by Jan McDonald
Eventually, it found its way into Vlad’s possession – this golden chalice, studded with pigeon-blood rubies around its rim and foot – taken by blood and given to blood, it would be the instrument of Vlad’s return.
Vasile contemplated the history of his ancestor; in particular, his death.
The biting, cruel, cold of Transylvanian winter had set in by December 1476 and Vlad had died in the forest at the hands of disloyal boyars of Wallachia, who were also fighting the Turks. It was widely believed that they cut off his head and sent it to the Sultan as proof of his demise and their loyalty. His decapitated body was then buried in the island monastery of Snagov, near Bucharest.
But Vasile Tepes knew the truth: Vlad Dracula’s body lay in a vault beneath his fortress-home overlooking the ruins at Poenari, complete with its head still attached to its body.
In the dense forest just outside Bucharest, those loyal to Vlad had ambushed a peasant with the look of their leader – there were many that bore the Tepes features and illegitimate bloodline – and beheaded him, violating his face just enough to convince their enemies that it was indeed the body of the Impaler. The headless body was then dressed in Vlad’s clothes and his ring bearing the seal of the House of Tepes placed on the dead man’s hand.
It was the head of the peasant that was paraded and impaled by Vlad’s enemies, and it was the peasant’s body that was buried in the tomb of a prince.
Centuries had passed with Vasile at the head of the House of Tepes, in no hurry to resurrect his great-grandfather; enjoying, as he did, his power and wealth and unwilling to bow to another: even if he had the chalice – which he didn’t. Documents in the hands of Vlad’s son, Minhea, which told of the power of the chalice – so steeped in blood, that its very essence was of the life-force – were carefully hidden away after they were engraved on Vasile’s consciousness. He knew there was a seal bearing the location of the chalice and, he also knew that it, too, was lost.
CHAPTER SIX: DRACULA’S CASTLE
Dan soon lost himself in the journal of Jonathan Harker as told by Bram Stoker and could easily see why the tale had inspired readers, film-makers and movie-goers for so long and – more importantly in his opinion – Lucy’s unhealthy obsession. The description of Dracula’s castle made him shiver and he began to look forward to Poenari, where he would be able to imagine the creepy castle rising from the ruins at the top of the rugged mountain. Lucy had fallen silent and sat back in her seat, absently fingering her necklace.
Christian stood up at the front of their coach and grabbed their attention through a small microphone.
“We’ll soon be arriving at TIrgoviste, the former capital of Dracula’s Wallachia, where you’ll be able to see and climb the famous Chindia Tower, or, as it is translated in old Romanian, the Sunset Tower. Vlad the Impaler, Vlad Dracula, built the tower around which the impaled bodies of his enemies were displayed. I can’t promise there will be any impaled transgressors today but you will get great views over the entire city and, before we leave, you will have time to wander around the ruins of his princely court. If you suffer from vertigo or any other form of dizziness I would recommend you don’t climb the tower. The narrow steps spiral to the top at a very sharp angle, although there are three landings where you can take a breather. Afterwards we will have lunch in a local restaurant before moving on to Poenari and the ruins of the real Castle Dracula. If you think the tower was a tough climb, watch this space … there are fourteen hundred steps up to the ruins. If you don’t want to make the climb there is a stall at the foot of the climb where you can buy a bottle of local red wine and sit back and relax. So, I’ll shut up now for you to enjoy the scenery as we drive into Tirgoviste.”
Dan raised his head from the book. “Not climb up to Dracula’s lair? I don’t think so,” he laughed. “You know, Luce, reading this ‘journal’ gave me an idea. You should write a diary of the trip. Or you could drag yourself into this century and write it as a blog; you can use my tablet if you like. I mean, it’s unlikely that we will ever come back again. Luce? Are you OK?”
