by Amy Miles
I bite on my lower lip to keep from crying out as the wagon wheel hits a deep rut in the well-traveled dirt road that spans ever before me. The route winds narrowly through patches of angry-looking thorn bushes capable of shredding cloth and flesh from a distracted traveler. A tangle of spruce and maple trees fight for survival in the densely seeded timberland, their roots twined together just below the surface.
During the day, I imagine the forest to hold a raw sense of beauty, yet in the dark of night it is truly fearsome to behold. As a child, my mother warned me of the evil that lay in wait in this wood. Nevertheless, I know I have nothing to fear. Glancing at my husband Vladimir from the corner of my eye, I know there is nothing within the borders of this land that could hurt me any more than he has.
The air is cool against my skin and my breath hovers in a weighted vapor before my lips. I should be perished on a night such as this, wearing so little, yet the wind that ruffles my skirts feels peculiarly soothing against my inflamed skin.
Judging by the descent of the moon, it has been several hours since we emerged from the gates of Brasov, the fires licking against our backs as we took to the road. Dawn shall be upon us shortly. Presently I can see the distant horizon awash with lighter charcoal hues instead of inky black.
The stars above shine brightly in the cloudless sky. I glance back over my shoulder to see great plumes of smoke dotting out the twinkling lights. The horizon is brilliantly lit as the fires spread from the church to the clapboard homes nearby, quickly devouring much of my former home.
I turn forward and clench my eyes shut as the tears come. I do not want to cry, yet I cannot find the strength within to cease. The jarring wagon ride sends pains shooting through my lower abdomen. My nails rake deep into the lip of the bench as I stifle my cries.
The shredded remains of my wedding dress are hardly suitable cushion against the rigidity of the seat. I shift to one side, praying for relief that does not come.
My new husband is a vile monster. His brother is far worse.
Lucien watched with indifference as Vladimir ravaged me long into the night, first in the church and then several times more in my childhood bed that I once shared with my sister in our loft. The only time he showed any emotion was when my screams rose above the ringing of the bells that peeled through the town, waking Brasov to the peril that had laid siege to the town. With his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, Lucien savored my anguish, as if tasting a fine wine.
Vladimir was callous and ferocious as he tore at me. My pleas fell on deaf ears as I resisted, raking my nails against his arms until blood spilled down my fingers, and still he did not relent. He gripped me until I feared my bones would splinter and my flesh became a patchwork of bruises. My lower lip split, staining my teeth with a coppery taste that made my stomach roil.
With each touch, Vladimir made my spirit wither.
When he was finished with me, he yanked me from the bed and slung me over his shoulder, carrying me to the wagon Lucien had prepared. I was not allowed the time to clean away his filth or to reclaim any of my treasures. No family heirlooms or even the doll my sister slept with in secret each night. I have nothing to remind me of my childhood nor the family that I lost, save for the tatters of a soiled wedding dress that my mother lovingly stitched, though even that has been contaminated by Vladimir.
Vivid bruises line my exposed arms. My inner thighs are chafed, my back raw and leaching blood. An incessant beating plagues my head. My mind is imprisoned in the desperate attempt to isolate itself from the ghastly events of the night.
How can one man be so heinous?
A near constant tremble has taken possession of my fingers. The slightest sound sets my heart aflutter. Every movement Vladimir makes beside me drives me to pure anxiety.
It is hard to breathe, to focus on anything save the pain. I do not know how much more I can take.
My husband made me bleed the first time, far more than I had thought possible. My mother had told me to expect a small amount of discomfort on my wedding night, yet that was hardly what I felt. Tearing. Ripping. Biting. It is almost as if my husband were an animal instead of a man.
The throbbing in my fingers is maddening. I look down upon my bloodied hands and realize that four fingernails have been torn away, no doubt lost in my desperate attempt to flee Vladimir’s grasp, leaving only raw flesh behind. The flies will come for me soon enough, drawn to the scent, and I will not have the heart to swat them away. Wrapping my hands within the frayed folds of my dress, I shudder at the thought.
I am aware of my body in ways that I never have been before. My bosom is bruised, as if Vladimir had intended to rip them clean from my chest. My legs ache from being twisted at random. My hips feel as if they have been repositioned, sitting slightly out of joint. I fear that I will be unable to walk when I dismount this infernal cart.
Warm tears slip from the corners of my eyes. I can smell Vladimir upon me, lingering, burning my eyes. The memory of his hands upon me is both offensive and terrifying. I pray for refuge, a numbness that might secret me away, keep me safe.
