VROLOK

by Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  “Why? What are you talking about?” Isabella retorted impatiently.

  “Nicolae is taking his son and leaving the village.”

  “Leaving to go where?” Isabella cried out, now panicking.

  “It’s too much for him here. He goes and lays flowers on your grave every Sunday. He has nightmares and screams out for you in his sleep. He can’t stand to be without you, and he is so desperately lonely. He has to go somewhere away from here, a place where he can forget.”

  “Forget!” said Isabella.

  “Yes, forget! Your son needs a mother.”

  “A mother! I’m his mother. Do you think I can forget? What about me? Do you think it is easy for me? To go through every day without my husband and son. If anything, it’s worse for me!” Isabella grimaced and ran from her friend.

  “Where are you going?” Katya shouted after her.

  “I’m going home.”

  “You can’t, it will destroy him to know the thing you have become.” The words left Katya’s lips before she could think about what she was saying. On hearing this remark Isabella stopped running and slowly turned to face Katya. She looked back at Katya; her glance was piercing and hellish. It chilled Katya to her core as she was thrown back against the wall of her house by Isabella’s look. Katya again was frightened by her friend and for the first time she realised how powerful Isabella had become. A mere glimpse from her was enough to hurl a grown woman backwards.

  Despite Katya’s fear, she was sorry for what she had said and almost immediately regretted it. She never intentionally wanted to hurt Isabella. Isabella knew this to be so and it was the only reason she did not kill Katya there and then. For like it or not, Isabella was now a cold-blooded, remorseless killer.

  Isabella turned her back on Katya and ran home. She was just about to turn the handle on the door of her old house when she hesitated. Images of how Nicolae would react when he realised she was a Vampire stopped her from entering. She slunk back into the forest and watched and waited for morning. The night brightened into day and Isabella still sat there waiting and watching for just a glimpse of her husband and her child.

  After a few hours of daylight, a small boy opened the door. Isabella crawled forward to see him more closely. The boy was playing with his dog. He picked up a stick and threw it for the dog to chase after. A little time later the boy threw the stick a little too far and the stick landed at Isabella’s feet. The child unknowingly ran to his mother.

  “Hello,” the boy said. Isabella was on her knees and handed Alexei the stick.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re a very polite boy.”

  “I know.”

  Isabella smiled, “Oh, you do, do you?”

  Alexei looked at his mother’s face, “You’re very pretty.”

  Isabella leaned over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind the boy’s ear and said, “So are you.”

  “Boys are not pretty! They are handsome. I am handsome.”

  Isabella laughed softly and answered, “Yes, you certainly are.”

  “You don’t need to tell me I’m handsome. I know that I am, just like you know you are pretty.”

  “I know, but it is nice to be told once in the while.”

  “My father says my mother always liked to be told she was pretty, as well.”

  “Oh, was she pretty?”

  “Yes, she was even more beautiful than you. My father says that she was so beautiful and good that this world could not hold onto her and the angels came down from heaven to take her.”

  “It’s good that your father remembers your mother that way. Nothing should ever happen to tarnish his memory of her.”

  “What would?” Alexei asked.

  “Nothing,” Isabella replied, “absolutely nothing.” Isabella heard a far-off cry.

  “Alexei! Alexei!” It was Nicolae calling for his son.

  “That’s my father; would you like to meet him?”

  “No, not today,” Isabella answered.

  “It’ll have to be today; we are going away soon.”

  “I know. Be a good boy for Nicolae,” she said.

  Nicolae called to his son again. The boy leaned forward and kissed Isabella’s cheek, then ran back to his father.

  Isabella pressed her hand against her cheek where her son had kissed her. She knew now that she could never go back there.

  Isabella wandered through the woods aimlessly until night fell. Then she headed back towards the castle. She slammed the heavy door of the castle behind her when she entered. Vlad was sitting with his back to the door. The back of the armchair he was sitting on obscured his body. All Isabella could see of him was his hand, which was draped over the side of the chair holding a goblet of wine and when the door slammed shut it must have startled him as some of the wine spilt over the floor.

  “Where have you been?” Vlad said, his tone angry. Isabella let out a sigh and walked towards the staircase. “Answer me!” Vlad roared, hurling the goblet of wine against the wall.

  It was Isabella’s turn to be startled. Despite this she continued to climb calmly up the stairs. Vlad rose from his seat, lifted the armchair he had been sitting on above his head and hurled it at Isabella. It struck her and knocked her to the floor. Isabella jumped immediately back to her feet and faced Vlad. They glared at each other, malevolence distorting each of their faces. Isabella spoke to Vlad for the first time in five years.

  “What do you want me to say to you?” she asked. “Do you want me to tell you how much I hate you? Do you want me to tell you that the smell of you makes me nauseous? That I can’t stand to be this close to you?”

  “How dare you say such things to me? You are not my equal.”

  “That is exactly what I am. I may be the only creature on this earth that is your equal.”

  “You are nothing but a peasant! I am of noble birth….”

  “You were! There’s nothing noble about you anymore! You are a malignancy, an infestation! And you have infected me with the poison that you are cursed with.”

