by Ana Calin
“Why would you want to carry the name further,” I react from my gut. “Your grandfather was a Nazi commander who gassed children in an orphanage. I for one would have wanted to be rid of the name like of the plague.”
Carla’s eyes snap up at me. Martina goes red, her cold blue eyes larger through her glasses’ lenses.
“My grandfather repented, Miss Jochs,” Martina says with poison in her voice. “He wasn’t all orphanage and gas and dead children.”
“Yes, he was,” Carla whispers. Martina looks down at her as if she finds that preposterous.
“Excuse me?” There’s so much irritation in her voice that I’m sure I smell smoke from her frying self-importance.
“We kept the name simply because of the money,” Carla says, though keeping her voice small. She trembles a little, and I have a hunch she fears a smack behind the head from Martina. She has the posture of a person used to physical abuse.
“Our grandfather was a terrifying man who threatened to disown everyone,” Carla says quickly, probably trying to get it all out before Martina does something to stop her. “All the time. But Germany doesn’t allow disowning so easily, thank God so, like our mothers before us, we kept the name to help prove the connection easier in case that happened.”
The smell of smoke is stronger now, and Radek has started looking around for the source. It’s clear by now it doesn’t come from Martina’s fried ego.
“The curtains,” Radek says, jumping off the sofa and bolting over to the glass door. The two cousins and I get up and hurry over as well to see Radek throw a cloth over the rims of the curtains to contain a flame.
“Shit, she felt you,” Martina whispers to Clara through clenched teeth, surely thinking neither of us heard her. But Radek is a supernatural, and I’m a little bit of one as well, so we both have great hearing. We glance at each other, but then a hard slap somewhere draws our attention.
For an instant I think Martina must have hit Clara, but no. There’s another slap, and I trace the sound behind a curtain by the mantle, which I push apart to reveal a dusty chest of drawers.
“Please, there’s nothing there,” Martina says, stretching out her hand and trying to draw my attention, but then there’s another slap.
There is a collection of old framed photographs crammed on the chest of drawers, photographs that the two women clearly tried to conceal by pulling a curtain over it. They had no reason to believe Radek and I would be drawn to it, it’s in a corner of the room.
Some of them are pictures of Martina and Clara, who are easy to recognize even as children. I identify the other women easily as their mothers and grandmothers because of the similarity, but then there are three photographs with their face down.
I turn the first one to see the old Nazi Günther Hess, steely faced and cold blue-eyed, just like Martina. My hand trembles over the next picture. It’s like part of me knows what it’s going to see. I’ll see the girl who lost every last ounce of goodness at a very young age, when she was first pricked with needles for fun by the nurses. It was a game to see if she catches any disease from other children, for every needle was inflected with another disease, and the little one knew it. A funny pastime for the nurses, since they were indoctrinated to believe that these weren’t children. They were Jews, so therefore objects, not people.
I shudder with pain, but I manage to cope with it better than at the orphanage.
“Radek,” I whisper, still holding a hand over the second picture, the other one reaching out to him.
He takes my hand, his arm going around my waist and supporting me.
“I’m here. You can do this.”
“Don’t touch that,” Martina says angrily, but I sense Radek shooting her a glare. The woman freezes in her spot, stunned at this new side of him.
I turn the picture to a black haired girl with very dark eyes, and a face so white it stands out even in this black and white picture. Her face is intense and downright scary.
“Who is this?” I whisper.
Martina’s lips tremble. I can tell it’s with hatred, but Clara braces herself, hunches and looks away. I sense the picture scares her just as it does me.
“Adara Bergan. The last orphan from the orphanage you feel for so much,” Martina says, her hands now also quivering with hatred.
“What is her picture doing here?” Radek demands when I can’t find the strength to talk anymore. The girl’s pain is getting the better of me. His support helps, but it’s still taking a toll.
“Just get out of our house!” Martina breaks, but Clara turns around swiftly like someone who’s had enough.
“She killed every last one of the workers at the orphanage,” she blurts, her voice high-pitched and cracking. “She would have killed Günther if he didn’t concede what she wanted.”
“And what did she want?” Radek invites like a shrink careful with a psychotic patient.
“She wanted to live with him. She demanded that she be raised in his house as his child. But that girl was a devil! You know what she did in the end?” Now kneading her hands so hard that they’re all red, she approaches with small, pointed steps, her teeth grazing her lower lip.
“When she was sixteen she crept into his room. She got under the covers, gave him a blow job to turn him on, then straddled him and got herself pregnant.”
“Whattt?” I react, gripping Radek’s hand tighter.
“I don’t know if I believe that version, Clara,” Radek says, still calm but also with warning in his voice.
“That girl knew exactly what she wanted,” Clara continues. “She had Günther keep this mansion as good as sealed, and killed every woman in it one by one. She killed his first wife then, his second. She killed his children. The only child of his who survived was the daughter that she gave him.”
“Daughter?” I whisper, my knees almost giving in. I look at the picture on the chest of drawers, wanting to lift the third one, but Clara jumps over and pushes it back down.
