Diaries Of The Family Dracul - Children Of The Vampire Part 3

Beneath him, quietly working in the black shadows, stood his tormentor, only recently of our employ -Vanya, a redheaded ogre with a hunched back and twisted legs, a creature who bore the same afflictions I had in my pathetic mortal life. But I had no sympathy for Vanya, with his ruddy skin that stank perpetually of drink, for a fevered excitement blazed in his bloodshot eyes as he smeared oil upon the blunted tip of a long, pointed stake.

I knew what this portended and, panicked, turned back swiftly to Vlad. Jean Belmonde surely adored me solely for my appearance and my wealth and would have proven an unfaithful mate. And though I bore no real love for him, I could not bear the thought of his suffering.

Vlad's lips thinned in a faint amused smile, but there was a hardness in his eyes that commanded me to steel myself, to be strong.

"Not yet," I said softly-too softly for my unfortunate Jean's ears. I tried to hide my revulsion as I reached forth to stroke Vlad's arm coquettishly. "Let me have him first.

Uncle, please . . ."

Yes, I am dead, and consider myself beyond the reproach of the living; already d.a.m.ned, and beyond the judgement of any G.o.d. But d.a.m.ned or not, I am still capable of compa.s.sion for my own victims. If I must kill, then let them die sweetly in my arms; and if I must sin, let it bring pleasure, not pain.

The blood, at least, tastes sweeter.

"Perhaps," he said, smiling. "But you have, it seems, already had your fill of him. First I must know. What of Arkady? Did it all go as arranged? You found him? Went to him?"

"I did."

He moved eagerly to the edge of the throne, lowering his voice. "And you contacted the human agent there as I directed-"

"Yes," I answered shortly. I had thought myself incapable of shame, but a pang of it a.s.sailed me at the memory. I had in fact seduced the man Vlad directed me to, and drunk from him, and left him for dead.

Vlad's smile widened to reveal deadly teeth. "Good. Good. . . . Now-tell me-" Here he reached forth to catch my wrist with painfully intense strength and pulled me towards him to the throne. "Tell me you saw Arkady destroyed. Properly."

I lowered my gaze, unable to meet the scrutiny of those merciless green orbs. I might have lied then to spare myself, but I knew the penalty would be far, far worse to dissemble now and be later discovered. And so I said, "I have no doubt he was. I instructed the man carefully myself and paid him well. But I drank too much of drunken blood and had to leave to sleep before the day broke-"

He jerked to his feet, hurling me down the steps with a single imperious sweep of an arm.

"Liar!" he shrieked, his eyes glowing inhuman red with rage, as though the green forest therein had been abruptly consumed by flame. "You swore to me that you would see it done! You have failed in the one most important thing! Are you too much a fool to realise that we have little time, that we can afford to miss no more opportunities? By sparing your brother, you condemn us! How can you claim to love me?"

I am no longer human; the blow caused me no harm. I landed lightly on my feet beside cringing Dunya and pulled myself to my full height, my most dazzling beauty. "I am no liar!"

I shouted, provoked to anger myself. I could not be frightened; perhaps Vlad could have me destroyed if he wished, as he sometimes threatens, but I suspected he was unsure as I of the consequence of harming me. "But he is still my brother, and my blood does not yet flow as cold as yours. How can you ask me to witness such a gruesome fate for one I love?"

His face hardened, as though it had been hewn from white marble, and his eyes narrowed even as they pierced me. I knew he was considering the a.s.sumption I wanted him to make: that I could not report on Arkady's demise merely because I had left early out of a faint heart.

For a moment, we glared at each other in furious silence, and then he said slowly, "How am I to trust anything you tell me, then? How am I to know you tell the truth?"

He cannot, of course; when he broke the covenant to make me as he is, he surrendered his ability to know my thoughts, and my brother's.

So it was his gaze fell on Dunya.

She moaned in despair as he lifted a single finger to beckon her; for an instant, she clutched my skirts like a frightened child before yielding reluctantly to the magnetic pull of those evergreen eyes. Overwhelmed with pity, I patted her hand before she turned to him, and saw the tears in her eyes.

