Night's Gift: Book One of the Night's Vampire Trilogy

by Mary M. Cushnie-mansour

  He sauntered up to me and took my hand in his. “Allow me to introduce myself, lovely lady. It appears that cousin Basarab has forgotten his manners. He has been away from the old country far too long and is becoming much too westernized.” He paused just long enough to give me a small bow. “My name is Count Vlad Dracul.” He smiled as he placed a wispy kiss upon my knuckles. “I am named after my father,” he added. “And this,” he said as he dropped my hand, “is my brother, Count Mihail Dracul.”

  The name Dracul thrust my senses back to the fearful reality of my situation. The account written by Atilla Musat was coming alive before me! I wondered how many family members there were! How many of the originals were left, and how many had been born of a human female such as me? However, I did have some sense of relief that the congregation of guests did not include Count Vlad Dracula himself! His name had not even been on the original guest list, not that I knew of, anyway. I dreaded that I might have to come face to face with him. Would that be another surprise I would have to deal with?

  The curse had included Count Vlad Dracula, Count Atilla Musat, and all their descendants. Had I been so foolish as to think, for even one moment, Count Atilla’s accounts were not factual, or that the conversations I’d had with Count Basarab Musat had just been idle chatter to pass some time in the evenings? The proof was standing before me—confirmation enough for me that there was no hope my child would grow up normal.

  Mihail inched forward upon his introduction, and the hand-kissing ceremony was repeated. His smile appeared to glow with warmth, but under my present circumstances, it was not a warmth I felt I could trust, let alone welcome.

  “I assume my cousin has not been too harsh with you,” he stated. “Back home, Basarab did have quite a reputation, and appetite, when it came to the ladies. A number of young girls felt he was a bit—how shall I say it to one in such a delicate condition? Rough—that is the word I search for. Yes, quite rough was the general consensus around the villages when the people spoke of our Basarab. Not that his behaviour ever prevented any of those silly maidens from throwing themselves at his feet, though, the little tramps that most of them were.” I took note of the sarcasm in his statement. Mihail smiled teasingly at me. I noticed his teeth. The warmth that I thought might have been there a few seconds earlier had disappeared very quickly into the coldness of his sculpted features. I also still felt the sting from the harsh innuendoes in his words. There would be no ally in the likes of him!

  They all laughed, enjoying the levity. I considered their insinuations insolent! I tried to remain composed; I flashed Count Basarab an enchanting smile. I wondered if his cousins and father knew just how gentle my count, their leader, could be. Maybe they all were gentle when it suited their purposes.

  More shadows entered the room. Count Basarab strolled over to greet a stately looking woman who had paused at the door and was surveying the scene in the dining room. She looked like a typical five-foot-two-inch grandmother, with soft grey curls surrounding a rosy face, but her face was void of the age lines that normal humans develop with the years. The contrast was startling, as was she, in an uncharacteristic sort of way.

  “Ah, my dear Aunt Emelia, lovely as ever, I see,” the flattering words rolled naturally off the count’s tongue. “Your beauty, as always, eludes the years.”

  I wondered how true his final statement was to his aunt, and also, just how many years her beauty had eluded.

  “Oh, Basarab darling, you have not yet cast your golden tongue aside. Enough of me, though; introduce me to this lovely young lady who has been given the honour to bear your son,” Emelia demanded as she walked over to me.

  Honour to bear his son! Is that what everyone here considered my condition, or should I say my plight, to be? They thought it an honour? Even though I felt love for the child growing inside of me, the circumstance I was confronted with was more like a curse—especially now that I had been told my usefulness would end once the child was weaned!

  Emelia gathered me into her arms and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. She laid her hands on my stomach and paused a moment. I noticed a shadow of concern flit across her face. She gazed up at me, closely scrutinizing my face. Once again, I felt that ghostly shiver race through me. She was just behaving as a typical elderly aunt or grandmother would act when meeting a pregnant niece or granddaughter—at least that is what I tried to tell myself. Unfortunately, my nagging inner voice suggested she was anything but typical!