“You don’t need to see that monster, the daughter they had with each other. She was deformed. But when she got older, Adara brought her a man—a drunk politician. The monster had sex with him, and got pregnant.”
“Clara, that’s enough,” Martina calls.
“No, it’s not,” Clara snarls back with more force than I thought her capable of. She scratches her hands violently, clearly in a full-blown psychotic episode. She returns her attention to me. “When the poor guy woke up beside that monster in the morning, he threw himself from the balcony. Believing yourself capable to sleep with something like that could make anyone sick with themselves, so I understand him, truly, I do.
“The monster had a daughter of her own.” Her hatred grows so much that I’m afraid Clara’s face will blow up from all the blood now collected in it. It makes me think that maybe she even had personal contact with the so-called monster’s child.
“A daughter so evil that she killed both Adara and her own mother. Günther found them both hanging from the ceiling,” she points to the very old, dusty chandelier hanging from it. “In this very room. Copper wires were tightly wrung around their necks and dripping from their mouths was—” She chokes and turns, unable to continue. She slaps her now bloody hands over her face, her skeletal shoulders quaking as she releases the trauma, crying.
Martina walks carefully to her, not touching Clara.
“Mercury was dripping from their mouths,” she continues in her cousin’s place, as if not to disturb Clara even more. “Clara was small. She came to visit with her dad that day, and she saw it all. The quicksilver had wreaked havoc inside their bodies, they were mutilated from the inside. Later we found out that quicksilver is the only thing that can weaken evil spirits.”
“And what happened to the new child? The monster’s daughter?” Radek inquires calmly. Seems his voice has a soothing effect even or Clara, who turns into her cousin’s open arms, still crying, but more calmly, as if she’s released most of the load.
“Gün
ther tried to kill her with quicksilver, too, but all he managed was to anger her and bring himself in deadly situations. Strange accidents happened around the house. A lamp exploded in his face, the gas mysteriously got turned on at night, he even stepped wrong and hit his temple against a table corner, got a concussion, and these are only examples. The monster’s daughter was even more dangerous than the first two, and he was terrified of her. He didn’t even accept guests in the house anymore.
“But one day the girl ran away, when she was twelve. He was so happy he even threw a party. It was a summer night, with thunder and lightning. She appeared at the door, all wet, dark-eyed, and obviously roughly used. Raped by a pedophile, but we all knew better than that.” Martina rubs Clara’s back as the latter sobs more violently on her shoulder.
“She got herself raped on purpose, because it turned out she was pregnant,” she continues. “She went out looking for dick when she felt she was ovulating. She died while giving birth, ten years ago, and I’m sorry if it offends you, but I must say thank God. Her last words were a request concerning her daughter’s name. This was a first, none of the others had special wishes in that regard. But she threatened to come back from the dead and finish us all in the bloodiest way if we didn’t oblige.”
She pauses, looking from Radek to me, rubbing her cousin’s back more angrily. “She wanted her daughter’s name to be Ruxandra.”
Radek, who stiffened every time the word ‘monster’ was used, cringes now. I can sense that he recognizes the name. I look at him, the question only in my eyes.
“Ruxandra was the name of Vlad’s first wife,” he whispers.
I narrow my eyes, thoughts running fast through my mind. I turn to Martina and Clara. “And how did Ruxandra die?”
A strange pause, while Martina seems to be thinking of a lie. Then the picture of Adara slams down on the chest of drawers again, causing all our attention to flash to it.
“She didn’t die,” I whisper, recounting how her ancestors could move things from a distance. “She set the curtains on fire, and slammed these pictures down to draw attention.” My eyes snap wide as I look at the two women again. “You found a way to bind her. You’re keeping the child locked up!”
“You don’t understand,” Clara bursts again. “She is evil! Like all the others before her!”
“They weren’t just born evil, you stupid woman,” I blurt, taking a step toward her, so angry that I’m ready to slap her. Radek keeps me back at the last moment, but I still strain towards the woman, the veins in my neck swelling. “I don’t know about all the other girls, but I felt the first one, Adara. I felt her as a small child, surrounded by laughing nurses who pricked her with needles just for the fun of seeing her terror. They laughed in her face, assuring her that one of those needles will give her a mortal disease that will kill her in pain. They’d show her other children dying of infecting wounds, gassed little corpses, and assured her she’d end up dead in one of those many ways.” I give a grin. “But what they didn’t expect was the power she had. And that she’d use it to take revenge on the Nazi’s entire bloodline, just like he tortured her people.”
I turn to Radek, because things have started to make serious sense in my head. “The last girl, Ruxandra’s mother, killed Adara and her own deformed mom out of pity. The women were waging an inner war, they were suffering, and they preferred death. Only quicksilver could kill them, because they had used their powers for evil, and they had become, basically, evil. But they weren’t bad at the core, I know that, don’t ask me how.” I glance to the two women. “That’s how these two must keep Ruxandra bound now. With quicksilver. It’s said to bind evil spirits, the ancient Egyptians used it, too.”
The two women fidget, holding on to each other. Clara’s eyes are wild, like an animal’s ready to either fight or flee, but the matron Martina keeps her cool on the surface, even though it’s clear she’s deeply worried about what will happen to them now.
