Max opened the door. The fluttering sound shocked both of us. Something flew past us and disappeared into the shadows of the dark hallway. Max’s face took on a look of total defeat. I stood in paralysed shock as I realized that there was only one type of creature that fluttered around like that in this house!
Max looked at me, tears forming in his eyes. “You see, Miss Virginia, there is no escaping him. And now he knows all. There will be hell to pay for what has passed our lips in this room tonight—if that was him, of course. If it wasn’t, only your God knows how long it will take for the news to filter back to the count! I hope He is willing to aid us both!” Max’s eyes looked upward before he took his leave, shuffling away as fast as his fatigued and broken body allowed.
I stood in the open doorway, my entire body shaking. Max had felt so terrorized he had called upon God to help us both! Who had been in my room, and for how long? How much had been heard? Teresa had warned me to watch the shadows. If it had been Teresa, she would not tell, regardless of what I had said about her. She would not expose her father. I felt sure there were two men she would die for: the count and her father. Of course, she did not fear her father, and there was still the risk that her hatred for me could outweigh any love she had for him.
There were other possibilities, too. It could have been the Countess Emelia. But what would her motive be? She had shown me nothing but kindness so far. Maybe she was spying on behalf of her favourite nephew. What was it Max had said? Emelia has always been partial to Basarab. I remembered her telling me that Basarab had saved her life, not just once but twice. Santan had been taken from my room after her last visit to me—just how far would she be willing to go for her precious nephew?
Or was it Count Atilla? Was he spying on me to see how good a mother I was to his grandson? Perhaps he had another motivation to snoop on me, one that he would not readily disclose to his son. The elder count had stated he would like to get to know me better. If it had been him, he now knew me better than I wished him to!
There was also the possibility that the cousins wanted to play I Spy for the fun of it. They seemed to me like the type who enjoyed playing pranks. Would their game turn into my nightmare? Would they fly to tell cousin Basarab about the treason of his faithful servant and the intended flight of his little bird? Or would they keep their secret, to use against me at a later time?
But there was no greater fear than that which pointed the finger at him! And how was I to know for sure? One thing I did know for sure was that the flying creature had not been a figment of my imagination—Max had seen it, too. The best thing for me to do now was to keep playing my game and to take my chances. No matter which way I turned, I had nothing to lose.
I gathered my son to my bosom. He gurgled contentedly, just like any other baby, but I knew he was not like any other baby!
My life truly was in God’s hands now—that is, if He had not totally forsaken me!
The Ceremony
Chapter Twenty-five
All too soon, Max returned for Santan. He stood waiting for the baby to finish his meal. I could tell Max was still traumatized. I feared to speak to him. The conversation that had passed between us could mean our demise if it had fallen upon the wrong ears. The chance of there being any right ears in this place was highly improbable. In fact, someone could be deciding our fate at this very moment. Obviously, I was disposable, and I was sure that if the count needed to, he could find another Max.
“I shall return shortly to guide you to the room where the ceremony will take place. There is not much time left—please hurry,” Max stated as he left with Santan. I noticed he did not look at me.
I began dressing. The count knew my size to precision. The dress closed over my body like a glove. I was thankful for my youthful figure, even so soon after childbirth. I brushed my hair until I noticed the ends shimmering. I would have liked to put my hair up, but the count had never seen fit to provide me with such trinkets as clips or ribbons. The one I’d had in my hair when I first arrived was long gone. I had noticed Teresa never wore such baubles, either; obviously it was a preference of the count.
Satisfied that I could make no further improvements in my appearance, I wandered over to my window and gazed out into the night. The window seemed to be my only real friend in this house. But it was a cautious and unsympathetic friend, one that never opened up to release me back to the world that had forsaken me. All it would allow me were glimpses through its panes. Was even the window afraid of him?
I noticed the wind was increasing, and rain was starting to fall from the clouds that had formed earlier in the evening. We were in for a wicked storm; I felt it in my bones. I also wondered if it was a warning of what was about to commence in my own life.