Has it really only been a single night? Just yesterday I was picking flowers in the meadow with Adela for my wedding bouquet, laughing at her flightful fancy of the farmer boy who lives just beyond the walls of Brasov. She always did have an eye for beauty, and Gavril, son of Cosmin, was a sight to see.
My heart aches at the thought of their love that would never be allowed to take flight. Not that my father would ever have condoned such an unfavorable union. Gavril was poor and as such of no use to my father.
No. Adela would have been sold to the highest bidder. Someone older and boasting far more wealth than my father.
I wipe away the moisture that streams past my lips, falling in errant drops from the end of my chin as I attempt to press back the image of the teeth marks along my sister’s neck. How could I have done such an appalling thing? Did Vladimir force me to bite her just as he forced me this morning?
Bile rises high in my throat as I think upon the amount of blood that I lost throughout the night, soiling the bed sheets. The feel of Vladimir’s blood upon my lips was thick and vile as he forced me to drink from his wrist, like ale from a tap in a tavern. He told me it would staunch the blood flow from his attack. I cannot comprehend how it worked, only that it did.
My aches began to recede almost immediately and the profuse bleeding ceased. However, the horror of thick rivulets of blood sliding down the back of my tongue has not left me. He was relentless, forcing me to gag down his blood. I tried to spit it back at him. A backhand to my cheek sent my mind reeling.
His blood had an overwhelming coppery taste that churned uncomfortably in my abdomen. It was edged with something detestable, as if I had tasted an animal left to decay along the side of the path, its flesh nearly rotted completely away and addled with maggots wiggling among the bones of the carcass. Something unsuitable even for the scavengers of the sky.
Adela’s blood was sweet upon my lips. I draw my shawl about my bare shoulders to ward off the thought that ripples uneasily through my mind. I open my eyes and turn to stare blankly into the woods about me.
I have never been this far from home before. Behind us lie the great stone walls that have protected Brasov from many of the wars that consume the surrounding lands. It sits nestled at the base of the mountains. A place that once held beauty for me, yet no longer.
I wonder if I will ever again hear the crisp peels of the bells that perch atop the front gate, warning against an enemy attack. Will I ever see the slanted pitch roofs of the homes that surrounded my own or smell the fresh scent of the bakery that I grew up just down the lane from? Brasov was a bustling town, filled with chattering children perched in the doorways of homes and the shouts of vendors selling their wares in the market square. It was home.
The church was built in the rearmost portion of the city, its spire rising high toward the heavens. It’s bell, far smaller than those that sit upon the city gat
es, would toll not long after dawn, calling its people to service.
When last I saw it, the church had been reduced to mere ash, smoldering a deep orange. The mill was alight, as were the cobbler’s, baker’s, and magistrate’s homes. I saw women clutching young children in the streets as men slopped buckets of water to and fro from horse troughs and the city well in desperate attempt to stave off the fires.
I glance once more over my shoulder, beyond the top of Lucien’s head as he sprawls in the back of the wagon, and see the swatch of sky behind us ablaze. The scent of smoke still hangs thick in the air, drifting through the mountain pass and needling at my nose.
No one expected invaders to destroy from within the city walls. Vladimir managed to do what none before him had: he razed an entire town with only a single candle.
I cannot bear to watch the flames ripple against the darkened sky any longer so I turn forward once more and focus on the tree branches grasping for my arms from the edge of the road. I realize that although the trees look the same as those growing just beyond the walls of Brasov, these smell slightly different, as if copious amounts of fresh air have somehow made them more primitive.
The robust scent of pine combats the acrid smoke that clings to me, trapped within the bloody clumps of hair that fall down my back. I fear that I will never be clean again.
There are several roads that depart from Brasov, each one headed to a new and exciting destination. I used to dream with Adela of the places we would explore should we ever take the high road east to Moldavia or the southern road that winds into the lawless land of Wallachia.
Vladimir took the western road, leading the horses deep into the mountain pass. I can see the darkened peaks before us and wonder if the horses will be able to pull us up such a steep incline.
“Where is it that are you taking me?” I whisper to the forest. It is the first time I have spoken willingly and I find myself loathe to look upon my new husband.
He shifts on the seat beside me, and my muscles spasm with terror. My fingers clamp down into fists, ready to thrash out at him if he makes a move toward me. However, he does not. He merely slaps the reins against the mare’s back and I grit my teeth as I am thrown off balance yet again.
