Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  Meghan walked to her desk to retrieve her purse and books. When she turned around, Petrescu was right behind her.

  “Oh my gosh! You scared me.” She tried to step back and away, but the desk blocked her.

  He stood tall, looming over her. A half-smile curled his thin lips. “My apologies. I did not mean to.” He continued standing in her personal space.

  “You wanted something?” Meghan composed herself, trying not to appear unsettled by his odd behavior.

  He stared into her eyes which began to creep her out. “I was wondering if perhaps you might like to join me for coffee.”

  His invitation caught her off guard, and as she searched her brain for a polite way to refuse him, another voice interrupted.

  “Meghan, you are ready to go?” Dana stepped in, taking her hand and leading her around Petrescu.

  “I am, Dana.” Meghan turned to him. “I’m sorry, I have plans. See you in class.” She let Dana pull her out the door. When they were halfway down the hall, Meghan grabbed her new friend and hugged her. “Thank you!”

  Dana shrugged. “It is nothing. I see you did not want his advances. I don’t know why he is even in your class. He speaks better English than all of us. Strange man.” She muttered the last, but Meghan heard only the words spoken before that.

  “I thought so, too. What in the world is he doing taking my class?” She spoke the words out loud.

  “It is obvious. He is, as you say in America, into you. But if you ask me, he is big creep.” They walked outside into the cold air. It was late afternoon and the sun was already beginning its descent.

  “Eww, Dana. I don’t want him to be ‘into’ me. I agree he’s a creep, but why do you think so? Has he ever said or done anything to you?”

  The shorter woman shook her head no. “I cannot put finger on it, but there is something not right about him. There is no soul in his eyes. It is as if he is dead person who still walks around.” She crossed herself.

  “That’s a weird thing to say. But I think I agree.” Meghan felt a prickling sensation and looked back over her shoulder. At that moment, Petrescu exited the building and stopped. His eyes caught hers across the quad and his expression looked almost angry before a small smile spread across his face. He gave her a jaunty wave. Meghan turned back around quickly, shivering with unease.

  Chapter Five

  MARK SPIED THEM as they came in the door. He sat in the back of the tavern slowly swirling the whiskey around in his glass. He was surprised the gypsy brought her back to the place although he was pleased. She looked beautiful in the firelight. The shadows danced around her as if respecting her natural glow. He could see it in her cheeks, a blush offering a hint of pink to her creamy skin. To the casual eye, it was nothing but the cold causing her body to react with heat, but to him, it was more. He could almost hear the blood rushing through her capillaries. It sounded like the beckoning roar of a waterfall on a hot summer’s day. Soothing yet stirring. Even from across the room he could taste her scent on the air, a warm honey, a sweet, fragrant nectar, one he remembered even now. Mark Anghelescu knew that the blood that ran through his Mihaela now ran through the heart of Meghan Hartley. He licked his lips recalling the smallest taste of her only a few nights past.

  Neither woman noticed him. He stayed in the shadows with several tables in between, observing. The tavern owners came out and approached their table. Their greeting was familiar, the women known to them. He could see a hint of resemblance between the gypsy woman and the tall man who owned the place. He could even detect his gypsy blood although it was not as strong as hers. Family. Curarya.

  The owners left them alone with drinks and food. Meghan spoke with great animation while the little gypsy listened, her body not quite relaxed. His love began to eat, and her companion pulled something out of her pocket. She set it on the table, and while speaking, pushed it toward Meghan who looked surprised. The gypsy smiled and indicated Meghan should open the small box. She did. As he watched, she pulled a silver locket out and held it up to the light. The fire caught the metal illuminating the markings on the round face. His keen vision clearly saw the symbolic etchings in the silver which he now detected also contained iron, and a hint of sawdust which surely was hidden within. The runic writing contained three words in ancient Romany; Death to Strigoi. And he was the Strigoi in question. It was a ward, a fetish, a talisman crafted by an old witch, one who he suspected was an older relation to the little gypsy. Power pulsed from the object in Meghan’s hands although he knew she had no clue.