  Without further word to me, Emelia turned and whispered something to the gentleman who had entered the room with her. He nodded his head and left, but not before I had caught sight of his worried expression.

  Emelia returned her attention to me. “Come, my dear; allow me to introduce you to my husband, Count Vacaresti Musat.” Emelia took me by the hand and pulled me over to the gentleman who was still standing by the doorway.

  He was an elegant man, at first glance. I detected a slight resemblance to Atilla and Basarab, but there was also something quite different about him. Count Vacaresti had a hawkish look to him. He was not what I would have considered handsome, but there was still something about him that I felt could fatally attract the female gender. His nose was sharply hewn, dominating his other facial features. His jaw was square. His cheeks and forehead jutted out, surrounding the caverns where his eyes were. And there I saw the attraction—like the Count Basarab’s—it was his eyes. They were intense and coal-black, with flecks of red. He bowed eloquently over my proffered hand.

  “Charmed, my dear,” he murmured as he dropped my fingers without planting the ceremonial kiss to my knuckles. I breathed a sigh of relief; yet, at the same time, I felt offended by the omission.

  Count Basarab interrupted, “Everyone, please come and sit. Max will be serving our meal momentarily.”

  Teresa arrived just as the count finished his invitation. I had been wondering when she would make her grand entrance, but of course, I had been the one who had delayed her with my incessant questions. The count strolled over to Teresa and took her by the arm.

  “Ah, at last, my darling Teresa. Lovely, lovely indeed. No words can adequately describe your beauty, nor could any other woman’s torch outshine yours. Come, my dearest, sit here at the end of the table, so that I, your husband, may gaze upon your perfection throughout the meal.” The count motioned to the chair at the opposite end of the table from where he would be sitting. He threw me a mocking look, a know-your-place look. My blood boiled angrily, but his words gouged deeply into my heart.

  Teresa was more beautiful than I could have imagined. Her hair shone like polished ebony. Her cheeks were the colour of crimson-red roses on a dewy morning, and her eyes sparkled like cultured black diamonds in the noontime sun. Her figure-hugging black velvet gown accentuated every curve of her perfect body. Exquisite and stunning were the best words I could think of to describe Teresa, and despite the many complimentary comments I had received, I felt insignificant in the shadow of her splendour.

  “Thank you, my dearest Basarab,” Teresa smiled sweetly. As she sauntered to her chair, she stopped at each of the male guests and planted a kiss on each cheek, acting the grand hostess—smiling, flirting—for she was their leader’s wife. Her posture informed that she knew that, and it was obvious to me that they did, as well, by the way they welcomed her. When she came to Emelia, Teresa embraced her with an enormous hug and a dramatic, “Oh, my darling aunt, it has been much too long since I have held you in my arms.”

  Emelia returned the affection. “Yes, but such a joyous occasion it is that has reunited us! And, if I might add, dear Teresa, you are as lovely as the last time I saw you!”

  “As are you, my dearest aunt, as are you!” Teresa’s laugh tingled through the room. The count pulled her chair out for her and then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before taking his place at the other end of the table.

  The fact that my presence in the room had not been acknowledged by the count’s wife seemed to have been totally mi
ssed by everyone there. Or was it? Most likely I was the only one who was upset with the obvious exclusion! I was just a woman who had been chosen by their king to bear him a child. That is where my usefulness started and ended. He would have his heir, and I would have ...?

  Teresa sat at the table like a royal queen, her head held high. Finally, she allowed her gaze to turn upon me. Her eyes spoke volumes! Everything I had allowed myself to dream about the count, and about my future here in his house, dissipated. I truly was no more than what Max and Teresa kept telling me I was—a vessel to carry the child. I meant nothing to the Count Basarab Musat—nothing at all!