  “Be quiet! I am a descended from the highest of men. Attila is at the head of my ancestry. You’re just a Slovakian barbarian’s daughter.”

  Isabella’s lip curled into a triumphant grin.

  “Attila was nothing more than a Germanic Barbarian,” she said calmly, “who destroyed a nation that was already crumbling.”

  Vlad rushed towards her and clasped his hand around her neck, lifting her off the ground.

  Isabella spat in his face. “Go on, kill me,” Isabella whispered.

  Vlad was amazed at this comment and he dropped her to the ground and laughed contemptuously at her. “Kill you. I can’t kill you. No one can kill you.”

  “You tried to kill me before! Finish what you started!” Isabella raged.

  “You can’t die. Don’t you understand? You’re immortal.”

  “Immortal,” she whispered and she looked up at Vlad. “Immortal,” she repeated in anguish, realising for the first time that her agony was never going to end. “Could you have done anything worse to me?” Isabella threw her arms against Vlad’s chest and he pushed her back away from him and she fell to the floor, weeping.

  “It’s much worse than you even realise,” Vlad answered. “You’re going to live to watch everyone you care about deteriorate and die. Your husband and your child will rot in their graves while you continue to live,” Vlad said with malice.

  Isabella leaped up and threw her hand out towards Vlad’s face. She struck him across the cheek. A cut appeared and then disappeared immediately afterwards. He retaliated with his fist and sliced open Isabella’s cheek with his ring. Isabella hit him again with more force this time and knocked him down to the floor. These exchanges continued until both Vampires were exhausted.

  Isabella turned away from him and began to ascend the stairs. All the wounds from the fight had healed by the time she got to the top of the staircase. Vlad watched her ascension. Even though they had fought, and showed not
hing but contempt for each other, Vlad knew that this woman was his only possible companion. And he wanted Isabella to share his life with him. He wanted to comfort her, he wanted to reach out to her and tell her that they could find some form of happiness together, but he knew she would not allow him to do so. He turned his back on Isabella, walked over to the fire and stood watching the flames.

  “I’m leaving,” Isabella called out.

  “You’ll be back,” Vlad answered, whilst spitting out one of his back teeth, which had been irreparably damaged by the fight.

  When Isabella got to her room she closed the door and stood with her back up against it. She started to panic and held her face in her hands. She was immortal—she couldn’t be. She ran over to her bed and broke one of her bedposts in half, slashing her wrists with the splintered wood. The wounds healed within seconds. This was the final confirmation: she was doomed to wander this world for eternity. Isabella was devastated. The priest had been right. She was damned for not forgiving her father. Had she issued this sentence upon herself, then, she wondered?

  She waited quietly to hear Vlad leave for the night. Then she searched the castle for money; she soon found enough to sustain her existence for years.

  Vlad watched as she left for the forest. He let her go, hoping that she would return to him.

  RENAISSANCE

  A REBIRTH; A REVIVAL

  CHAPTER SIX

  Isabella had one thing left to do before she left the place she had always known. She went down to her grave, dug up her empty coffin and retrieved her wedding ring; she would wear it on a chain around her neck from that day on.

  All Isabella took with her from the castle were the clothes she was wearing, her empty wooden chest and the money she had found. It was quite a sum, enough to last years. She had felt fortunate to find such an amount, for Isabella had searched many times before and had not found anything of any real value to her.

  Isabella walked aimlessly through the night, dragging the chest behind her, wandering in any direction as long as it was away from Vlad. After a few days she arrived at Bistrita. It was early in the morning and darkness still shrouded the town. She wandered through the empty and silent streets with only the sound of her own footsteps to keep her company. There was not a light in any of the houses; with the coming of night the people of Bistrita had retreated first into their homes and then to their beds. Isabella had not seen anyone for miles and her hands were starting to tremble. She was hungry but she would not disturb the sanctity of any person’s home. It was the one principal she held onto: she would not steal into a person’s home and murder them while they slept. For although Isabella was a killer who had lost all her remorse and conscience, she would never disturb the safety that a person’s home offered to that individual. She considered this action beneath her. Thus, before she would enter anyone’s home she would have to be invited.

  Isabella remained silent. She turned to face each of the four corners of the town in turn; she was listening for the silence to be interrupted by some unfortunate who had foolishly left their home before daylight had broken. Isabella soon heard the noise she was listening for, footsteps. In the distance on the edge of the town a man was watering his horse. Isabella ran swiftly towards the sound. She ran until she was a few steps behind him; the man felt only a gentle whisper of a breeze at his neck. He shivered, unaware of the true danger he was in, and before he could realise the gravity of the situation, he was dead.

  After her hunger was satisfied, Isabella decided to take the horse with her. A woman carrying a heavy wooden chest was attracting too much attention and for the first time in her existence she did not want any attention; she longed to disappear. She continued to travel with no sense of an eventual destination.