  The small one stood and helped to place it around her neck. Then, Meghan stood hugging her friend. The gypsy had given his love a locket of protection – against him. The anger that bubbled inside of him swelled to the surface, but he exercised control and clamped it down. Only moments ago, he felt almost conciliatory toward the gypsy, but now he knew he would have to kill her, and the gypsy witch who created the talisman. The first because she meddled in his business, and the second because only her death would break the spell on the necklace that now hung around Meghan’s smooth, supple neck. He stood gathering his leather duster coat around him and, moving faster than the human eye could detect, exited the tavern. Those sitting at the bar looked up as a sharp gust of wind ruffled the hair on the backs of their necks, and a few glanced back at the front door that seemed to open and close on its own accord setting the candles to flickering.

  ###

  Dana looked up with wide eyes as the door to the tavern swiftly opened, and now slowly closed. The strong gust of wind that blew out the candle on their table chilled her cheeks. She looked around, but saw nothing else amiss. Still, she crossed herself anyway asking the Blessed Virgin to protect her.

  “I can’t believe you, Dana. This is so beautiful. It must be very old.” Meghan looked down at the locket hanging around her neck admiring the etchings. “So what does it say?”

  Dana remembered to smile, and then picked up her fork waving off Meghan’s words. “I’m glad you like it. I found it at a gypsy market. Just a trinket. Gypsies are famous for selling off their junk, not that it is junk,” she said quickly, laughing, “but still, I saw it and thought of you. It is a friendship locket. The words, I am not completely sure, but they are a sort of protection, a prayer for your well-being. You should wear it always while you are here in Romania. It will keep you safe.” Her tone was much more serious in speaking those last words.

  “Well, I’m certainly not superstitious, but I am sentimental, and this is my first gift from my new friend.” Meghan reached out and took Dana’s hand. “Thank you so much. I just love it.” She gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. “Do you think it will help keep that creepy professor away?”

  Dana laughed. “If it doesn’t, I will squash him for you like bug. No worries.”

  Meghan took another bite of her stew. She savored the spices and the warm gravy while looking around the tavern. “I wonder what ever happened to that other one?”

  Dana kept her eyes down on her fork. She knew who Meghan referred to, but didn’t want to entertain that trail of thought. She slipped into her native tongue. “Who knows? Lots of people come through here. We will find you a nice Romanian man if you want. I have many single cousins. You must come to my home and meet the family this weekend. It is my grandmamma’s birthday. She will be eighty-one.”

  “Wow! That’s wonderful. Are you sure? I’d hate to be in the way—” Meghan was both excited and yet not willing to crash a family event uninvited.

  “You will not be in the way. You are my friend. I am inviting you. Ilana and Stefan will be there so you already know someone else besides me, and my family is very big, very welcoming. You will have a good time. Lots of food, good wine, good friends, and dancing!” She grinned.

  It all sounded too good to be true. Meghan was excited by the prospect of experiencing authentic Romanian culture, and also about being with friends. She was used to her family back home, and she missed them. The Velerus might just help heal th
e homesickness in her heart.

  “Okay. I would be honored to come.”

  “Very good! I will pick you up on Saturday. Pack for the weekend. You will be staying with me.” Dana pulled off a chunk of bread and ate it.

  “Pack? I thought it was just a birthday party.” Her eyes grew wide.

  “Yes, yes, but it is Romanian birthday party, and we celebrate all day and all night. Then we rest and begin again. You will enjoy it so much. Gypsies never do small parties.” She sipped her wine.

  “Gypsies? Your family are gypsies?” The smile spread across Meghan’s lips.

  “Of course. The Curarya. Did I not say?” She laughed.

  “No, missy, you didn’t, but now I’m even more excited.”

  “Just you wait, Meghan. It will be the time of your life!”

  An hour later, after a good meal, better wine, and excellent conversation, Meghan returned to her dormitory. As she slipped upstairs to her room, a shadow grew out of the darkness and stepped into the light of the moon. He stood there, watching her window as the light came on, and waited until it dimmed once again.