Lucy looked pale. She smiled, trying to inject more sunshine into it than she felt – and it bothered her. This was a trip of a life-time and one she had awaited with joyous anticipation since they booked it ten months previously. Perhaps that was the problem … slight anti-climax after such frenetic expectancy. She smiled again, this time with more feeling. “I’m fine. Maybe a little tired, that’s all. And, hell yeah, I’ll race you to the top.”
She let her necklace fall back against her chest, realising she was fingering it; something she did when worried or anxious.
Dan laughed. “Yeah, right. In your dreams. I’ll be there waiting for you!”
Further conversation was interrupted by the beautiful scenery approaching the city and they were soon stepping from the coach in the shadow of the tower.
Neatly-clipped hedges flanked the path that led past the ruins of Vlad’s court, stark in their dereliction, but covering a huge expanse and rearing up at the end of the path was the Chindia Tower.
The round tower appeared to be emerging from a truncated pyramid at its base, rising clean and clear to a height of twenty-seven metres – eighty-nine feet in old money – sixteen feet higher than its original reach, having been restored and added to in the nineteenth century.
Christian hadn’t been kidding; the narrow, spiral stone steps wound their way sharply up the tower, passing small windows on their ascent. Half-way up, Lucy was suddenly overcome with a feeling of nausea. She put out a hand to steady herself. Dan was right behind her and put a supporting arm at her slim waist.
“Steady!” he said gently. “Take a break at the next landing. You don’t have to go all the way up. I’ll stay with you.”
Lucy grinned at him, the nausea gone as quickly as it had struck. “I’m OK, it’s just hot in here; all the bodies … people … in such a confined space. I expect. It’s gone now. Come on, let’s go look at the city.”
The view from the top of the tower was, as promised, breath-taking and would have presented a perfect vantage point for Vlad Dracula to see the approach of his enemies. In contrast to the heat inside the tower, on the top and looking out over the surrounding country, the air was chilled. Autumn had a firm and welcoming grasp on the approaching winter and the crisp air made Lucy pull her calf-length cloak close around her. Dan had smiled at her new outfits that she had painstakingly stitched over the summer, especially the long, black, woollen cloak with its fake-fur lining. Well, he looked cold in his jeans and jacket, so she guessed he wasn’t laughing now.
He was turning this way and that, walking around the top of the tower, taking pictures in every direction, and then he turned the camera on her. “Smile, please,” he said in a sing-song voice.
She grinned. “Idiot!” She hated having her photograph taken and Dan knew it, but he was determined to capture everything for her. As they descended the steps, Lucy felt a prickle on the back of her neck; the feeling she always had when another person was staring at her. She turned quickly but the Goth girl behind her, Sally, had her eyes glued to the steep steps, watching every inch of where she was putting her feet. Lucy shrugged and did the same; a fall right at the beginning of the trip would be disastrous.
Back at the coach, Christian claimed their attention again. A beautiful Romanian woman stood next to him; tall and super-model thin. She wore knee-length boots over tight black pants and an over-sized, chunky, grey sweater with a roll-neck that sat just under her chin. Her shoulder-length, ebony hair framed her exquisitely made-up face and matched her flashing dark eyes. Lucy sneaked a look at Dan; he was obviously impressed with the newcomer so she dug him in the ribs, hard.
Christian was introducing the beauty to them.
“As you know, this is the last trip for this season but what you may not know is that the trips run weekly; one starting as another reaches the end. I’d like you to meet Davina who acts as guide on the alternate trip and has finished for the se
ason so she will be joining us. And …” he paused dramatically, then broke into a huge grin, “… she has just kindly agreed to be my wife!”
There was a spontaneous chorus of congratulation, mixed with whistles and catcalls from some of the men while Christian and Davina, wreathed in smiles, enjoyed their moment. Phones and cameras captured the image, including several selfies with the happy couple before boarding the coach for the ruined castle at Poenari.
The Transfagarasan Highway cut through the mountains to the Alpine area of the Carpathians, hugging the side of the mountains as it went. This was one of the roads that would be closed a week from then as winter set in.