“Virginia,” Max’s voice startled me. “It is time. Follow me, please.”
I trailed after Max out of my prison cell, down the winding staircase, past my old room on the second floor, and down to the long, familiar hallway that led to the dining room, the study, and the front door. To my freedom? Near the end of the hall my hopes were dashed as Max opened a door and led me down a set of long, narrow stone steps. For a moment, I was foolish enough to think he was going to lead me out to the courtyard and set me free. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned and pushed open another large door. This led us into a seemingly endless, constricted corridor lit by a few flickering candles that were hung, like sleeping bats, from the low ceiling.
The walls were overgrown with green moss. Flecks of black mould had begun their intrusion upon the soft green landscape. The place smelled damp, and I detected the sound of dripping water. I began to get a sinking feeling. I wondered whether I was even going to the ceremony or whether I was to be locked in some cold, dank room in the dungeons of this house, to rot the rest of my life away in isolation.
My fears of lifelong solitude were alleviated when Max opened yet another door. I heard voices in earnest conversation. I stopped in the doorway and studied the room. This must be where everyone slept. There were eight coffins arranged in a circle. They were all open, and I could smell the earth from within them. In the centre of the circle was a small coffin—the size of a child’s. It was shrouded with a black velvet cloth, giving it the appearance of an altar. I wondered if it were a sacrificial one!
Candles surrounded us on the cold stone walls. Clumps of wax clung to the rocks beneath them, concocting eerie figurations. Beads of moisture trickled down the walls, disappearing into the cracks of the cold earthen floor.
All of the men were dressed in full-length black capes, with high, stiff collars that concealed most of their faces. The linings of the capes were bright red. Under the capes, they wore elegant black tuxedos, starched white shirts, and intense red ties that matched the lining of the capes. They looked majestic—and fearsome.
Teresa and the Countess Emelia were dressed in white velvet gowns. Red velvet capes floated off their shoulders.
Teresa appeared to have regained her old composure since our last encounter. She was as stunningly beautiful as ever. Her long hair glistened, and it cascaded down her back like waves of black ebony. I had never seen her eyes as dark as they were tonight—like polished black diamonds sparkling in a noon sun. Her lips were a moist ruby-red; her cheeks had a crimson gleam. I could see that Teresa had risen to the occasion tonight, for she carried herself like a queen. Her looks clearly stated that her mission here was to lay permanent claim to Santan, and to her husband!
The countess Emelia walked over to where I stood transfixed in the doorway. She placed her arm around my waist. Her fingers dug into my skin as she propelled me into the room. “Come, dear, we are about to begin the ceremony. You really do not want to miss this. It is quite an experience, one that none of us have too often. In fact, I have not been to one since that of my own son, many long years ago. These births in our family are too few and far between.” The countess rambled on as though she were nervous about something. Was she hiding something? Or was she just exc
ited?
“Where is my baby, Aunt Emelia?” I managed to enquire.
“The count will be here with him shortly,” she replied with a smile.
I glanced over to the group of men and counted them. Five, plus Max. Yes, the count was missing. I had no sooner finished counting, when a shadow filled the doorway. Everyone in the room turned to admire the Count Basarab Musat. He stood there, pausing a moment in the entrance, holding his son in his arms, and allowing the congregation to take in the total picture. At that moment, he resembled a figure carved in stone. Regardless of those memorable moments we had shared, I realized that the hardest part of him was his heart. I was also sure that none of their hearts were any softer. Only a fool would believe otherwise.
“Good evening,” he greeted as he stepped toward the coffin-altar in the centre of the room and laid the baby upon it. “I apologize for my tardiness, Father,” and before anyone could object to his apology, he turned to his father. “Would you please do me the honour of commencing the ceremony?”