  ###

  “Petrescu!” Mark could not believe what he was seeing. From the top of the Humanities building across from Meghan’s dorm room, he waited. When he saw her return and climb the stairs to her floor, he planned to wait until she slept before visiting her room as he did the first night she arrived. But his keen eyes caught movement on the ground below. A tall man stepped out from beneath the canopy of trees. He stood staring up at the same window that Mark watched. As the clouds slid across the moon, the silvery light shone down upon him illuminating the blond hair. When the man turned to gaze up at the second floor window, Mark saw his face clearly. It was a face he had not seen in eight hundred years, one he assumed had faded to dust long before now.

  He shook himself. It just couldn’t be the same man, the one he long-suspected had a hand in the disappearance of his Mihaela. If it was, how had he obtained immortality? His senses did not reveal anything preternatural about him. In fact, he smelled blood. The man was human. Was he also a reincarnation of the gypsy dog Petrescu? While it would seem incredible, it was entirely possible. The irony was not lost on Mark as he considered the idea that somehow, all three of them were cosmically linked with himself as the only one who knew why. Still, he should have killed Petre Pretrescu when he had the chance. Had he done so, Mihaela might have lived out her life with him as planned, but there was a flaw in that theory. Mark had never arrived the night they planned to run away together.

  The very evening before his marriage to the daughter of Count Latcu cel Mare, his father’s greatest friend, he rode out with only the most necessary items and a purse full of money to meet Mihaela in the glen where they first made love. The moon was high that night, and although his heart was heavy with the betrayal to his parents, it was also filled with love for the woman of his choice, the woman he loved above all others. When he arrived, Mihaela was not there. He’d ridden straight for the gypsy camp with murder in mind for her jilted fiancé.

  Marku knew that her father, Simion, would help him find Petre. He’d paid dearly enough to the swindler for the right to break her engagement to Petrescu, and have her as his own, but the others in camp might not be so cooperative to the nobleman’s son. Even though it was his family’s land they camped upon each spring, they respected no one but their own elders, and they viewed Anghelescu as an outsider. Getting answers and finding the coward was not easy, and more than one eye had to be blackened before Marku located him.

  The gypsy dog said he knew nothing, but dared to laugh at him saying he hoped whoever had her, had her every which way they could so she would be ruined. Then he spit at Marku’s feet. Red blazed before his eyes and he leapt upon the man beating him down. Petrescu gave as good as he got, and the fight was on. In moments, the entire camp surrounded them cheering their own on. When each was bruised and bloodied, Simion stepped forth and shouted “Cease!”

  It was then, the old man spoke berating them both for selfishly fighting while his daughter was missing. He rallied the camp and they set out to find her. Several took to their horses to follow the trail left in the glen while Marku had to return to his home, black and blue, and heavy of heart. He charged Simion with letting him know as soon as they found her. In the meantime, he knew he had to tell his parents he could not marry Alexandra. It was the right thing to do even though it came late and at a price. But his parents would have none of it. They insisted he forget the gypsy girl, and that he proceed with the wedding as planned. His father, Dragos, gave him no choice.

  “This alliance cannot be broken!” He railed at his son. “The joining of the houses of Anghelescu and cel Mare is important for the political future of Romania, and you will not destroy all I have built, all that Count Latcu has built because you cannot control your cock!” Dragos slammed his hand down on his desk, his dark brows came together fiercely over his black eyes. “If you must have this trollop, then keep her as your mistress, but you will do so discreetly. I will not have you dishonoring Alexandra, do you hear me, Marku?” The man stood to his full height which topped his son by two inches, and pointed his finger shaking it with resolve.

  Marku straightened his back, and looked his father in the eye. He knew he could not refuse him, not now. He gave the briefest nod of his head in acknowledgement.

  “Good. Now go upstairs and let your mother tend to those cuts. You will remain in the house until the ceremony tomorrow night.” Dragos dismissed his son.

