by Craig Zerf
The evening meal had been fantastic and now Emily and William sat in the small withdrawing room. A fire crackled and spat in the massive fireplace and filled the area with a gorgeous mellow light.
William had poured a brace of liqueurs for the two of them. Something called Benedictine. The bottle looked hand blown and when Em looked at the label she could see the date of distillation, 1820. The drink was almost two hundred years old, she realized with a shock as she took a sip. The flavor was intriguing, unusual more than delicious.
‘This bottle was made for me in the 18th century by a monk by the name of Francesco De Guilamme,’ said William.
‘From the Benedictine Abbey of Fecamp in Normandy. You can see here, on the label.’ He pointed. ‘The initials, DOM. Stands for Deo Optimo Maximo.’
‘To God, most good, most great,’ translated Emily.
William smiled. ‘Correct. So, you are a linguist as well as a jazz expert.’
Emily didn’t react; she simply stared at the young man for a few seconds. Finally she spoke. ‘For you,’ she said.
‘What?’ Responded William.
‘You said that the monk made it for you.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes,’ she affirmed. ‘You did.’
‘How silly of me,’ said William. ‘After all, that was over two hundred years ago.’ He held the bottle up. ‘Some more?’
Emily was about to refuse but when she looked at her glass she saw that she had finished her first tot so she held out her glass for a refill.
‘I saw some interesting books in your library,’ she said. ‘Particularly at the end of the room in that low ceilinged area.’
‘Ah, yes,’ acknowledged William. ‘The occult section.’
‘Do you read any of those?’
‘From time to time,’ admitted William. ‘Some of them are rather fascinating. Hard going though, mainly being in Latin.’
‘Have you ever come across any mention of the corona potestatem?’
William frowned. ‘The Crown of Power. I have read many stories, take your pick.’
‘You tell me,’ insisted Emily.
‘The saying goes – He who wears the Crown of Power shall rule over all. But there is no definitive work saying what the Crown actually is. Many say that it is merely the assumption of power, not an actual crown. Like the presidency or a potentate of some sort. Some say that it was the crown of Aragon, others, that it was a ring worn by the Prince of Wallahia, Vlad the third. Or, as most people know him, Vlad the Impaler.’
Emily gasped. ‘Dracula?’
‘The same,’ admitted William. ‘Count Vladimir Dragwlya. Count Dracula.’
‘The vampire.’
William laughed. ‘Folklore and peasant superstition,’ he said. ‘There are no such things as vampires. Granted, Vladimir was a complete psycho. Killed hundreds of thousands of people. Although, by all accounts his younger brother was quite a nice chap. He went by the moniker of Radu the Handsome.’
‘Wow, no wonder Vlad was pissed,’ noted Emily. ‘His brother gets “Handsome” and Vlad gets “Impaler”. I’d also be a little peeved.’
William laughed again. ‘True, but it didn’t make him a vampire. That was all due to the Irish author, Bram Stoker in 1897.
He didn’t invent the vampire but he definitely gave it its modern interpretation. He simply took Vlad’s inherent evil and enhanced it by making him a vampire.’
‘So, no corona potestatem?’ Asked Emily.
William shook his head. ‘Afraid not. Still, that should help you sleep better at night. No vampires, no ghouls and no monsters to disturb your slumber.’
The young Sir walked Emily to her room. When they got there he folded her into his arms, and hugged her tenderly. Then he kissed her on the lips. A soft, lingering kiss that rooted the Shadowhunter to the floor and threatened to take away her ability to stand on her own two legs.
And then he was gone.
Emily lay awake for ages, comfortable and warm but just on the edge of sleep. The full moon shone through the window and bathed all in a magical blue light that competed with the warm glow of the fire.
She got up off the bed and walked over to the window, staring out at the moon-drenched landscape. Ornamental bushes pruned into spheres and pyramids, a wide stone pathway leading to an arboretum of mixed trees. Conifers, Willows and Oaks, their leaves and branches bleached to dark blues and grays by the moon’s luminescence.
A sudden movement amongst the trees caught her eye.
A shadow loomed and then disappeared. She concentrated on the area, scanning from left to right, searching for another glimpse of whatever it was that had attracted her attention.
And then she saw it. A fleeting glance of no more than a fraction of a second as it moved through the trees, running with unbelievable speed and grace.
The largest wolf that she had ever seen. Easily as tall as a horse.
Emily searched again but could see no further sign of it. And after a minute or more of fruitless staring, she began to doubt her own eyesight. The wolf, if indeed that was what it was, had been impossibly large. Surely it must have been a trick of the light. Probably a stray dog, or fox even. The moon had simply cast a large shadow that had rippled through the trees and made it look like a huge running wolf.
Yes, that must be it, she debated with herself.
She went back to bed and lay down. But, as the night wore on and before she found sleep, she knew deep down that what she had seen was no illusion.
Chapter 20