Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  Jander and Strahd had assumed their wolf forms for speed and practicality. Three real wolves and two slaves in wolf form joined them as they ran, speeding down through the Svalich Woods with one driving need foremost in their minds. The night was clear and cool, with just enough dampness to carry scents clearly. They located the little party from several yards away. The great black animal that was Strahd shimmered, faded to mist, then reformed. Following his host’s lead, Jander transformed to elf form. They moved with the silence of the nightfall itself, creeping up on their unsuspecting prey. The wolves and Strahd’s slaves circled around the little clearing to block off any retreat.

  Jander and Strahd did not attack at once. They waited with patience until an owl had hooted twice and the moon had migrated a few degrees. Only then, in the damp, chill silence, did they descend.

  The strangers were easy prey, easier than the two vampires had any right to expect. One big, hirsute man, allegedly on guard duty, was snoring against a tree, his unsheathed sword fallen from his limp hand. He was the first to go. Strahd materialized in front of him, gripped him by the tunic and promptly buried his fangs in his throat. The man’s eyes flew open and his mouth gaped in a soundless cry, but Strahd drained him rapidly and soon the eyes fluttered shut.

  While Strahd feasted, Jander took the other man. He could not have heard anything—Strahd and Jander were more silent than silence itself—but, warned perhaps by some inner instinct, he bolted upright, crying out a warning. Jander sent an unspoken command to one of the wolves who had accompanied the two vampires, and the beast sprang. It pinned the man, who was not small, easily beneath its bulk. Jander took over from there, moving with speed and silence to bury his white teeth in his victim’s throat. A raven-haired slave hovered near, hissing, waiting to take the elf’s leavings.

  The vampire went not for the jugular, but for the carotid artery. It was no time for leisurely feeding—Jander’s undead body demanded sustenance. As his teeth sank into the exposed neck, blood spurted out, pumped directly from the heart. The vampire gulped frantically as the warm, salty liquid shot down his throat. He wondered with a touch of macabre humor if vampires could drown in their victim’s blood.

  The third man screamed. Thin, tall, and pale with fear, he fumbled for his weapon as Strahd’s hand clamped down on his wrist, snapping it easily. While two of the wolves bounded after the fleeing women, cornering them, Strahd again feasted on scarlet lifeblood. He dropped the unconscious man like a toy and turned his attention to the women. Two of his slaves were there before him, desperately hungry but yielding to their master. The vampiresses seized the women and held them ready for the count.

  The mortal women were both in their thirties and slim, wearing men’s simple clothing. One had long, fiery-red hair and glared defiantly at Strahd while she squirmed in the vampiress’s grip. The other was blond and wore her hair cropped short. The second vampiress held her tightly, but the woman’s little boy, who was shrieking in terror, clung to his mother’s waist. The sound was high, and painful to sensitive vampire ears. Strahd advanced menacingly toward the boy.

  “In the name of Torm the True, have mercy, he’s just a baby …”

  Jander had finished his grisly meal, and was wiping his mouth with the back of his gold-skinned hand when he heard the woman’s plea. He glanced at her, startled. Torm the True—or the Foolish, or Brave—was a god of his home. Blood covered his clothing and face, and his gesture had accomplished little save to smear the liquid even further. He rose, a ghastly picture of crimson and gold, a fairy-tale hero who had suddenly, inexplicably, been cast in the role of the villain.

  The little boy was still screaming. Strahd’s black brows came together. Snarling he bared his fangs and reached a long, slim hand toward the boy.

  “Run, Martyn!” the woman screamed. With the last, desperate strength granted to a mother defending her child, she broke free of the vampiress’s grip and lunged at Strahd.

  A wolf leaped gracefully and tore her throat out before she had gone more than two steps. Blood drenched her tunic. The blond woman’s body crumpled at her child’s feet. “No!” cried the redhead, turning a gaze filled with horror and hatred to Strahd. He met her eyes evenly, exerting his powerful will.