Returning my face to look forward, I glance at Vladimir from the corner of my eye. His fine wedding clothes, sullied with the blood of my family, were left on the floor of the kitchen in my home. They have been replaced with a finely stitched white shirt and pair of brown trousers that taper perfectly to the lean cut of his frame. His long hair has been cleansed of any traces of blood. He looked staggeringly handsome when he emerged from my father’s study, yet all I could feel was revulsion, for I have glimpsed the demon that lives beneath this mirage.
Lucien refused to let me bathe while Vladimir attended to himself. He seemed to rather enjoy seeing me painted with blood and soot. The residue along my brow has begun to crack and peel, leaving me with a vexing desire to scratch. My long strands are gnarled and matted, my dress with hardly a stitch still intact. If not for the tight boning of my bodice and the shawl about my shoulders, I would be incapable of clinging to any shred of modesty. The stench of death infuses my pores.
“I am taking you home,” he replies simply. Vladimir’s smile is broad as he turns to find me watching him, my mouth gaped open, aghast. “To Castle Bran.”
I blink, shocked by how alarming the word sounds echoing in my ears. Home. It is meant to be a place of peace and love, not some macabre castle filled with ominous shadows and things lurking in the shadows.
I have heard of this place. Most have in our region. Tales of unspeakable deeds, alien to any decent man, and the screams of the dying along the castle walls have spread through the villages of Transylvania.
The name itself feels cloaked in evil, much like the lord of this castle. There are several such stone fortresses in the nearby regions. I have heard my father speak of their grandeur while on his travels. However, war has left many of them under new ownership.
I wonder where is it that this Castle Bran truly lies. The rumors change from traveler to traveler, although one thing remains the same: no man can speak of the horrors beheld as they passed by without a strong quake to their hands and the contents of their drink sloshing precariously as they down their mug of ale in a single, unsteadying gulp.
Castle Bran is a place of devils. There is little doubt to that.
Will the castle lie within the heart of the mountains or somewhere farther beyond? Does it dwell within the Transylvanian boundaries or some remote land, cut off from my home?
Vladimir speaks with a clipped accent that I struggle to place. Although he uses my language with silky perfection, I know he is not from my lands. Most likely he is from Wallachia where the dialect is peculiar to me.
I clasp my hands tightly around the frayed hem of my shawl, drawing it close for comfort. I pray that Vladimir has not noticed the trembling in my fingers, betraying my mounting anxiety. “And my family?” I ask once I regain my ability to speak. “Will you leave them in the ashes without a proper Christian burial?”
If I were to close my eyes, I know the vision of smoke spiraling into the cloudless sky, releasing the spirits of my loved ones to the heavens, would return. I cannot bear to see it again so I hold my eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. Everyone I have ever loved is lost to me. A weighted heaviness shrouds me as I realize that I am truly alone.
“It is a burial fit for kings,” Lucien declares from behind. He lounges in the hay that covers the bottom of the wagon my father recently bartered for. It is a fine make from the best craftsman in all of Transylvania. He was rather fond of informing his guests of this fact whenever they came to call. “I should think you would be grateful.”
Gratitude is the furthest thing from my mind, yet I would not dare let the sentiment cross my lips or risk his wrath. Especially not with Lucien lying less than five feet from me, sharpening the edge of his blade with a stone. The repetitive grating sound is enough to drive a person to leap in front of a pack of wild horses. I must admit that I would be sorely tempted if I thought I could actually get away with it.
I remember glimpsing Lucien Enescue for the first time from our loft. Adela had admired the jewels inlaid on his sword hilt. My father loudly boasted of his knowledge of Lucien’s legendary skill with a blade. A pity my father was the first to be slain by Vladimir so he was not able to appreciate Lucien’s skill firsthand, I muse.
Bitterness against my father rises up within me. There is no love lost between us. I know that I will not mourn him. He was a cold, calculating man whose only love was for power and all it could afford him.
My sister and I were no better than his prize cattle, born and bred to be sold to the highest bidder. My brother Petru was given his choice of women. He had many of them in his young years, although none of them ever captured his heart. Although I dearly loved my brother, I was envious of his freedom to come and go as he pleased.
Vladimir casts a glance at me, splintering my thoughts as my breath catches in expectant fear. My muscles seize up when he reaches out to brush the hair back from my cheek. I force myself to remain still, refusing to meet his gaze.
