“Come, come now, hand me the child. I will give him a bath and change him for you. You just crawl under your covers and keep warm. I shall come and tell you a story about the count when I am finished. Would you like that?” Emelia smiled sweetly.
I nodded. Aunt Emelia was not evil; surely she was not. Someone as nice as her could not really be one of them. In my mind I did not want her to be one of them, so I willed her part in their world away. For the time being, I would just bask in her kindness and heal my wounds. I crept slowly under the covers and lay waiting, like an anxious child, for my bedtime story.
But the story never materialized. By the time the countess Emelia had finished attending to Santan and had settled him down in his cradle, I was sound asleep. The battles of wits, the strained scenes with Teresa, the tears—they had all taken their toll on me. I had drifted off into another troubled world, one that I visited often—that of my dreams ...
My dream began on a riverbank. I was holding my son and attempting to cross. I could see the place from which I was fleeing—a stone castle, built into the side of a mountain. I could hear the shouts of men and women as they pursued me; they were coming ever closer. The child was crying. I was crying. I pushed forward into the frigid river water. On the other side was a hulking, dark forest. I felt the urgency to reach it. My feet were slipping on the river rocks, and several times I almost lost my balance. Then I heard someone shout, “There she is!” I tried to quicken my pace.
But the child was heavy, oh so heavy. My feet slipped again. I felt myself losing control. I was being swallowed by the frothy water. The child was still crying, louder and more anxiously. I placed my hand on his mouth. As I was sinking, I saw a woman’s face. I felt the firm grip of her hands as she reached under my arms and then propelled me to the bank on the other side. She did not exit from the deep herself, but she had placed me on firm enough footing that I could catch my balance. When I reached the edge of the wood, I turned and saw the water leaping furiously. The woman was hovering over the waves, her arms spread wide. She was facing the advancing army, and she was chanting.
I saw the army of men and women stop at the edge of the river. I saw the anger on some faces, the fear on others. I saw him glaring at me. But then his fury turned into beckoning. I hesitated, almost ready to run back to his arms. A voice from within the woods stopped me. “Hurry Virginia, there is not much time.”
I looked for the woman in the water. She was gone. I turned, ran into the darkness, and saw no more!
Emelia’s Story
Chapter Twenty-two
When I awoke, it was morning. Santan and I spent a quiet, uneventful day; he slept most of it—possibly a sign of things to come? Max brought me the usual breakfast drink and a roast beef sandwich with a side salad for lunch. As the sun began to set, I wondered what the evening would bring. A light knock came on the door.
“Who is it?” I called out.
“Aunt Emelia.”
I rushed to the door, forgetting I could only open it from the inside if it were unlocked. I was surprised when it swung open easily. “Come in, please,” I said. I noticed the key in the door. Someone must have left it there for Emelia, but she had been considerate enough to wait for my permission to enter.
Emelia was carrying a tray of food. “I thought to have our little chat tonight since you were much too tired last evening and fell asleep before I could begin.” She smiled warmly. Nothing sinister.
“Here, let me take the tray,” I said. I set it down on the table by my window.
“Isn’t he lovely?”
I looked back. Emelia was bent over the cradle.
“I think so,” I answered.
“He resembles my first son.” Emelia paused.
I spoke before she could continue. “How many children do you have?”
“I had three,” she replied sadly. “Only one is still alive, and I do not know where he is. He disappeared after the last great cleansing. I can only hope he is safe, maybe in the caves.”
“The caves Atilla spoke of in his diary?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why Basarab came here, because of this cleansing you speak of?”
“I believe so. Of course, his was the head most desired; therefore, the importance of getting him to safety was prevalent in all our minds, especially since we had come so close to losing him as Teresa mentioned last night.”
“But now he is needed again?” I pushed forward, hoping I was finally going to get some answers. “Count Atilla mentioned something about Elizabeth and Jack—is that Elizabeth Bathory and Jack the Ripper?”
“You know of them?”
“Yes. Basarab and I discussed them at great length.”
“I see.” She frowned and then went on to answer my first question. “Yes, he must return; he is our leader, and there are certain matters that need looking after. Atilla has done his best in his son’s absence, but he does not have the same power of persuasion as Basarab. There are too many who will not listen to him. That is why he is asking his son to return to the homeland.”
I walked back to the table and sat down. “Come, Aunt Emelia, let’s eat. After that, I hope you will tell me some stories. Count Atilla’s diaries ended when Basarab was three.”
Emelia sat down opposite me. “Yes. There is much to tell. I shall do my best to answer as many of your questions as possible.”
I noticed Emelia made no move to touch any of the dishes in front of us. She set the goblet aside; I presumed it was hers. I picked up my fork, dug into the supper, and looked at Emelia. I was like an impatient child, waiting for the story to begin.
~
She began with the day she met Count Vacaresti Musat...
“He was an amazing man. He came one day to see my father. Actually, as he told me later in our relationship, it was me he had come to see. He had heard a great many rumours about my ‘incredible beauty.’