  “She deserved it, did she not?”

  The redhead blinked. “No, she’s just …”

  “Yes she did,” continued Strahd, his voice smooth and calm, “she tried to thwart me. That is a grave error. Do you not agree?”

  The redhead licked dry lips. “That is a grave error,” she repeated dully, mesmerized by the vampire.

  “That’s better.” Strahd turned his attention to the boy, who huddled shivering by his mother’s body. The child had gone into shock. “He is too small to take with us. Besides, I am satisfied. Do you care for him, Jander?” he queried, indicating the child.

  Jander’s hunger was sated. The elf looked at the boy, and a sudden misery overwhelmed him. He did not want the child. He wanted to leave the place. He wanted to go home. He wanted Anna.

  “No,” he said, softly. “Don’t let them have him, either,” he added, looking at the sultry, famished vampiresses. “The bearded man back by the tree is still alive. They can feed there.”

  The count said, “As you wish,” and the vampiresses scurried to feed on the unconscious human. Strahd addressed the redhead, who was still staring at the corpse of her friend. He extended a hand. “Come, my dear,” he said in his most affable tone. “You shall come to Castle Ravenloft.”

  “And the boy?” Jander prodded. Strahd spared the child only a cursory glance.

  “Do what you will. I am not hungry.” With the woman at his side, Strahd began the long walk back to Castle Ravenloft. Jander glanced at the three men. They were all still alive, though barely. The elf did not slay his victim because he had no wish to take a life, and Strahd had spared his prey because he preferred emptying the veins of women, thus providing himself with more slavish, female vampires.

  The boy started to blink, looking around in confusion. His blue eyes met Jander’s. Unable to bear the innocent’s gaze, the elf turned on his heel and left the youth, throat unmarked.

  Moments passed after Jander had gone, then the boy spoke.

  “Morninglord?” he whispered.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, WHEN JANDER AWOKE FROM A few fitful hours of slumber, he decided to explore the intricacies of Castle Ravenloft. He knew he should go back to the study and read more of the literature there, but his curiosity about the castle would be ignored no longer. One of the things that had led to the elf’s forsaking the beauty and peace of his homeland was his insatiable inquisitiveness. Ravenloft was a marvel of architectural oddities, craftsmanship, history, and time-ravaged beauty, and Jander looked forward to investigating the place.

  It was when he entered the audience hall that he had his first encounter with one of Strahd’s “servants.” Jander had gingerly seated himself in the ornate throne. He noted with a mixture of appreciation and disgust how beautifully the wood had been worked—and how neglected it had been over the decades. Suddenly he tensed. He had caught a faint sound of clattering behind him.

  He leaped from the chair, ready to fight. Five skeletons stared sightlessly at him. Shreds of muscle tissue still clung to dried bones, and they all wore rotted fragments of a uniform. By their matching garb and the swords they carried, Jander guessed that they had originally been guards of Castle Ravenloft. They completely ignored him, pattered about the room in a parody of a patrol, then took up sentry positions in the guard post adjacent to the hall.

  Jander watched them sadly. He had always felt sorry for skeletons. They were not in and of themselves evil creatures, and the elven part of him felt great pity for the souls forbidden to rest as they ought. Jander suspected that the count had kept these and any other “guardians” away from him during his first day or so in Ravenloft so that Strahd could give the skeletons instructions not to harm the castle’s only willing guest. The elf wondered, with no smal
l amount of unease, just how many other creatures dwelt within these dark, chilly walls.

  He decided to find out.

  Jander rose from the throne and continued wandering down the long hall. At the far end, the hall opened onto a long balcony. The backs of two more beautiful thrones were turned to Jander. For a brief second, Jander wondered if something more horrible might be lurking in one of those thrones, waiting for him.

  Angry at his nervousness, he dismissed the thought and approached the thrones. He stretched out a trembling, gold-skinned hand. Slowly he placed it on the back of the throne and closed his eyes in embarrassed relief. No one was sitting in the ornate chair. Judging by the layer of dust, no one had sat here for years. It was ridiculous even to have worried. What could any of Strahd’s creatures have done to him?