  Isabella continued this pattern of behaviour for months and then years. She didn’t know how long; she didn’t care. One day melted into the next with only the daylight and the night that followed to tell her that another interminable day was over. When she found people she killed as many of them as she could to satisfy her insatiable thirst. Isabella had become addicted to that sensation. It was the only pleasure she got from her melancholy existence. She killed without discrimination or even a glimmer of remorse. If she stayed in one vicinity too long, she would start to hear mutterings about outbreaks of plague to explain away the sudden increase in mortality that came and left with Isabella. She must have killed hundreds, thousands; she was completely merciless. All she did was sleep and feed. This feral subsistence eventually led her to a town in central Italy.

  Isabella had walked for miles the night she arrived in Tuscany. She walked through the Porta Romana, followed the meandering path of the Arno River, and walked over the Ponte Vecchio, which led her into the heart of the city. Dawn was breaking and the streets were starting to fill with people. The streets were narrow and the buildings tall; they had constricting chasms for windows and each one seemed to be competing with the last to see how elaborate the carvings could be. Merchants of silver, silks and everything imaginable were starting to set up their individual stalls and parade their wares. Isabella walked along the paved dusty street beside them, paying them no heed.

  She walked through an immense archway into a prodigious courtyard. Statues lined all sides of the courtyard. They were all perfect. The sculptors had paid the utmost attention to every detail. Isabella’s journey for the time being had come to an end. She chose to stand beside the best of them all. It was a large white marble statue of a naked man that stood nearly ten feet above her head, and the word “David” was inscribed on the plaque below. The intricacy of the carving and the magnificence of the statue were lost on Isabella. She was not in the least bit impressed by her lavish surroundings in the Piazza della Signoria. She leaned against the plinth and stared blankly at the ground as the world passed her by.

  Isabella did not feel any compulsion to lift her eyes from the ground but she had become slightly interested in the bustling activity that surrounded her. She started to listen as she heard people talking about her, trying to conceal what they were saying by whispering, but of course Isabella could hear every word. She understood certain words of this language, for she had been travelling through Italy for at least a year and had picked up quite a bit. She recognised words like gypsy, vagrant, beggar. One man threw a few gold coins at her. This was the ultimate indignity for Isabella. She looked at her dress; it was tattered, torn and filthy. Her legs and feet were covered in mud, and dirt was embedded in her fingernails and toenails. For the first time since her death she had gotten what she had aspired to. She felt totally anonymous, completely insignificant, and to her surprise she did not like this feeling. No one was staring at her, admiring her beauty. She wasn’t the centre of attention. If she was attracting any recognition it was for very different reasons than any notice she had ever received before. Isabella resolved to change her ways and become beautiful again. She would stay in this city for awhile; it was as good a place as any for her own private renaissance.

  Isabella drew up her gaze and watched the faces of the people that surrounded her. It was a dark winter’s day and she could see quite clearly. She descried a man walking across the open courtyard, his head was held high. He looked arrogant. This reminded her of Vlad and unfortunately for this man, this reminiscence sealed his fate.

  Isabella knew she needed somewhere to stay. This man was quite extravagantly dressed and because of this Isabella surmised wherever he lived would be quite suitable. She stayed a few steps behind him, as she didn’t want too draw his or anyone else’s attention. She followed him for about an hour and then watched him enter a house. She wanted to make sure it was his home, so she watched and waited outside. Soon after, he emerged in different clothes. It was settled. This was her new home, but still remembering her principles, she would not enter until she had been invited.

  A few moments later a woman came out of door below the stairs of the house. She started to pelt a rug with a brush to get rid of the dust.
Isabella approached her. When the woman saw her she felt pity for Isabella, and it was this feeling of pity that saved this woman’s life.

  “Come in child and get some food, you look half-starved.” Isabella walked through the door knowing she had received her sought-after invitation, that now she could kill him in good conscience.

  The woman laid food down in front of her. “My master would not approve of me giving you food; you have to eat up before he returns.”

  Isabella sat in silence. A noise echoed into the kitchen from outside. The woman jumped fearing it was her oppressive master returning home. The servant then bent over to pick up a glass and fill it with water for Isabella to drink, but before she could set it down. Isabella grasped her hand and held it tight. Isabella did not utter a word but thoughts that were not her own entered the woman’s head.

  “You have no master any more. Leave this place; if you stay you will not live.” The woman’s sallow skin turned pale. She would not stay here another minute. She ran from the house, never to return.

  Isabella left the kitchen and went back through the servant’s entrance to the exterior of the house. Isabella would never have to gain admittance to the house through the servant’s entrance again.

  Beside the house was a darkened alleyway leading to a few other cobbled streets, Isabella considered this to be quite convenient for her purposes; just in case she ever needed to leave in a hurry. The exterior of the house was quite weather-beaten, but it had once been the home of a rich family, for the decoration outside in the stone was quite ornate and detailed. Someone at one point had spent a lot of time on this house. Isabella liked the house. It was perfect; it was just opulent enough to please her and yet not to extravagant that it would attract too much of the wrong sort of attention.

  Inside the house there were several unfinished portraits. Isabella did not know very much about art but she knew enough to tell these were not very good. He was obviously not earning enough through his painting to live here. His income must come from another source.