Hunting Prince Dracula (Stalking Jack the Ripper Book 2)

by Kerri Maniscalco

  He passed two pieces of parchment to each of us. Scribbled on them were poems in Romanian, which he promptly translated into English.

  “Oh! I just love this one. I recall the first time my parents had introduced me… bother all that. Ahem.

  LORDS WEEP, LADIES CRY. DOWN THE ROAD, SAY GOOD-BYE.

  LAND SHIFTS AND CAVES DWELL. DEEP IN EARTH, WARM AS HELL.

  WATER SEEPS COLD, DEEP, AND FAST. WITHIN ITS WALLS YOU WILL NOT LAST.

  Blood frosted inside my veins. The words weren’t exactly the same, but they were strikingly similar to the chanting I’d heard snippets of outside my chambers. Thomas narrowed his eyes, ever in tune with my shifting emotions, and leaned back in his seat.

  “Pardon, Professor,” he said. “What is the title of this poem?”

  Radu blinked several times, bushy brows raising with the movement. “We will get to that in a moment, Mr. Cresswell. This is copied from a most special and sacred text, known as ‘Poems of Death.’ Poezii Despre Moarte. The original text has gone missing. Very strange and unfortunate indeed.”

  I felt Thomas’s attention on me, but I didn’t dare meet his gaze. We were in possession of the very book Dăneşti had been searching for. How the missing woman from the village had had it in her custody was yet another mystery to add to our ever-growing list.

  The Bianchi brothers scratched notes into their journals. This lesson apparently had just become more intriguing to them with the mention of death. I could hardly contain my own excitement. Radu’s incessant rambling might be worthwhile after all.

  “And this text was sacred to the Order?” I asked.

  “Yes. Its contents were used by the Order of the Dragon as a sort of… well… it was used to rid the castle of perceived enemies during medieval times. Is it something you recall, Mr. Cresswell? As one of the remaining—and almost secret, I believe—members of that household, your family would have known more about this text, I imagine. Your education must have been exceptional.”

  It was subtle, but I did not miss the slight flicker of tightness in Thomas’s spine. Our classmates shifted uncomfortably in their seats, the revelation unnerving even to those who studied the deceased. No wonder Thomas wasn’t keen on sharing his ancestry. Hiding his ties to Vlad Dracula spared him from unwarranted scorn.

  Radu apparently had done some research on Thomas’s matriarchal lineage. How intriguing. My body thrummed with alert. Radu was much less clueless than he appeared.

  Thomas lifted a shoulder, taking on the air of someone who couldn’t care less about the topic of conversation or the tension now tugging at the room. He transformed himself into an emotionless automaton, putting on an armor against judgment. Nicolae glared at his sheet of parchment, not deigning to look at his many-times-removed cousin. I imagined that he’d known who Thomas was and hadn’t shared it with anyone.

  “Can’t say the poem sounds the least bit familiar,” Thomas said. “Or particularly interesting. Though I do believe if used on one’s enemies, it might very well kill them over time. One more line from that book and I might collapse from boredom myself.”

  “No, no, no. That would be most unfortunate! Moldoveanu wouldn’t be pleased if I caused the death of his students.” Radu clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes protruding. “Poorly timed use of words, though. After poor Wilhelm, Anastasia, and now Mariana.”

  “Who is Mariana?” Thomas asked.

  “The maid who was discovered the other morning,” Radu said.

  He sealed his lips together, watching the Bianchi twins squirm in their seats. I’d forgotten that our classmates had discovered her body. Studying death and coming across corpses outside the laboratory weren’t the same, and the latter was hard to simply get past. I knew all too well the lingering effects of such a discovery.

  “Perhaps that’s enough for today’s lesson.”

  I scanned the second page of poetry, sucking in a breath sharp enough to pierce. I needed a few more answers before class ended. “Professor, the poem you read is called ‘XI.’ None of the poems appear to have titles other than Roman numerals. Why is that?”

  Radu glanced from the page to the class, chewing his lip. After a moment, he shoved his spectacles up his nose. “From what I’ve gathered, the Order used this as a code. Legend has it they marked secret passages beneath this very castle. Behind doors marked with a certain numeral there would be… well—there’d be all manner of unpleasant devices or traps by which their foes would perish.”