  Marku retreated to his room and allowed his mother to fuss over him. When she left, he leaned out of his window staring off into the night. To the east, he could see the light in the distance from torches at the Curarya camp. His heart was full of worry for Mihaela. He needed to know what happened to her, where she was. He needed to explain to her about the change in their plans, but he didn’t know how. He would honor his parents, but he needed to make sure she was not harmed, that she was safe. He waited several hours for the household to quiet, and for his parents to go to bed. Once the moon had reached its zenith, he crept downstairs and out the side door to the stables. He would simply go to the camp and see if there was any news. If they needed help, he would help. If he must ride out, he would ride out, but he would return in time to do what was expected so as not to dishonor his parents and the House of Anghelescu. That was his plan. Simple. But plans often do not proceed accordingly. Often, they spin out of control and have deadly consequences.

  Mark came back to the present leaving his thoughts in the past. He watched the man watching his Meghan.

  “So, fate has brought me a second chance. Apparently, you think you have one, too, Petrescu,” he whispered to himself. “It seems I have the advantage of knowing the outcome this time.” Mark shifted his attention and instead of visiting Meghan while she dreamed, he moved as silent as the night, following the second coming of Petre Petrescu home.

  Chapter Six

  THE CAR PULLED into the driveway heading for the garage. The door went up after he clicked the button on the remote, and Petrescu drove his Audi inside. The red brick house with the steepled roof sat at the end of Strada Romulus not far from the university. The crumbling mortar between the bricks showed the house’s age, but it also displayed character. With two floors and an attic, it provided Petre with more than enough room to putter around in between classes. He turned off the motor and stepped out reaching in to grab his briefcase. A chill crept over his skin and he stood up scanning the yard beyond the interior of the garage.

  The darkness of the night obscured his sight for the most part, but the street light offered some help. Nothing moved, but that fact did not seem to reassure the prickling at the back of his neck. He closed the car door and sat his briefcase on the roof of the vehicle. Petrescu took three steps toward the open driveway. He stood there scanning the shadows in his overgrown yard. His ears sought any hint of sound, and his eyes focused seeking the slightest movement. The air was still. T
he usual sounds of the night seemed to have ceased altogether. A slow smile began to creep across his thin lips. He ducked back inside the garage and picked up his briefcase. As he approached the three steps that led to the kitchen door, he looked out one last time before he flipped the switch on the wall. The garage door descended, its metallic gears grinding filling the silence. A soft thud sounded as it hit the floor and silence once again filled his ears. He went inside closing and locking the door behind him.

  Outside, a shadow disengaged from the rock wall along the sidewalk. It swiftly grew, and then moved quietly up the side of the house coming to rest upon an eave overlooking one of the second floor windows. From there, Mark Anghelescu observed as lights came on inside of the first floor. His preternatural hearing picked up the sound of footsteps upon the stairs. They walked to a room where they paused, shuffled, and then approached the window upon where he perched. Mark looked down as light filtered through the curtains. From his vantage, he could not see the man inside, but when he popped the latch and slid the window open, Mark leaned out over the eave just a bit. When the man poked his blond head through looking out over the dark yard, Anghelescu’s fangs elongated and an unholy light cast an amber glow in his black eyes. Closer than he’d been before, he could smell the blood pumping through the Petrescu lookalike’s veins. It smelled familiar. Mark’s eyebrows drew close as he tried to place where he’d encountered the scent before. The odor of it set off a reaction, one created by memory. He inhaled deeply allowing the scent to settle upon his tongue, tasting. He froze.

  It cannot be! The memory was strong and could not be denied. The man leaning out of the window beneath his reach was Petre Petrescu. Not a reincarnation, not a descendant, but the man himself!

  Petrescu disappeared back inside the window. He closed the sash and locked it once again. Mark hissed low. What witchcraft is this? He knew the man was not an immortal like himself. He would sense it, and there would be no heart pumping, no blood running through his veins. For him to still be alive after eight hundred years was not possible. But the scent of a person does not lie. Each human had their own individual and unique flavor. It could not be duplicated, not in descendants or dopplegangers. It might be similar, but there were always variations, thus individuality. Even reincarnations were different. His Meghan had much of the earthy honey of Mihaela, but she also had her own fresh scent. Pear-like, crisp and sweet. Mihaela was more apple and mossy woods.