“My father was hesitant to admit him into our castle. The rumours about his family were so vicious, you know. However, the Musat family was also exceedingly powerful, and you did not deny them access to anything you owned, should they make a request for it.
“After he had visited my father’s home several times, I began to notice something peculiar about Vacaresti. He never ate from our table. He always excused himself, telling us he had just finished a meal before arriving. He would pat his stomach and say that he never ate after a certain hour because it would upset his digestive system. When I mentioned this oddity to my father, he just brushed it off.
“I remember, clearly, the night Vacaresti turned to my father and asked permission to walk with me through the gardens. He even said that one of my personal maids could accompany us if there was any concern for my honour.
“Father was much too compliant. The count’s place in society, his concern for protocol—it all added up to one thing for my father. Maybe his spinster daughter would finally be married, and to a count who was more than a suitable candidate, in spite of the horrific rumours about Vacaresti’s family.”
I interrupted: “Why is it, if your beauty was so great, Aunt Emelia, that you had not had an offer of marriage?” I was puzzled.
“Ah, there lies your answer within your question, my dear. Great beauty brings hesitation of hearts. Most men believed that one so beautiful could never be a faithful wife, for all those who laid eyes upon her would seek some favour from her. It was assumed that sooner or later she would succumb to their amorous advances.”
“I see,” I whispered.
Emelia continued: “Thus the courtship began. Vacaresti came every day, or should I say evening. We walked through the gardens, by the river, and sometimes in the forest. He told me tales of the earth and the sky, weaving stories with such romantic imagination that I soon found myself falling helplessly in love. I was mesmerized by his knowledge and by his charm; I am not sure which one of those characteristics fascinated me more. His knowledge quenched my thirst for learning, his charm for ...” S
he smiled.
“Anyway, no one else thought it peculiar that he came only at night; the man was obviously busy during the day looking after family business. One evening, Vacaresti asked my father if he would mind if we took a moonlight ride on the horses. My father consented. He had no reason to doubt Vacaresti’s honourable intentions. Neither did I for, as of yet, he had not made any offensive moves toward me; my honour was still intact. We rode to Vacaresti’s castle.
“That was the first night Vacaresti kissed me. That night I fell totally in love, so much so that I took no notice of the stinging sensation on my neck; nor did I feel the withdrawal as my life’s blood was being sucked from me.
“I kissed him back, that night, and the next, and the next. I still took no heed as to what was happening to me, until my personal maid mentioned how pale I was becoming. She also pointed out that I was losing my appetite. I insisted it was nothing. I was in love. I continued to see my count. I continued to kiss him and be kissed by him.
“The count Vacaresti asked my father for my hand in marriage two months from our first meeting. I remember my father’s smile. He was thrilled to have finally found a suitable catch for his single daughter. He told Count Vacaresti that he would begin preparations for the wedding right away. I am sure my father’s urgency was because he wanted to make certain that I married the count quickly, just in case he changed his mind.
“However, Vacaresti informed my father that it would not be necessary for him to plan or pay for the wedding. He would look after all the arrangements. Some of his relatives would be leaving for abroad soon, and their presence was required in order to have a proper wedding. He explained to my father that it was a family thing.
“My father, who should have been my wise protector, and who should have questioned such a thing, did not. I have often wondered, over the years, whether he was naive—or just desperate to be rid of me. He did not even question that he would not be attending my wedding. My bags were packed, and my dowry chests were loaded onto the count’s carriage. My father embraced me goodbye and wished me luck. There were not even any departure tears for me, at least none that he allowed me to see. That was the last time I saw him alive.
“Vacaresti assured me I would have no need of my maid, that he would provide me with a new one—one more suitable to my new station in life, he had whispered in my ear. I embraced my lifelong friend. We both wept openly; I shall never forget her love for me. She had attended to my needs from the moment I entered this world. It had been a difficult birth for my mother, and she never recovered from the ordeal. She actually became a recluse; there was nothing that anyone, including my father, could do for her. She just faded away, body and mind. She died when I was four. So you see, my maid was not just a friend; she was my mother, too. I could not imagine my life without her.” Emelia’s eyes were moist with unwept tears.
“It was the most unusual wedding ceremony I had ever witnessed,” she continued. “There was no priest present, only Vacaresti’s close relatives, and the boy, Basarab. Basarab’s father said some words over us as we knelt before him. Before I knew it, Vacaresti assisted me to my feet, kissed me, and told me we were married.”
“You mentioned that Vacaresti’s close relatives were present. Who were they?” I asked.
“Atilla; Stephen and his wife, Evdochia; Dracula and his two sons, Vlad and Mihail; the doctor, Balenti Danesti; and Basarab were all there.”
“How old was Basarab at the time?”
“Twelve.”
Emelia raised her goblet, took a sip, and then continued. “I believe I became pregnant on my wedding night. No number of talks with other females, or with my maid, could have prepared me for what happened to me that night. Count Vacaresti moved me into womanhood with such ease that I was barely aware of what was happening to me. It was like a beautiful dream, one which I never wished to awaken from.