  The gentleman to whom Emelia had whispered, and who had left the room, returned. By process of elimination, I presumed he was the doctor, Count Balenti Danesti. He set a drink by my plate. “I believe you will need this tonight,” he stated, not offering any further information.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Emelia tells me the baby will enter our world tonight. This drink will be of a comfort to you in your hours of suffering. It is quite similar in taste to the nourishment Max has been serving you during the past months.”

  I trembled. Tonight? It was too soon! The baby was not due for two weeks. My time had run out. If I were going to escape from here now, I would have to wait until after the baby was born, and then I would have to decide whether I could escape with the child or whether I would have to leave it behind. That decision I would need to settle later.

  I glanced at the count. He was laughing and talking to his father in a strange language. My heart stirred with love, my mind with contempt. I could not believe, or understand, my foolishness. How could I possibly love such a man? How had I aspired to compete with the likes of Teresa? I thought to myself as I glimpsed her. Teresa must have noticed my discomfort, for she flashed me a malicious smile.

  Then again, I do have a powerful weapon, I reasoned within myself. I am the mother of his child! Not she! He turned to me for conversations of wit. What if I were to become one of them? Oh God—forgive me for even thinking such a thing! I sighed and began to sip my drink.

  I had to keep a clear head. I had to escape, preferably with my child. No nights of lust were worth the eternal damnation that would inevitably follow if I were to join the ranks of those in this room! I had thought I loved him, and that maybe he loved me. But, in reality, it had been nothing more than lust, and a game—for both of us! And he, not I, was the obvious victor!

  The Birth

  Chapter Eighteen

  I gaze into his eyes, searching for love

  Realizing now, he is not my loving dove.

  Do I truly love him, would that be a sin?

  Is this my victory, or Teresa’s win?

  She is his wife; I know they are wed—

  Is it really love? The twosome is undead.

  D espite the turmoil of my thoughts, the atmosphere was happy and relaxed during the meal. Everyone, except me, was in a boisterous mood, but I hid my true emotions the best I could. I had finished my drink and was beginning to feel quite squeamish. The baby, I had noticed, had been extremely quiet all day, with the exception of the movement when the guests were arriving and the bit of turmoil when I had met Count Atilla.

  “Aaaaah!” The scream startled me as much as it did the others around the table. I could not help the outburst—pain had exploded across my back!

  The count jumped from his chair and raced to my side. He looked over to Emelia. “Is it time?”

  “Yes, Basarab, it is time. Balenti and I will prepare the room.” Emelia turned to Teresa. “Teresa, could you please walk Virginia up and down the hallway? We will call you when we have everything prepared for the ceremony.” Emelia clapped her hands with the glee of a small child. “This is so exciting! I am glad we arrived when we did, or we would have missed the entire birth. Who knows what might have happened if we had not been present to perform the birthing properly!”

  Emelia reached over and hugged me as any normal sweet, old aunt would do. “Be patient my dear; it won’t be long now, and you will be in the best of hands.” With those words, she ushered the doctor out of the room.

  Another sharp pain assaulted my lower back. Teresa walked over to me and took hold of my arm. “Breathe, Virginia, breathe through it.” I wondered how many other women she had walked in hallways, perhaps thinking that she would never be the one who was walked.

  It seemed like forever that I paced up and down the hallway, with Teresa close at my side, supporting me as each contraction battered my body. The pain just would not stop; in fact, it increased its tempo to an almost intolerable rhythm. I was so tired. I wanted to sit down, but Teresa kept forcing me to walk. Had she no consideration at all for how exhausted I was? A woman in labour was usually allowed the dignity of a bed to bear her pain and rest her weary body in between the contractions.

  The count appeared in the hallway. “Everything is prepared now. Teresa, if you please, I will have a moment alone with Virginia. Tell the others we will be there shortly,” he ordered. Teresa nodded her head curtly and walked away. She knew that even if she were not pleased, it would be of no consequence.

  Count Basarab Musat turned his attention to me. “So, finally it is time for the hatching, eh, my little bird? Tonight, you will present me with a son!” He gathered me into his arms. I softened against his body. Little Bird, ever since my first attempted escape, had become his nickname for me. “I have waited a long time for this event,” he sighed.