  “Can you give us examples?” Erik asked, first in Russian and then in English.

  “Of course! They would appear to have died of natural causes, though the way in which they’d come to their end was hardly natural. It’s rumored that Vlad—a member of the Order, just like his father—would send a noble down beneath the castle with the promise that he would find treasure there. Other times he’d send corrupt boyars to these chambers to hide, saying an army was outside the castle walls and they should take shelter. They’d follow his instructions, enter the marked chambers, and meet their deaths. He could then pass their demises off as an unfortunate accident to other boyars, though I’m sure they suspected otherwise. He had quite the reputation for razing corruption from this country in sweeping ways.”

  Thomas’s eyes narrowed, focus now latched on to Radu as if he were a starving mutt with a bone. I knew precisely what that expression meant.

  “What of the poetry, though?” I asked. “What did it signify to members of the Order?”

  Radu pointed to the parchment with stubby fingers, careful to not smudge the ink. “Take this one here.” He translated the text from Romanian to English once again:

  XXIII

  WHITE, RED, EVIL, GREEN. WHAT HAUNTS THESE WOODS STAYS UNSEEN.

  DRAGONS ROAM AND TAKE TO AIR. CUT DOWN THOSE WHO NEAR HIS LAIR.

  EAT YOUR MEAT AND DRINK YOUR BLOOD. LEAVE REMAINS IN THE TUB.

  BONE WHITE, BLOOD RED. ALONG THIS PATH YOU’LL SOON BE DEAD.

  “Some believe this poem refers to a secret meeting place of the Order. One in the woods, where they hold death rites for other members. Others believe it refers to a crypt beneath the castle: a crypt only because once unsuspecting guests traveled inside, they were locked in by the Order until they rotted away. I’ve heard villagers claim their bones were turned into a holy site.”

  “What sort of holy site?”

  “Oh, one where sacrifices are made to the Immortal Prince. But not everything you hear is to be trusted. The dragons-taking-to air bit is metaphorical. Translated plainly, this means the Order moves about stealthily, stalking and protecting what is theirs. Their land. Their God-chosen rulers. Their way of life. They are transformed into ferocious creatures who eat you whole and leave your bones. Meaning, they murder you and the only thing left is your remains.”

  “Do you suspect the Order of the Dragon maintains the tunnels to this day?” I asked.

  “Goodness. I don’t believe so,” Radu said, laughing a bit too loudly. “Though I suppose I cannot say for sure. As mentioned earlier, the Order first fashioned themselves after Crusaders. In fact, Sigismund, king of Hungary, later became Holy Roman Emperor.”

  Before Radu could go off about the Crusaders, I blurted out another question. “Exactly what methods of death did the tunnels contain?”

  “Oh, let’s see, Miss Wadsworth. Some passages contained bats. Some were overrun with arachnids. Wolves are said to have hunted in other passages. Legend claims the only way to escape the water chamber is to offer a dragon a bit of blood.” He smiled ruefully at the thought. “I don’t believe the creatures would be able to live underground without a source of food or care. If the passages exist today, they are likely harmless, though I’d not suggest searching for anything this book contains. Most superstitions have some basis in fact. Hmm? Yes? Take strigoi, for instance—there must be some truth behind these rumors.”

  I wanted to point out that the legends regarding strigoi were likely the result of not burying bodies far enoug
h underground during winter. Bodies became bloated with gases and pushed out of their graves; nail beds receded, making hands look like claws—ghastly and vampiric in appearance but not practice. To the uneducated, it would most certainly seem that their loved ones were trying to climb out of their graves. However, science proved that was simply myth.

  The clock outside tolled the end of our class. Guards wasted no time making their presence once again known. I collected the pieces of parchment Radu had given us and tucked them into my pocket.

  “Thank you, Professor,” I said, watching him closely. “I rather enjoyed this lesson.”

  Radu clucked. “My pleasure. I thank you. I now have—is it really three o’clock? I was hoping to get to the kitchens before retiring to my chambers. They’re making my favorite sticky buns. Off I go!” He grabbed an armful of journals from his desk and vanished out the door.

