live more lives than the average person, we acquire more life experiences in the span of one. And we become very empathic.”
“Well, it’s similar for us warriors. In the Middle Ages we were very physical; the mere fact that we fought with blades instead of bullets makes a huge difference in skill and psychology; a shooter thinks very differently from a knifer; blades are very personal; they help you infiltrate your opponent’s mind on an intimate level.”
After having listened without even blinking—something that would make the finest hairs stand on any human coming from those deeply black eyes—she nods.
“I have to say, milord, the cruelty of your time does show in your face.”
I grin at her, ready to remind her of what she’s here to do—use the silver hairpin on me, not judge me—but she casts her eyes down before I get to say it. She stares down at my hand, then slowly raises her own, and starts tracing a line in my palm. Her touch feels like a feather on my raw skin that hasn’t been stroked in centuries. It sends a trickle through me, a pleasant, long-forgotten sensation.
“Your palm shows that you’ve had an unusual life. It also shows that you have unusual powers. I wonder.” She raises her black eyes to mine again. “How much of what I’ve read about your powers is true?”
“Depends on what you’ve read, and where.”
“Magda’s old bookstore. I didn’t get to go in depth, I’ve only been here one day, but still. I understand Dracula can hypnotize people, and turn into mist to infiltrate their houses. But that’s the legend. I want the truth.”
“That’s legend, you’d like the truth,” I quote her. “I may remind you that you’re drinking scotch with the legend.”
For the first time something other than shock shows in her face—suspicion. She assesses me up and down.
“You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? How could someone so obviously made of flesh—no matter how hardened by a warrior’s life—turn into mist? Fog?”
I glance at my palm to make a point.
“The hairpin, Lady Ruxandra.”
She hesitates a moment, then she produces the pin from where she’s slipped it while I led her down the secret passageway to this room—inside her cleavage, between her ample breasts. I swallow hard as her fingers sink into the red corset, between white mounds of flesh. Maybe that’s where I should sink my teeth in the end, instead of her throat.
I close my eyes for a moment to take in her scent, the scent of roses, visualizing the moment when I’ll be free to take her blood. I realize it’s not just her perfume. She naturally smells of flowers, a scent that mixes with the natural milky scent of human flesh, a combination so attractive to me that it makes my breath hitch. My eyes snap open as I struggle to lose the state of need that focusing on her scent has put me in. This very moment something sears my palm, making me hiss.
The streak in the shape of her hairpin is now a line of open skin, burnt and giving out thin spirals of smoke. Ruxandra stares at it, whispering, “I’ll be damned.”
“Shall I demonstrate the mist for you as well, milady?”
CHAPTER IV
Rux
FUCK. I’M ACTUALLY face to face with Dracula. The real Dracula. Fuck, fuck, fuck, someone pinch me. But the heat from the fireplace on my skin is a strong enough sensation for me to know this is really happening, as is the fucking corset pushing its skeleton into my ribs. I can barely breathe, my chest rising and falling fast. The elaborate silver necklace is heavy on my breastbone.
“You are a vampire,” I whisper.
“To be honest, I thought we had that part figured out before you put that thing on me,” he says in his deep and dangerous voice, motioning with his strong chin to the hairpin in my hand.
“My dad,” I manage weakly. “Does he know what you are?”
“Your father, yes,” he pushes himself off the armchair and walks over to the liquor cabinet to refill our scotch. “His real name is Radek Basarab. Back in the day, they used to call him Radek the Handsome. And he’s my
brother.”
I swear the sky just split open, and it’s pouring icy rain down on me. My skull turns cold, and the ice soon spreads to my face and then the rest of my body. I just sit here, petrified, back straight, hands in my lap.
I stare at this man blankly when he turns around, a vampire in leather and metal, a strong, natural-born warrior. I can’t imagine how he can be related to my dad, a man so... beautiful and princely. My dad’s beauty usually got women enthralled with him, though when I last saw him he was still pathologically in love with my mother. I remember he always used to stare at her, even when she wasn’t looking, drinking her in like she was his own personal drug. Probably still does to this day, but this man....
His face is manly and sharp-edged, which, combined with his intense wolfish gaze and sensual blood-red lips, gives him insane sex appeal; but he’s a rugged warrior, he doesn’t have very much in common with my elf-like adoptive father.
Then the next logical idea hits me.
“So you’re my uncle?” I breathe.
He moves his head from side to side, as if he’s not so sure, walking over with the scotch. I realize I’m already lightheaded as he hands me mine, but I don’t know if it’s from the liquor or from everything I just found out.
“Not by blood, so I’m not sure what to say.”
He keeps walking around as he tells me the entire story of my adoption, recounting in short what I did know, and adding things that I didn’t. I keep watching him, eyes sliding down his warrior shape in leather and metal, from his broad back to his muscular ass and legs. Fuck, I’m basically ogling my uncle....
When he gets to the part about my ancestors, followed by the long line of demonic murders, I freeze on the inside as well.
I sit in silence long after he finishes the story, only the rustle of the fire filling my ears. Lord Dracula leans with a hand against the mantelpiece, watching me, waiting for a reaction.