I feel numb, not from the chill on the air, yet rather from deep within. As if with each touch, Vladimir encases my bones within ice, cold and unbreakable. His hand lingers upon my cheek and I feel my terror mount.
Will he take me again? Surely not on the side of the road where travelers could pass by. Even as this thought flits through my mind, I realize this scenario would probably be welcomed by my husband.
As I look to the dirt path that winds ahead of us in the dappled moonlight, I know we are alone. I close my eyes, silently pleading to my God that my husband will leave me be.
“You have questions,” he murmurs as he rubs his thumb across my cheekbone. “That is good.”
I bite my lower lip and draw back from his touch. I do have questions, thousands of them. Nevertheless, I cannot
bear to give him the satisfaction. I want nothing from him, save my freedom. I doubt that will ever be an option.
Lucien’s laughter rises into the clouded night sky. The moon sits just above the tree line now. Soon the new day will come. “She is fearful of you, brother. That is a valuable trait. She needs to learn her place.”
Vladimir nods in agreement and his hand slips away. I allow a small sigh of relief as he slaps the reins against the backs of the horses and our pace quickens.
We ride in silence as the world begins to wake. In the distance I see smoke rising above the tangle of timberland. Women stoke hearth fires and prepare the morning bread. Men will soon follow to tend to the animals. Children will rub sleep from their eyes and emerge from their warm duvets to grudgingly begin their chores.
Life will go on as normal for the people of this village… while mine will forever be altered.
“Rasnov is ahead, brother,” Vladimir calls back over his shoulder.
“I grow hungry.” I hear Lucien rustling the material of his shirt as he rubs his stomach. My own twists with anxiety. Will they stop at this town to eat? A shudder races down my spine as I wonder if it is food that Lucien seeks or something more.
I fear I will be ill if I am offered nourishment. My head feels light and my abdomen knotted tighter than a baker’s twisted bun.
Vladimir looks to me once more, contemplating. He watches silently as I place my fingers slowly over the diminished bruises where he held me through the long night. “The pain has receded, yes?”
Reluctantly, I nod.
“Blood is life.” I turn to stare wide-eyed at him yet say nothing, and he continues without prompting. “Humans need blood to sustain them. As do we. It is the source of life that keeps our hearts pumping. Without it, we too will wither and die.”
Is he trying to explain why he mutilated my family? Countless thoughts spiral through my mind at once. Is it possible to flee this torment? Can I join with my family in the afterlife? Why does he refer to humans as if he is not one?
Vladimir laughs and I instantly wipe my face clear of any hint of hope. “It is not so easy to kill our kind, my dear. Many have tried and failed.”
His words hold little endearment, though they make me shudder all the same. I do not wish to pry further. However, desperate curiosity gets the better of me. “Our kind?”
My husband glances back over his shoulder and shares a loaded glance with his brother before turning to look upon me. “You are no longer one of them, Roseline. You are something more. Something strong and fierce.”
“We take what we want,” Lucien says in a dull tone, as if his statement goes without saying. Although his inflection feigns disinterest, I can detect a lilt in his voice similar to the one he possessed just before he slit my sister’s throat.
“If we… I am no longer human, then what am I?”
I rub my forehead, beginning to feel the traces of pain bursting behind my eyes. I am exhausted, both mentally and physically. If only I could rest for a few moments, perhaps I might be able to wake from this wretched nightmare.
“We are those who walk among the shadows, children of the night.” Lucien speaks the words as if caressing a lover. “We are immortal.”
My breath catches as Vladimir seizes my hand. How odd that his touch no longer feels like fire, now like the ice that clings to my windowsill after a mid-winter frost. I stiffen though I do not pull away. I can feel the strength in his hands and know that I am hopelessly trapped.
“You know of our kind, Roseline, although you would never dare to speak the name aloud.”
There have been rumors for many years, although I never wanted to believe them. The tales were told in a whisper around the flickering of firelight after children were sent off to their beds. Women would cling to their shawls and knitting needles as they rocked, eyes wide with terror. Men of sound mind could be brought to ruin over the mere mention of the name Strigoi, or vampyre.
Tales become myth and myth becomes legend.
Those legends were the source of my nightmares, though I fear I will no longer have to sleep for the darkness to come. It is ever around me.
“I am no monster,” I spit out with disgust and yank away from his touch.
Vladimir’s eyes darken against the predawn sky. “You will be.”
THREE