She ascended the platform with slow, reluctant grace and, with the deliberate, exaggerated movements of a sleepwalker, lifted the dark coil of hair from her neck and offered it to him as he sat. She was not at quite the proper angle for him, and so he put a single finger beneath her chin and, tilting it upwards, moved her head to one side and pulled her back until she leaned heavily against him.

He leaned his head low, his iron-grey hair spilling down over her shoulder, and drank. The girl gave a slight shuddering cry as his teeth pierced her skin again (as they have so many times before). And as he supped, her eyes went dull, then fluttered until at last they closed in that sweet, dreamy languour brought by his kiss.

"Not long," I warned him, for Dunya's sake. "She is tired, and I often made use of her on my way to Vienna."

He obeyed, drinking of her blood and thoughts only a short time, then raising his face, teeth, and lips painted red. Poor Jean no doubt saw in this a preview of his own fate, for behind me came an astonished gasp.

Dunya's ignorance was my salvation. I could read acceptance in Vlad's expression.

"So," he said. "It is true, at least, that you visited him and mesmerised him quite thoroughly. But what is this incorrigible harlotry, my dear, that you pressed yourself and your maid upon your own brother? Most interesting. For if either of you were to bear him a male heir-"

He did not complete the thought, but I finished it for him in my own mind: Then perhaps there would be no need to find Arkady or his son.

"Take my child," I replied swiftly, "and Dunya's, into your service. One for Arkady's generation, the other for his son's."

He tilted his head, thoughtful, alabaster lids lowering briefly over emerald eyes. And then his gaze became direct, pointed. "I doubt such subst.i.tutions possible. But even if they were .

. . you are naive, Zsuzsanna, to think these two acts might immediately produce children.

The chances are that neither of you will conceive. And if you do not?"

For this I had no answer.

"I see. So you thought to find a way to save both your brother and me." He paused, and I saw a brilliant flare of anger in his eyes. As strong as I am, as immortal, the sight still filled me with fear. For though he would raise no hand against me, I knew that my poor Monsieur Belmonde would be spared no pain, no indignity.

With a softness more terrifying than the most earth-rattling thunder, he said, "Do you relish your life now, Zsuzsanna?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Yet you love your brother." Yes. . . .

"Decide, my dear. For the one precludes the other. A mortal's lifetime, Zsuzsanna. A single lifetime-that is all we have left, before the covenant lapses and we two are destroyed. If Arkady's son dies unbound to us, uncorrupted-so will we die. And if we fail to destroy Arkady during that lifetime, we will also die. You have just cost me an opportunity! How many more will come to us in the next fifty, sixty years? It is not so long a time-a mere nod of the head, the wink of an eye, to us! I fear you still think like a mortal." "Answer me: Do you wish to die in this castle a hag? Shrivelled, starved, ugly beyond any man's desire, a more pitiful creature than you were as a mortal?"

"No," I whispered. "No."

"That is what you condemn yourself to, Zsuzsanna, with your weakness. With your foolish love."

He fingered the chalice that rested near his hand- the chalice stained with Kasha's blood, and our father's, and our father's father's, and his before him-then lifted it and swore: "With your help or without, I will see Arkady destroyed. And I will drink of his son's blood, and he of mine; a new generation will be bound to my service!"

On the surface, his tone sounded utterly confident -but my perceptions are keen now; I could hear the fear beneath it, the terror, the rage.

To know him fearful frightened me more deeply than I had ever thought possible. I would have felt safer in the presence of a wounded raging lion.

He looked beyond the raised chalice, narrowing his eyes at me. "Your brother is a fool to think himself a match for me! And you, my darling Zsuzsa . . . know that I love you. But my love can turn rapidly to hatred should I be deceived. Justus etpius."

He lowered the chalice then and turned to Vanya. "It is time."

With a grunt, Vanya hoisted the man-long stake in both freckled sinewy arms and, scrabbling sidewise like a strong little crab, dragged it to the end of the rack, where a special groove had been carved for it into the wood.