  The elf stepped forward, resting one hand on each of the thrones, and peered down from the balcony. His beauty-loving nature was disheartened by what he saw.

  The room below was a sad sight. Once it had been the chapel of Castle Ravenloft, and, like apparently everything else here, had been beautiful and rich. Now, the stained glass windows were boarded up, although here and there shafts of multicolored light trickled in. The pews had been overturned, and it looked like long, sharp claws had raked grooves in the fine wood. Some of the benches were broken. Dust lay over everything like a blanket, and the altar had been defaced.

  Even from this distance, Jander could tell there was nothing holy about the place anymore. That certainly was appropriate for a castle where a vampire was lord. With a rueful shake of his golden head, Jander continued his explorations.

  He wandered back down to the main level, descending the wide staircase and entering the great entry hall. He took a left at the bottom of the stairs, passing through a long, dusty corridor. It was lined with statues. Jander read the inscriptions on a few of them as he passed. Some of the names he recognized from Legends from the Circle. Unlike the room full of figures on the floor above, these statues seemed to represent figures from literature or myth, rather than specific historical personages. Jander did not like the fact that the eyes of the statues seemed to follow him as he progressed down the hall.

  The chapel was his goal. When he had been alive, he had always enjoyed visiting holy houses, provided they were run by honest priests who served a good and just god. Such places, in his mind, were almost as close to the grace of the gods as the outdoors. Almost, but not quite. He had not been inside a holy place since he had become undead, and he hoped that, since the chapel had been defiled, it might permit him entry.

  He reached out a golden hand to push open the double doors when a soft rattling behind him made him pause. He turned to encounter another skeleton.

  This one was clad, not in armor or a ragged uniform, but in tattered bits of fine clothing and jewelry. It was obviously a guard of the chapel, and Jander thought it must be what was left of the ancient priest of this place. He paused, but the skeleton made no further move to block his entrance.

  Jander had glimpsed the ruination from the balcony above. As he entered the erstwhile sanctuary, he saw the wreckage from a closer vantage. Mourning the lost beauty, he walked amidst the rubble, trailing his hands in the ages-old dust. The elf paused before the altar. Disrespectful hands had traced obscene images and runes of hatred in the thick layers of dust. Suddenly angry, Jander smeared the offenses with his hand, obliterating them.

  He was a vampire. Truly holy places did not welcome him. Jander had discovered that. He was an outcast from all of the things he loved—nature, the sunlight, sacred spaces. He could accept that, even accept evil as part of his world. But the passing of five centuries still had not taught Jander to be unmoved by the destruction of beauty, and the elf began to wonder if there wasn’t something he could do to restore the castle’s former grace.

  He sat down in one of the undamaged pews for a time, thinking. He was so lost in his reverie that he didn’t notice the gradual fading of the light.

  “Lost in prayer?” came the cool tones of the count’s voice.

  Jander glanced up. “Perhaps. How are you this evening?”

  “Quite well, thank you. I am hungry, however. Do you care to come sample my acquisition of last night?”

  Jander winced inwardly, but was careful not to let his expression show. Acquisition. That was all the woman was to Strahd. Not a human being …

  “No, I think I shall decline. I’ve an urge to explore the woods on my own tonight, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. By the way, there is more nourishment for your little maiden in the main hall. I have fresh food delivered every few days. It keeps the gossip down in the village and gives the townsfolk something to do besides drink. Besides, our charges must keep their strength up if they’re to be any good at all to us, hmm?”

  The count turned with a flourish and departed in unnatural silence. Jander quickly followed, eager to get some wholesome food into little Natasha’s body. He had the meager consolation that it was as much for her own good as his.

  He prepared her a plate of rare beef, vegetables, and fruit. When he entered her chamber, he found that the color had started to return to her cheeks. She watched him with listless eyes as he arranged her plate.