  “Count?” I ventured into the conversation. “What if we have a daughter?”

  He scowled. “You do not carry a girl child, Virginia; please be assured of that!”

  Another sharp pain charged through my body. I staggered. He caught me and then drew me even closer into his arms. Was that the beat of his heart that I felt on mine? For a few short seconds we seemed as one. The pain of the contractions ceased momentarily, so I raised my lips to him: “Please, Basarab, may I call you that?”

  “Yes—for tonight.”

  “Please, kiss me before we go in there ... before I present you with our son.” I emphasized our son.

  Basarab leaned down, and his cool breath whispered close to my waiting lips. Oh God, how good he tasted, I thought as our lips sealed in passion. Despite my present condition, I felt the fire racing up and down my body as we kissed. It had been so long, and I had missed him so. Damn him! Damn me! But he was already damned, and I was not sure yet exactly where I stood. On the threshold of damnation—or of salvation?

  The count swept me up into his arms and carried me down the hallway and into the room where everyone else was gathered, waiting. I leaned my head upon his shoulder, breathed in his manliness, and basked in my tiny moment of victory. All I could think of, at that instant, was that the Count Basarab Musat must surely love me, and once I gave him the son he so badly wanted, I would be his queen! Teresa would be diminished to nothing more than a servant girl. I smiled inwardly at the very notion of victory over Teresa. And I wondered why the count seemed unable to display his tender side to those who were in this room.

  Was it a game the count played with Teresa and Max? Perhaps it was them he was toying with, fooling them into a sense of security. I would love to see their faces when he declared me, the mother of his child, as his new queen! However, there was still the other nagging thought, in the realm of reality, telling me that such wishful thinking was mine alone.

  They were all standing around a table, with fixed smiles upon their lips. To me they looked like a lingering congregation of vultures anticipating the death of a victim, so they might fill their growling bellies. A bright red cloth was draped over the table. Candles flickered everywhere, creating an eerie impression. The countess Emelia began chanting in a strange language. It was an ominous sound, yet I felt strangely soothed by the hypnotic intonation. Basarab laid me gently on the table.

  “It won’t be long now, my little bird,” he whispered into my ear, lingering over me for a moment longer than ne
cessary—at least, I thought so. “Be patient; be strong!” With those final words of comfort, he took his place with the others.

  The group joined hands and formed a circle around me. I could not understand why they all had to be there: cousins, uncles, aunts, Teresa. Were not the doctor and the count enough? They were the only ones I would have need of in the next few hours. I especially did not want her near me! I tried desperately to cast a contemptuous look at Teresa. No one seemed to notice; they were all in a trance-like state.

  The soft lull of Emelia’s voice was joined, one at a time, by the others in the group. Soon the chanting inundated the room with a droning which actually began to irritate me. The doctor busied himself at the end of the table. He seemed to be preparing instruments, because I could detect the faint sound of clinking metal.

  Another pain shattered my body; it was so intense I could not help but scream again. My body writhed in anguish. I reached out for someone to hold my hand, but no one seemed to care. The chanting continued. I dug my fingers into the sides of the table with the hope that, by giving something else pain, I would be able to relieve my own.

  I never dreamed that the day I would give birth to my first child would be such a lonely one. A few of my friends from Toronto had children, and I had listened to their stories, all different, but all with one common thread—their husbands or partners had been there for them, holding their hands, coaching them through the breathing process, soothing their tortured nerves, whispering endearments into their ears. I had no husband—only him, who was but a figment of a love that would never truly be mine. Did I have hope? Only moments. Was the child my only chance for survival?

  “It won’t be long now,” I heard the doctor’s voice through my fog of pain. “Draw up your legs, my dear.”

  I felt a gentle pressure on my legs as they were pushed into a bent position. My gown fell up to my hips. I wanted to cover my nakedness, but another pain rent my body. I screamed again and again and again. I felt a warm gush of liquid expel from my body, and I knew that my water had broken.