  I had turned to Thomas, ready to talk through everything we’d learned and discuss Radu’s possible involvement, when Dăneşti waved from the doorway. He grinned at Thomas, taunting my friend in a way I knew he wouldn’t resist.

  “Să mergem. We do not have all day.”

  Thomas inhaled deeply. There was only so much goading he could withstand. Before I had time to react, he opened that cursed mouth of his.

  “Lapdogs do as they’re told. They have nothing to do but sit and wait and beg for their master’s next orders.”

  “They also bite when provoked.”

  “Do not pretend escorting me to and fro isn’t the highlight of your miserable day. Shame you didn’t do the same for that poor maid. Though I am much prettier to stare at,” Thomas said, running a hand through his dark locks. “At least I know I’m in no danger of being whisked away by a vampire—you’re too busy admiring me. Quite the compliment. Thank you.”

  Dăneşti’s grin turned absolutely lethal. “Ah. I have been waiting for this.” He called out in Romanian, and four more guards piled into our now-empty folklore classroom. “Escort Mr. Cresswell to the dungeon for the next few hours. He needs to be shown Romanian ospitalitate.”

  Dear Wadsworth,

  I have finally been sprung from the dank hellscape they dignify with the name “dungeon.” Now I’m sat in my chambers, contemplating scaling the castle walls for amusement. I overheard the guards speaking, and it seems tonight might be our best chance of sneaking out to search the woods for whoever was dragged out through the tunnels that night.

  Unlike our esteemed headmaster, I do not believe you invented that scenario, and I worry we may have been wrong about Ileana being involved, criminally. She may very well be another victim, but there’s only one way we can be sure.

  If you do not hear any more from me, it’s because I am sneaking through corridors, en route to your chambers.

  Ever yours,

  Cresswell

  TOWER CHAMBERS

  CAMERE DIN TURN

  BRAN CASTLE

  17 DECEMBER 1888

  Such a dramatic young man. If Thomas was already in his rooms writing a note to me, that meant he’d spent only a short time in the dungeon. I finished drafting my response and folded it up, adding a bit of red wax and pressing it with my namesake rose seal.

  “Please take this to Thomas Cresswell.” The new chambermaid stared. I tried again, hoping my Romanian was accurate. My mind was in several places at once. “Vă rog… daţi-i… asta lui Thomas Cresswell.”

  “Da, domnişoară.”

  “Thank you. Mulţumesc.”

  “Do you require assistance with getting ready for bed?”

  I glanced at my simple dress and shook my head. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

  The maid nodded, swiping the note up and sticking it under the lid of a tray she was carrying. She exited my chambers, and I prayed she’d deliver it without the guards noticing what she was up to.

  I paced along the carpet in my main chamber, mind stumbling and running over every last detail of the day. I scarcely knew where to start with untangling this new thread. Either Radu or Ileana might be the murderer. Radu for his knowledge of poisons. Ileana for her ability to slip them into meals.

  But, with little education, did she have the understanding of how to administer such a thing as arsenic? And did Radu have an opportunity to feed it to students? And yet Thomas believed Ileana might be a victim—which left Radu as a prime suspect. Something niggled in my core. I still had a feeling that Ileana was involved somehow. I couldn’t explain it.

  I’d taken my riding habit and breeches out of my trunk and didn’t miss the bulk of my skirts as I continued pacing around the room in my new outfit.

  Who else besides Ileana would know Thomas would be distracted by the shame of his lineage, though? How did anyone here know him well enough to use that against him and thwart his normally stellar method of deductions? Ileana might have gleaned some information from Daciana; perhaps she’d been using her this entire time. I stopped pacing. That didn’t quite feel right either; a love so powerful could not be easily faked. Which brought me back to our professor.

  No amount of research Radu could have done would unearth the secrets of Thomas’s personality. Or perhaps that was simply a spot of good luck, a serendipitous gift. An even better idea: the murderer might be someone we hadn’t interacted with at all. A shiver glided down my spine. Imagining a faceless murderer who was not only skilled but also blessed with luck was especially frightening.