“No matter what, there’s nothing you can do about it,” she says.
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Radek says with a grin.
Martina snorts. “You have no idea what you’re up against. That girl is more of a monster than all the others before her.”
Radek grins wider, and it’s the menacing grin of the midnight monster. “You two girls use that word a lot. But I don’t think you’ve seen a real monster yet.”
The two cousins grip tighter to each other, taking a few steps back. But while Radek allowed his darkness to show in his face and voice, he doesn’t take it further.
“You’re lucky you’re ladies, and I’m a gentleman,” he says, his face clearing. “I only pick on creatures my own size. Now, where is Ruxandra?”
Irina
I KEEP LOOKING AT MY phone, waiting for Jochs to come out of the building that houses the European Hellhound. Since Radek has been coming and going for days, wandering freely through the dimensions where I can’t follow, I have no other control over his dealings than watching his love interest and, along with her, Lazarus Raica.
I lick my lips when I think about the young vampire, because I drool from my fangs. Never in two hundred years have I tasted something like his blood. I even found myself sniffing for him back at the Opera House, hoping to at least get a whiff.
I felt particularly strong after I took his blood five years ago. I felt like I could go out into the sunlight and play with silver, but I didn’t try, of course. It was just a feeling from that blood euphoria. Even now I remember his aroma on my tongue. The sensation of power lasted a few good months, and I could’ve gotten used to it.
A knock on the car window startles me. I jump in my seat. Fuck, I’m a two hundred year old vampire, I shouldn’t be so jumpy. But when I see Lazarus Raica’s face just outside the window, I understand what happened—it was someone who could sneak on people as expertly as I can. I press the button, letting the window down with a muffled buzz.
Raica’s scent hits me in full. It’s like freshly brewed coffee, giving me happy hormones. But he’s clearly not so happy to see me.
He glares at me out of those poetic blue eyes behind glasses that look like reading glasses, but I know they must protect him from the sunlight, just like the cream on his face that makes his skin too white. His natural skin tone must be gorgeous. Now that he’s a vampire, it must look like the skin of a cover model.
“Watching Juliet?” he asks in a controlled tone, but I hear the hatred behind it. His usually kind eyes are shooting daggers at me, and that kinda turns me on.
I look him up and down. I’d really, really like to fuck him. I push my sunglasses slightly down the bridge of my nose, just enough to give the young vampire a provocative look.
“Wanna get in?” I smile, displaying my fangs and running my tongue over them. I want him to remember the night he turned into a vampire, the night when I almost sucked him dry. “Let me have a shot of your blood, and I’ll give you a blow job.”
The young vampire stiffens, failing to mask his shock as well as he’d like to. I laugh, but press the button to unlock the doors of the BMW.
“Get in,” I invite.
“No.”
“Afraid of the blood draining, or of the cock sucking?”
He stares hard at me. “I’m not here for dirty jokes.”
“No, you’re here because you’re Juliet Jochs’ dog. It’s all right. I’ll just suck you off, get some of your blood, and let you go back to her.” I laugh before he takes the joke seriously.
I’m almost starved after five years of a sexless relationship with Radek, only fucking drunk youths once in a while, and then feeding from them. Never killed them, never even sucked enough blood to make them vampires, but what I got was enough to keep me going.
Raica crouches down by my car, his hand inside, showing that he’s not afraid of me. I can tell that he’s a strong specimen, so I understand his confidence.
“Tell me, Irina Motovilova,” he begins, his eyes scanning me from behind his readin
g glasses. “How can you be so accepting of your boyfriend’s affair with Juliet? Aren’t you afraid that, I don’t know, she might make him a baby in order to get him back for good?”
“Excuse me?” I repress my need to laugh.
“Yes. Women often do that, and I wouldn’t put it past Juliet.”
I can’t keep it in anymore, I burst into laughter. I wish I could tell the poor chap he’s not going to outsmart me on this, his attempt of hurting me out of pure hatred is completely lost on me. But I won’t admit that my relationship with Radek is a fraud, and that the Prince of Midnight is just as in love with the healer as he was when he hurt her in order to make her dump him. Maybe even more.
“Really, Lazarus, you’re a respected man in Berlin, for your connections and your brains. Everybody talks about how Juliet Jochs’ right hand is so erudite and scholarly. And yet you want to make me believe now that a woman who’s all too aware of the Prince of Midnight’s biological past—think the midnight monster—would risk having his kid?”
Mr. Drop Dead Cute just stares at me, angry he couldn’t fool me.
“And I think he would never risk putting a baby inside of her, either,” I continue when the vampire doesn’t know what to say.
I put my hand on his and lean towards him. He jerks back, instinctively, and I stop, just as instinctively. I wanted to go a bit diva on him with my long painted fingernails and a seductive attitude, but I really feel this man despises me. No, I refuse to be despised again, I’ve had enough of that shit with Radek. I take my hand back and square my shoulders, placing it on the steering wheel.
“I’m curious about one thing, Lazarus. You worship the ground she walks on, how can you? Isn’t it clear already that the only man she’ll ever love, the only man she’ll ever have in her bed, is Radek?”