“Bring her to my quarters,” the king said coldly.
Camelia’s eyes shot open. Two men appeared from behind her, grabbed her arms and pulled her from the line. She screamed and struggled to the best of her ability but the men were too strong for her. I watched as they dragged her from the courtyard and back into the castle entrance.
My stomach tightened. My throat cramped. I wondered why my father wanted to speak with her and decided to ask him about it during dinner. It was Camelia who taught me to never question his royal highness for any reason—especially not in front of his men and our servants—but I have rarely seen this type of behavior from him in the past.
I felt the beads of perspiration break across my forehead and quickly wiped my brow with the back of my trembling hand as my father approached me.
He stood above me, looking down with a strained grimace pasted on his face, as if not recognizing me. Then I saw a glint of recognition in his eyes and his mouth parted just slightly, as if to speak. His head tilted slightly to the side as if judging me. I could sense his sour mood, palpable and intense.
“Hello father,” I said, out of turn. “I’ve come of age while you were away and I’ve won the tournament at the Training Academy to become the champion scholar!” I looked up at him and gave a brisk and decisive nod. “And I am now ready to accompany you into battle and fight at your side!”
He stood frozen for a moment but did not speak to me, then kept walking down the line and disappeared into the castle.
It occurred to me how exhausted he must have been just then, how inconsiderate it had been of me to confront him at that critical moment, even demanding the honor of fighting by his side, all without warning. My spirits plummeted at the realization I had indeed spoken out of turn, and in doing so, I had insulted his power and rank in front of his men and our staff.
I decided to ask for his forgiveness when it was my place to do so. I thought after our first meal together, we could discuss the progression of the war against the Ottoman Empire. And perhaps then, I could offer my interpretation of our current war strategies. My father would be bound to notice how much I’ve grown, bound to be impressed, and finally, bound to take me seriously as a warrior and his successor.
But unfortunately, that night my father did not attend our formal dinner, instead choosing to eat in his quarters.
* * *
The next morning I got up with the sun still rising over the skyline. The orange and green colors were plastered against the horizon, swirling together like still-wet paint dripping down an oversized canvas. I dressed quickly, thinking about Camelia. She always started working well before dawn, but, curiously, this morning she remained nowhere to be found.
Soon, I saw Macgregor bringing fresh water and linens into my quarters. His eyes were sunken, dark, and weary.
“Macgregor, have you seen Camelia? I would like to ask her why my father seemed so interested in speaking with her in his quarters.”
Macgregor seemed to freeze in place. He began to speak but would not raise his eyes to meet mine.
“Camelia has taken ill and is resting this morning.”
His low, forbidding tone caught me off guard.
“We all pray for her recovery.”
My heart sank upon hearing this tragic news. Camelia had never taken ill before, and I wondered if it was because of something my father had said to her.
“What is the condition that afflicts her?”
“I was not told the cause of her illness, sir, other than it came on suddenly and is quite serious,” he replied, still without making any eye contact.
“Then I shall go and find out for myself.” I stood and marched from the room and down into the infirmary, located just below the main floor, in the basement. Macgregor followed close behind me as usual.
Camelia lay motionless. Her usual olive complexion had turned to pale, ashy gray. Her eyes were sallow and sunken but opened about halfway as I arrived. Her hair obscured a face that looked weary, as if washed by deep despair. Long, disheveled locks of hair partially covered her tear-wet eyes.
“Camelia, how are you? I’ve just heard you’ve taken ill. Are you okay?”
She attempted to speak, but her words caught in her throat with a dry sounding croak, followed by a long, moaning exhale. She did manage a slight nod of recognition just before her eyes closed again.
I noticed a small blood-red stain on the bright white pillowcase upon which she laid her head. I also noticed some sort of injury to her neck. Two swollen puncture marks were clearly visible directly beneath her left ear. It looked as if she were bitten by some type of animal. I bent closer to the wound and could see the two marks were still open and bloody and surrounded by bright red, swollen, and torn flesh. I also noticed her shirt appeared to be torn in front with buttons missing.
Confused, I shook my head slowly as I gently stroked her cheek, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “Rest now, Camelia,” I whispered. “You’ll feel better tomorrow just as sure as the next sun rises on the eastern skyline, I promise.”
I walked into the hallway outside of the infirmary, my frustration increasing to its boiling point. “Macgregor,” I said loudly. “This woman has obviously been bitten by some type of a wild animal. Judging by the bite marks, the creature must be about the size of a coyote, perhaps even a wolf, like the girl in the woods. We must have it found and killed before it attacks again.”