The coach parked at the foot of the mountain and every face was lifted upwards to the ruins of Vlad’s lofty sanctuary from the Turks. Everyone was up for the climb but Davina offered to stay behind in case anyone dropped out half-way.
Dan smiled at Lucy, “Race you to the top,” and set off at a swift pace. The group quickly split up into those who were fit, and the stragglers. Lucy was somewhere in the middle, though she kept her eye on Dan, who turned around at intervals to wave to her. She was just becoming used to the climb when she suddenly tripped, apparently over nothing, and twisted her ankle.
Her cry of anguish was enough to bring the whole party to a halt, causing her major embarrassment. Dan was back with her instantly.
“Come on, I’ll help you back to the coach.” His arm was around her, supporting her, but she was mortified.
“No! No way. I can get back on my own, it’s hardly any distance. There’s no way you’re coming all the way here and not seeing this. Besides you can take photos for me to see later. Davina is back at the coach and there was talk of red wine for those of us that couldn’t make it. I’ll be fine; I’ve hardly climbed any distance at all.”
Dan looked unconvinced, but her glare was enough to let him know she felt stupid enough for having tripped in the first place, without making more of it than necessary.
“Hi, I saw you fall, are you OK?” Davina appeared behind them. “Come on, I’ll help you down and Dan can carry on with the others.”
Lucy beamed at her. “I’m fine, really, but I won’t push it and try and climb on, I don’t want to be limping for the rest of the trip. Thanks.”
Davina gave her an answering grin and the two went back to the coach where there was indeed a bottle of local red wine. Conversation was easy and Lucy felt relaxed in her company as they chatted about the rest of the trip and Davina and Christian’s forthcoming wedding. The pain in her ankle was already wearing off, along with her discomfort at suddenly being the centre of attention, however briefly.
There was a momentary lull in their conversation which Davina felt compelled to fill as Lucy sat fingering her necklace.
“That’s an unusual necklace. Very pretty.”
Lucy stopped fingering it. “It belonged to my grandmother; she always said it brought her luck. She had a lot of unusual things; Grandfather was a collector.”
“Lucy, are you OK? Did you hurt yourself more than you’re saying?”
Lucy looked around her, a crease on her brow. “No … no, I’m fine. It’s the silliest thing; I just keep thinking that someone is watching me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN: SLEEPING BEAUTY AWAKES
Beckett’s journey was made easy by the vampire network of services. He flew to Kozani airport in Greece and was met with a Jeep at his disposal. The drive to the small convent took less than an hour, but to him it felt as though he was never going to get there.
Eventually, the rolling hills that were draped in olive groves gave way to small hamlets and back into olive groves again. He was near his destination now; he could feel a constriction in his chest and a lump in his throat the size of a small grapefruit. Would she wake up? Would it be the same? Would she be different? He tried to put all these thoughts away and connect with her telepathically as all vampires could. Try as he might, he couldn’t sense her consciousness, but his gut was telling him something was happening. He pressed harder on the accelerator.
The old, white-walled monastery sat on the dusty hillside, vacated years ago in favour of a more modern building that had been gifted to the monks. Sister Anna had lived in isolation in the old building, taking care of Lane as she slept in deep hibernation whilst healing from her horrendous wounds. Wounds inflicted in the battle against the vampires who wanted to eradicate all the Created, five years previously. Since then Lane had lain in the Long Sleep with Anna transfusing her own blood from time to time to keep her alive.
Beckett had made sure that she had everything she needed and had organised regular deliveries of food and wine, keeping in touch with her by phone on Lane’s condition and making sure that Anna was in need of nothing. She had only called him once, and that was the previous day.
As the old white walls came into view, partially hidden from sight by a long-abandoned olive grove, Beckett’s anxiety hiked up a notch.
Anna was waiting for him at the door.
“Hello Beckett, it’s good to see you. Lane still sleeps but she appears much disturbed, tossing and turning and mumbling in her sleep, as if she is in a constant bad dream. I thought it best to call you.”