  “Good evening, Natasha.” She didn’t answer. “I’ve brought something for you to eat. You must be hungry.”

  “No,” she said softly. He paused in his cutting of the meat and caught her gaze.

  “I think you’ll find that you’re very hungry indeed, and that this is exactly what you want.” He didn’t like to force her to eat, but she needed the nourishment. The thought came to him grimly, no, Jander, you need the nourishment.

  He ignored the voice in his head and continued preparing her food. His “suggestion” worked. Natasha, sniffing appreciatively, tried to sit up. He helped her, placing a pillow behind her back. She was too weak to manage the utensils, so the elf fed her himself. Quickly, painfully, he thought of Anna. Avenge me. Tomorrow he would return to the study.

  When Natasha finished, she looked at him curiously. “What’s your name?”

  “Jander,” he replied, pleased that she had asked.

  “You’re different from the count.”

  Jander smiled a little as he gathered up the dirty dishes. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “You’re not going to make me …” Her voice trailed off, frightened.

  “A vampire? No. I can’t let you leave here, though. You know too much and you could hurt me. Do you understand?”

  The young woman nodded, but her face fell. She reached to touch the tiny holes in her throat, and her eyes flickered back to the elf’s. Jander’s face grew sad.

  “I must feed, even as you must,” he said in a gentle voice, indicating the meal he had brought her. “You understand that too?” She nodded slowly.

  He loathed himself more than usual as he laid aside the dishes, took the girl in his arms, and took sustenance from her, contenting himself with the minimum of the red fluid that he needed. When he had finished, he eased her down on the bed again. Jander pulled the coverlet up and allowed himself to smooth her hair as she closed her eyes.

  The elf opened the shutters and felt the cool night air on his face. He needed to get out of the castle, out into the woods, away from Natasha. Quickly the vampire became a gray mist, then a bat perched on the window sill for an instant before leaping into the air.

  Jander flew for miles, gazing at the landscape beneath him. The elf enjoyed all his forms. While his elven body was the one he preferred, there was much to be said for the freedom of the gold wolf who ran through the verdant woods in silence and savagery, and the airborne grace of a small brown bat. Beneath him the Ivlis twined its sparkling, serpentine way through the forest and fields. The ring of fog about the village was evident, swirling and pulsing. Jander could see the tiny orange spark that indicated a Vistani encampment. To the west, he knew, lay the small fishing village of Vallaki. He would have to travel there one night soon
. Perhaps the populace was not quite so afraid of strangers there.

  The bat dived and fluttered to the earth on a small hill between the forest and the river. Jander assumed his elven shape and lay down in the soft green grass. The dew did not bother him, and he felt comforted by the reassuring press of earth against his back, even if it was the earth of Barovia and not his homeland. Jander frowned.

  That was another thing. He had come here without any of his native soil, but had suffered no ill effects. His frown twisted into a bitter grin. Barovia, it seemed, was now his home.

  He closed his eyes and offered his frenetic, racing thoughts to the tranquility of the glade. A golden hand reached out to touch the damp grass, stroking the blades gently, reverently. The wind sang in the trees, and he could hear the myriad songs of creatures serenading the night. They made a beautiful music. Once, Jander too had made music, piping with joy and sorrow, laughter and love, his heart floating in the strains of the flute’s piercing song. Would that he could ease his melancholy in that sweet sound again.

  A thought popped into his head. He glanced up at the nearest tree. It swayed and sighed in the wind, its blossoms all but gone. An apple tree—a good choice. The elf hesitated, then drew his dagger and cut down a branch. Sitting on the river’s bank, he worked all through that night, shaping a branch as he had a hundred times before. Though it had been literally ages since he had last fashioned a flute, his hands remembered the work. By the time Jander noticed that the dawn was on its way, much of his work had been completed. He frowned. When he transformed into a bat or wolf, his clothing changed with him. Would the flute change also if he tucked it into his belt?