  Half an hour scraped by, and still no sign of Thomas. I sat at my writing desk and plucked a pen from its inkwell. I’d promised Father I’d write to him and had yet to send a proper note. I stared at the blank piece of parchment, unsure of what to disclose.

  I couldn’t very well discuss the murders. Father’s blessing and encouragement for pursuing my career in forensic medicine went only so far. If he’d known about the body we’d found on the train, he’d have brought me back to London immediately.

  A faint scuffling noise dragged my attention toward the window. It sounded as if an animal had scuttled across the roof. My blood prickled all over.

  I bolted from my chair and stared out at the snowy world, trapped in darkness. Heart thundering, I expected to see a ghastly face staring back at me, milky eyes unblinking. No such thing happened. It was likely a chunk of snow or ice falling from the roof. Or a bird seeking shelter from the storm. I sighed and sat back down at my desk. I’d never stop creating villains out of shadows.

  I rolled the pen between my fingers, trying to think of anything other than ghouls and vampires and people adept with poison. I’d nearly forgotten it was the Christmas season again. The time for joy and love and family. It was hard to remember life existed outside of death and fear and chaos.

  I gazed at the photograph of Father and Mother, allowing warm memories to thaw the colder, scientific parts of me. I recalled the way Father would have our cook pack a hamper full of treats, then play hide and seek with us in the maze at Thornbriar.

  He’d laughed freely and often back then—I’d never realized how much I’d miss that part of him once it perished along with Mother. He was slowly emerging from that desolate nothingness that follows losing a piece of your soul, but I worried he’d fall into old patterns now that he was alone. From this point forward I vowed to write to him often, to keep him engaged with the living. We were both surrounded by enough death.

  I took my brother’s old advice and forgot about murder and death for a few moments, allowing myself to remember that life was beautiful even during the darkest hours. I thought about the magnificence of this country, the history behind its architecture and its rulers. The gorgeous language of its people, the food and the love that went into making it.

  Dear Father,

  The Kingdom of Romania is truly enchanting. One of my first thoughts upon seeing Bran Castle and its spires was of those children’s stories you and Mother would read to us before bed. The tiles on the towers are cut in a way that reminds me of dragon scales. I half expect a knight to come riding in on hi
s steed at any moment. (Though we both know I’d likely borrow his horse on my own to seek out a dragon to slay. If he’s truly a knight and a gentleman, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.)

  The Carpathian Mountains are some of the grandest in all the world, at least what I’ve seen of them. I cannot wait to admire this land during the spring. I imagine the ice-capped mountains must burst with greenery. I believe you would enjoy taking a holiday here.

  They have these divine meat pastries—filled with savory mushrooms and all manner of wonderful juices and spices. I have eaten them nearly every day so far! In fact, my stomach is grumbling at the mere mention of them. I must bring some back when I visit.

  I hope you’re doing well in London. I miss you terribly and have a photograph of you I often say good night to. Before you inquire, I will say that Mr. Cresswell has been a most perfect gentleman. He has taken his duty seriously and is quite the troublesome chaperone. You would be proud.

  His sister, Miss Daciana Cresswell, has invited us to a Christmas ball in Bucharest. If the weather permits, it shall be a lovely time. I do wish I could come home for the new year and visit. Please give my love to Aunt Amelia and Liza. And do take care of them and yourself.

  I shall write again soon. I am learning much here at the academy and cannot thank you enough for allowing me to study abroad.

  Your loving daughter,

  Audrey Rose

  P.S. How is Uncle faring? I do hope you’ve continued to see him and invite him over for supper. It may be forward of me to say, but I daresay you need each other, especially during this trying season. Merry Christmas, Father. And many happy tidings for the new year. 1889! I cannot believe it’s almost upon us. There is something fresh and wonderful about the start of a whole new year. I hope it ushers in the promise of new beginnings for us all. It shall

  Thump. Thump.

  Ink splattered across the last words on the page, my careful script ruined. I shoved away from the desk so quickly my chair knocked over. Something was on the roof. Even though I knew it was madness, I imagined a humanlike creature, just risen from the grave, the scent of freshly turned earth enveloping my senses, as its fangs shot out, ready to drain my body of blood.