“I felt only slight shame for having responded to my husband so wantonly, but I could not help myself. He whispered things to me, and he did things to my body that ignited a lust in me that I had no idea I possessed! I also reasoned within myself that anything so rapturous could not be wrong. I felt sorry for those women who only considered it a duty to let their husbands mount them, so to speak. I began to imagine ways to pleasure my husband. Vacaresti was a most willing participant!
“During those first few months, I learned that Basarab ruled the roost. Atilla was actually quite a gentle man. Still is. I always found him either reading books or writing in his journal. When I asked him one day why it was that he kept a journal, he said it was to ensure there would be a record of our family in case of our demise. I did not understand, exactly, what he meant at the time ... I do now.
“Vlad and Mihail came and went often, but they were a pair of rascals who only kept their teeth from my throat because I was Vacaresti’s chosen bride. Dracula, Vlad and Mihail’s father, was the only one of the group who remained absent for quite some time after the wedding. We heard much of his terrors around the countryside, though. His sons thought he was a hero. Atilla would get a faraway, forlorn look in his eyes when Dracula’s name was mentioned. Stephen would just hang his head. Evdochia would tense and walk away. I was still too new in the family to have any reaction to Dracula at all, except for a twinge of fear now and then.
“The first child grew within me. I became quite ill, though, and found I had no desire for food. The count Balenti brought me a drink to replace the meals I could no longer eat. I told him it tasted horrible, but he ordered me to drink it. At the time, it seemed to be the only thing I could tolerate.
“Basarab was fascinated with my condition, so much so that we actually spent many hours together. For a twelve-year-old child, he was most astute. He questioned everything that was happening to me, demanding to know exactly how I felt, both mentally and physically. We became the best of friends.
“Time drew near for the birthing. I became quite agitated. I was terrified. I missed and wanted my old maid. Vacaresti tried to sooth me, but I began to blame him for my discomfort. He would laugh and tease me; then, he would hold me close to him and whisper old stories in my ear. That usually settled me, at least until my next fit of emotional distress.
“My first son was born on the second day of spring. He died on the third day. There was no comforting me this time. There was also no Vacaresti to hold me close, because following the death of his son, he rode off to the mountains, taking our dead child with him.
“It was only later that I learned about the caves. Vacaresti took me there and showed me our son’s grave. It was also at that time that I actually learned to whom, or to what, I was married. Somehow, I had been kept from the truth, or maybe I had just failed to see the reality of the family I was now a part of.
“My husband’s grief so overwhelmed him that he almost killed me that night. In fact, had it not been for Basarab, who had followed us to the caves, he probably would have killed me. At the time, I think Vacaresti blamed me for our son’s death.
“‘Uncle!’ Basarab had screamed out. ‘She is your wife, Uncle, your chosen one! Do not do this to her! She will bear you another child. Have we not already learned that the woman must still be human in order to bear a child of our kind?’
“Vacaresti stopped instantly and released me from his grip. I crumbled to the earth. Basarab was there, soothing me, rocking my fears away. ‘There, there, Auntie,’ he kept saying as he stroked my hair. ‘Uncle won’t hurt you again.’ It was Basarab who helped me up onto my horse. It was Basarab who accompanied me back to the castle. It was Basarab who tended the wounds left from my husband’s fury. Vacaresti was too ashamed of what he had almost done to me. He did not come home for several days.
“But my husband never hurt me again. When Basarab spoke, it seemed everyone listened, and most obeyed, eventually. It was obvious, even at such a young age that Basarab was a leader—their leader. My second child was born the following spring; this one lived.”
“What did you call
him?” I asked.
“We named him Ilias Atilla Musat,” Emelia answered.
“Ilias?” I prompted.
“After Vacaresti’s father,” Emelia answered. She continued with her story. “Vacaresti was getting restless and felt that he and I should return to his castle; we had imposed on Atilla and Basarab long enough. Since Ilias was so young, the doctor moved with us. He wanted to ensure that this child lived.” Emelia took another sip from her cup—its contents were a constant reminder to me of what she truly was.
I had wondered about the doctor; what was he? One of them, or was he like Max? I decided to ask Emelia. “Is Count Danesti a vampire?”
Emelia frowned at first, and then she sighed. “No, he is like Max; only his station in life is much higher as I presume you already know.”
“You cannot tell me how they are what they are?” I inquired, even though I already knew the answer.
“That is correct.” Emelia set her cup down. Her story continued.
“We decided to leave after Basarab’s birthday celebration. He would be thirteen. Atilla had sent out invitations to as many family members as possible. Many of them had relented over the years and had come to Atilla seeking advice on how to deal best with the curse they found themselves faced with.
“It was a grand celebration, one I shall never forget. Basarab displayed his power and authority, as was becoming his custom. Atilla allowed his son free rein to speak; Basarab opened the floodgate of his future plans for our kind. He said we must settle around the communities peacefully, leave the villagers and country folk alone, and desist from the violence some of our kind had been inflicting on the people. In other words, he was trying to encourage us to live discreetly, so we would not be hunted down like dogs.
Night's Gift: Book One of the Night's Vampire Trilogy Page 24