Count Atilla nodded. Everyone moved automatically into a circle around the baby and joined hands. I was forced into a spot between Teresa and Emelia. Count Atilla began a low chant in their strange language. It was the same language I had heard the night I gave birth to the child who was now on the altar, awaiting whatever providence had in store for him. One by one, each member of this strange group joined in the chant.
The baby began crying. Instinctively, I reached for him, but the grips on my hands tightened, holding me in place. The chanting lowered to a barely audible hum, and Count Atilla commenced speaking, still in the strange language. The only words I was able to comprehend were Santan Atilla Musat.
The doctor broke away from the circle and walked over to a table that was set in the corner of the room. It, too, was covered with a black velvet cloth. I noticed a small wooden bowl and a large hunting knife sitting on the table. He picked them up and returned to the circle. The Count Basarab and his father released their hands to allow the doctor back into the circle.
Count Atilla ceased his oration, but the humming continued for several more minutes. The rhythmic notes were like the pendulum of the old town clock. I wondered when it would cease. I felt my hands being released and then noticed that although everyone still hummed, they no longer held hands, either.
The doctor stopped in front of Count Basarab and raised the knife. The count held out his hand; the doctor slit his finger. The count squeezed some of his blood into the wooden bowl. The doctor repeated the same procedure with everyone, except me. The bowl was returned to Count Basarab. He held it while the doctor cut his finger and added his blood to the bowl. He took the knife and set it at the end of the altar, before resuming his place in the circle.
Count Basarab raised the bowl to the ceiling. Thunder crashed through the stone walls to add to the crescendo of the incessant chanting which had begun again. The count uttered some mysterious words over the bowl of blood, and then he stepped from the circle to stand by his son. The baby was screaming in what I presumed to be fright. His arms and legs were flailing wildly, yet when his eyes rested on his father, the child quieted. The count raised the knife and wielded it over his son. Santan stared up at his father. He gurgled contentedly.
My entire body tensed. What the hell was going on here? What was he going to do to my baby? I was screaming, but no sound came out of my mouth!
The count proceeded to pick up Santan’s hand and then cut a tiny incision on his thumb. Santan let out a piercing wail as the sudden pain was inflicted on him. The count paid no heed to the suffering infant as he squeezed the child’s blood into the bowl, mingling it with the rest. Then the count stirred the bowl’s contents with the knife’s blade, raised the bowl to the ceiling, and began chanting again—only this time the notes took on an even eerier sound than before. Everyone, with the exception of me, joined in.
The chanting, along with the thunder, was deafening. I could barely keep hold of my senses. The next sight was that of the Count Basarab lifting the bowl of blood to his lips and tipping it up to receive the liquid into his mouth. He shouted out: “Santan Atilla Musat—long may he live!” before handing the bowl to his father.
The roomful of vampires repeated the count’s actions before returning the bowl to him. He walked slowly over to Santan, gathered him into one arm, and put the bowl up to the infant’s mouth. Santan struggled at the strangeness of the situation, but the bright red liquid was forced through his lips. I watched as some of the blood trickled down my son’s chin. It was almost like when Santan suckled at my breast, only this was not mixed with his mother’s milk—this was the blood of his kind!
The count removed the cloth from the lid of the small coffin and opened it. Everyone walked to their coffins, and they each drew out a handful of earth. They returned to where the count was standing with Santan and placed their dirt in the child’s coffin. The count handed Santan to his father, stepped to his coffin, and did the same as the others. He then took his son back into his arms and raised Santan above his head. A circle was formed again around the coffin. The chanting voices rang off the cold stone walls! My God! What was the count doing? My son was being lowered into the coffin!
“To the earth of your forefathers!” I heard the count roar as he laid Santan inside. And then he closed the lid! I could not suppress myself any longer. I screamed! Thunder crashed in my ears. Perspiration poured from every pore of my body! I screamed on and on and on!
The next thing I felt was Max slapping me across the face, trying to bring me back to the moment. The circle had broken up. Everyone was going up to the count and embracing first him and then the child. Teresa stood by his side—his queen.