“Yes, sir.” Macgregor replied quietly. He didn’t look up, but his expression showed the signs of wanting to say something more.
“Is there something you wish to tell me, Macgregor?” I asked, feeling as if the man was holding something back. I looked squarely upon him, but he quickly turned his eyes away.
“No, sir,” he said softly. “I shall alert the groundskeepers at once.”
“And I will find out why my father needed to speak with Camellia last night. I shall ask him before dinner.”
The evening’s sun melted across the horizon and spilled down over the mountaintops as I walked the long hall that led back to my father’s quarters. The dinner bell rang, so I stood there and waited. His door clanked loudly from the inside and I could hear him slowly unbolting the iron crossbar…then I heard a loud creaking sound as it opened. The area behind the door was laden with thick shadows. The door had swung all the way open as I waited for him to appear, but the doorway remained vacant.
“Come in,” his deep voice rang out of the murky darkness. “I sense you have a question for me.”
“Yes, father,” I said. “I just wondered─”
“I said come in now, boy!” he shouted from somewhere in the black abyss. “If I ask you again, you will live to rue this day.”
My heart began to race. My palms felt wet and sticky as I took the first small, trembling step over the threshold. I blinked several times to focus my eyes, hoping they would adjust to the lack of light. But they didn’t. Then I took another step forward—encasing myself in the gloom.
“That’s right, my son, you have now entered my lair of your own volition,” and then the door suddenly swung closed behind me, slamming in the shadows with a low, rumbling klooong!
I stood there like a statue, immobilized, startled and unsure of myself. “What has happened to Camelia?” I finally managed, speaking into the darkness that engulfed me. “She has taken ill after being escorted to your quarters, and she remains too ill to explain why.”
“Camelia is now my servant. She will serve my needs only,” he hissed from somewhere in the distance. “I will assign another for your needs—unless you have a problem with obeying my wishes, that is.” His deep, provoking voice dripped with condescension.
I knew better than to offer any discord to the king’s official orders, but I still couldn’t understand why he required the services of my Camelia, the one woman in the castle, and in the world, who felt most like a mother to me.
“Camelia has been my primary caretaker
since the time of my birth. I have become satisfactorily accustomed to her care, father,” I said, knowing in my heart it would be of no use.
“You have reached your eighteenth birthday, and your manhood,” he explained. “You no longer need to rely on this woman.” His smooth voice sounded much more regal now. “It shows your weakness, which reflects poorly on this castle, and that sickens me. Camellia shall no longer be any of your concern. If you wish, of course, I will see that she is…well taken care of.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, and my heart thudded away in my chest as I stood there in the absurd lack of light, thinking about how crazy this sounded. This was not the man I felt I knew. All of these years, I had idolized him for being a great leader of men and superior warrior in battle. But now, I saw a different side of him—like his heart had rot with malice.
“Tell me what has happened to Camelia. She has become ill and has an injury on her throat,” I blurted out.
“I can feel your anger,” he whispered. “It gives you more strength than you know, and, soon, I will make you understand, my son.”
The door swung open as if by magic, slamming up against the stone wall. Bright light flooded in, and my eyes burned.
The sound of rushing footsteps filled the hall. Alexandru entered the room with a sharply creased scowl etched into his thin face.
“Excuse me, my lord,” he said with a deep bow. “But we are in the company of two messengers sent from Sultan Murad the second of the Ottoman Empire. They say they have urgent news regarding the state of the war.”
I heard my father suck in a deep breath, and then he let out a low growl as he slowly exhaled. “Messengers from the sultan, you say? Well, we mustn’t keep them waiting. I shall formally address them on my throne.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Alexandru turned, hustling back down the hall. My father emerged from the shadows, pulled his cape up high with a quick jerk and disappeared down the hall with long, flowing strides. I followed quickly behind, curiosity heightening in my mind with each hurried step.
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About the Author
Jackson Stein grew up and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Before becoming a writer he worked as a 3d animator, commercial director, musician and bartender,. When he's not writing, you can find Jackson staying up all night, enjoying a rare steak by moonlight, and drinking a fine glass of red...wine. He would like readers to know he does not now, nor has he ever, slept in a casket. All of those rumors are completely false
To learn more about Jackson, visit him online at jacksonstein.net
Vampire Mafia: Santa Cruz Page 17