Beckett ignored the nun’s habit and wimple and hugged her, lifting her off the ground, and then he planted a kiss on her cheek, bringing a blush from her neck to her scalp.
“Anna, you are a very special person. I can’t begin to thank you.”
Anna dropped her head, unused to praise or appreciation. She had cared for Lane as though she were her own child and, since her old convent was destroyed and the couple of remaining nuns scattered to other Orders, it was all she had and she had loved every minute of her five-year long vigil.
“Come,” she said, with a brilliant smile, “Let me take you to her.”
Beckett swallowed hard and nodded as he followed her inside.
Lane lay where he had left her all those years ago. Only then she had been covered with blood and he had believed her to be dying. Lane, his mentor and love, though never his lover, now looked as though she was simply asleep. Her long auburn hair splayed out over the snow-white pillow and there was an aura of peace around her which Beckett knew was attributable to Anna’s care.
Minutes later, however, she began mumbling and a frown settled over her forehead. Beckett couldn’t make out her words but the images that shot into his head made him take a step back. She was trying to communicate something to him – what was it? Were they visions that she was sharing, or simply bad dreams? One face stood out in his inner sight; Vasile Tepes. He ground his teeth and closed his eyes, the better to try and see where he was. Suddenly, images of Vasile’s mountain lair crept across his mental screen. Lane was ‘seeing’ this in her vampire sleep.
Anna put a hand on his arm. “Look, she moves.”
Lane’s hand was moving as she stretched out her fingers, then her arm moved. Beckett held his breath.
One thing he had learned was that you never try to wake a sleeping vampire; especially when they were in deep sleep to heal. She could be shocked into so deep a sleep that she would never wake. He sighed and took a step nearer to her, careful not to touch her – even though he yearned to pick her up and take her home; he had no idea how much she had healed already or if moving her would prove fatal still.
“Has she said anything?” he asked Anna.
Anna shook her head. “I can’t make out what she is trying to say most of the time but I heard two things last night. She said ‘Mihai’ and she also said ‘the Source’. This morning she appeared angry and I thought she said ‘not a virus’, though I could have been mistaken.”
Beckett nodded his understanding, though he kept hidden his disappointment in the fact that it had been Mihai’s name that she had said, and not his own.
Anna laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “I’ll leave you with her. Just call if you need anything.” And she left the room with a quiet rustle of her habit.
Beckett stood watchin
g Lane in silence for several minutes and then took out his phone and hit a number on speed dial. It was answered very quickly.
“Beckett, I haven’t heard from you for too long. Do you have news? Or is there a problem? How can I assist you, my friend?”
Despite his initial disappointment, Beckett smiled at Mihai’s voice. He had been neglectful in not calling him but Mihai was now the Patriarch of the Vampire Council and obviously busy. Still, he had no excuse, except, as he now recognised, there was a tiny maggot of jealousy over Lane’s obvious, long-standing friendship and love for Mihai. He hoped it was a different kind of love, even though Mihai had found love of his own in the geneticist, Dr Helena Bancroft.
“Hello, Mihai. I am truly sorry that I have not called you. I hope you forgive me.” He was prevented further explanation as Mihai interrupted him.
“I sense you too are in Greece; she wakes?”
Beckett smiled. The ancient vampire’s telepathic abilities were highly developed and it made things a whole lot easier – if occasionally disconcerting.
“Something is disturbing her, Mihai, she seems troubled. I think she will wake soon and I will be here when she does. I thought you should know; especially as she said your name last night.” He waited for a response that took a few moments.
“Has she said anything else?”
Beckett frowned; he hadn’t liked what her other words implied. “She also said ‘the Source’ and ‘not a virus’. I don’t like where this might be going. Not after all this time. It changes everything.”
“Will you be offended if I come? I do know how you feel about her, Beckett. I assure you, I won’t get in the way of that.”
Beckett smiled; despite his early tiny pang of jealousy, he would be glad to see Mihai and whatever was troubling Lane was something big. He would be glad of company.