All was lost for me. My exclusion from this ceremony— not that I had wanted a part in it!—confirmed that whatever influence I might have thought I had was gone. There was only one man in control here. Even God and the devil had no spot in this place! What was in store for me now that I had witnessed this ceremony? I was certain I would never be able to take my newfound knowledge beyond these walls.
Count Basarab’s voice cut through the confusion. “Max, please escort Virginia back to her room. She has seen enough here.” I detected a look of disgust as he dismissed my presence from the intimate family gathering. He then glanced at me as though an afterthought had occurred to him. “I shall come to see you shortly, my little bird; I believe you promised me something.”
His evil laughter, mingled with Teresa’s, followed me as Max escorted me out. My son was lost to me forever. I knew only a miracle could save me now!
Max and I wound our way back to my room, neither one of us speaking. I thought to attempt a conversation. After all, what more could I lose? “Max, was it Teresa in my room earlier this evening?” I had to know, whatever the cost.
“No, Virginia, it was not Teresa; of that I am sure,” Max stated as he opened the door for me. “I have no idea who it was. Whatever is about to happen to you now, Miss Virginia, I wish you luck.” Max’s voice sounded distant.
The door shut. The key clicked the lock into place. I was left alone to await my fate. I was no longer going to play the fool in my mind. I had cavorted with someone who was probably worse than the devil, and he, in turn, had entertained himself, and his household, with my foolishness. I had been a toy in his hands, and now I would be cast aside and forgotten, along with all the other toys that had preceded me. I had given the count the child he had desired—that had been my only purpose in this house!
I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to weep, but the tears no longer flowed. The wells had dried up. I was absolutely alone with my misery. I sat and waited for the inevitable.
Wings of Hell
Chapter Twenty-six
Iwaited for what seemed an eternity. The storm outside increased its intensity. Lightning flashed, zigzagging across the night sky. Thunder followed close on its heels. It was a nerve-wracking night, a night that matched the emotions which crowded my mind. My chanc
es had run out. I was absolutely deserted by all the forces of good that had been the cornerstone of my youthful teachings.
I lay down upon the bed to await the fury that would soon crash through my door. I knew there would be no stopping the impending invasion. My heart and body desired haste, even though I realized I might be partaking of my final draught of life. I closed my eyes, trying to shut down my thoughts, trying to gather some order of calmness to myself before the irrevocable upheaval of my last moments on earth.
The eerie sensation that I was being watched caused me to open my eyes. There he stood, still dressed in his ceremonial clothing. He was overwhelming! How could something so perfect be so evil?
He smiled. It was truly not an evil smile, until I caught a glimpse of the fangs. “Where would you like to fly with me tonight, little bird?” the count tilted his head slightly.
Was that a hint of sarcasm I detected in his question? Was he baiting me with what he already knew? Had he been the one lurking in the corner of my room a few short hours before? Was I to be sent to the same hell he had imprisoned Lilly in for so many years?
My stomach was in knots. I felt as though I was going to be sick. I could not find my tongue to answer his question. Was he able to read my mind? I prayed not. Could he detect the terror that I was desperately trying to camouflage? I wanted to fly tonight, all right—but my destination would be a flight away from this hell I had faltered upon! Did he comprehend how much I loved him, hated him, and desired him—all at the same time? Did he care?
“You have not answered me yet, Virginia darling.” The count leaned over me, one hand on either side of my head. His hawkish eyes stared straight into my own apprehensive ones. They demanded an answer.
“Wh...where would you like to take me?” I managed to stutter.
The Count Basarab Musat laughed. Slowly. Softly. The laughter rumbled up from deep within his abdomen, and his aura of evil enveloped me. “Perhaps,” he paused to savour his moment, “I shall take you for a flight on the wings of hell!” His breath drew closer and closer until he was breathing fire into my ear. “Would you like that?” he whispered tenderly.
Night's Gift: Book One of the Night's Vampire Trilogy Page 27