It was an unwieldy task for one man, much less one bent and crippled, but Vanya managed with much grunting and determination-born, no doubt, of the same desire that brought the bright unholy gleam to his eyes. With a loud thump, the stake fell into the groove, which extended the length of Jean's leg down the center of the rack, and ended, most ominously, just above his lower spine.

The unfortunate man began to scream.

"No!" I cried. "Uncle, please-"

But I knew when Vlad turned his imperious, distrustful gaze on me that my words were in vain; the time had come for my punishment. Jean would suffer now because I had dared disobey. His voice was stern, unyielding, but not without an undercurrent of tenderness.

"You have failed me, Zsuzsanna; you, whom I have most loved. Have I ever failed you?

Ever denied you anything?"

He straightened regally, and his visage and voice took on a richness, a glamour, a leonine magnificence that had surely been seen four centuries before by those who had attended his court. He became indeed the voievod, the warrior-prince who had saved his people from death at Turkish hands: Vlad, he who was called by some Tsepesh, the Impaler; by others Dracula, son of the dragon. The words beneath him, Justus etpius, just and faithful, no longer seemed parody; no, he shone, radiant from within, like a beatified saint. An angel- fallen, but no less glorious to behold. For a swift instant -the flicker of a candle, no more- even I, trained by him in the art of mesmerisation, was swayed by his beauty, his greatness, and forgot my pity for my intended, Monsieur Jean Belmonde.

"I am harsh but just, am I not?" he asked me softly as Vanya slid the stake higher, higher, until the point came to rest just at the opening of the chained man's bowels.Jean's cries grew even more hysterical.

Vlad rose, his movements lordly, as elegant as any work of art I ever saw in Vienna, and took one step, two, towards the bound man. "A madman, am I, monsieur? Do you realise who it is you insult?"

Belmonde began to weep openly, tears streaming down his face, his bloodied chest heaving from paroxysmal sobs. "No. No. I beg pardon, monsieur; tell me what it is you wish, and I will see it done. Anything. Anything! Only do not harm me-"

"I am prince of these lands," Vlad said, his face gleaming from such bright inner fire that he seemed an apparition sent from G.o.d rather than the Devil. At the sight, I remembered how it was that I became smitten with love for him. "I bought them with my flesh, my blood, my tears. Did you hear what I told Zsuzsanna?"

Carefully, deliberately, red eyes wide and intent on his victim, Vanya moved the stake higher: a half-inch, no more. Belmonde jerked and cried out, then began to babble tearfully.

"Forgive me, Prince, forgive me . . . I am a foolish man, I did not know. . . ."

"I said: Did you hear what I told her?"

Jean fumbled, wild-eyed, for the words. "I am not sure. . . . I- You are-you are-harsh but just?"

Vlad smiled. "Very good, Monsieur Belmonde. And what I have said is true. I ask you now: Is it just to punish an insult?"

The trapped man's lips trembled as he struggled to formulate a reply that might save him.

A bead of sweat trickled its way down from his damp golden curls; from a distance I savoured its pungent aroma as my fondness and compa.s.sion warred with my growing hunger. "It ... it is more Christian, perhaps, to forgive it-" His voice broke. "For love of G.o.d, I beg you, monsieur, to forgive-"

I might have asked again for mercy to our unfortunate guest, but Vlad despises weakness; my pleas would have served only to provoke more suffering for Jean. So I held my tongue as Dunya, awakened now from her trance, stumbled down to my side and sank, weakened, to her knees. As she clasped my waist and hid her face in my skirt, I put my arms around her and stroked her hair in a useless gesture of comfort. Meanwhile, Vlad interrupted his prisoner.

"So now I am un-Christian," he thundered, "an infidel, like the Turks I defeated so many centuries ago? Two insults! I advise you, sir: Beg for mercy. Beg for your very life!"

Poor Belmonde begged, in an incoherent rush of sobbed syllables. I have quite a facility for French; Jean and I used it almost exclusively to communicate. But this time I understood not a word; not until Vlad at last climbed the scaffolding beside my trembling naked lover and bent low beside him.

Of a sudden, his expression softened, and in a low, gentle voice he whispered to Jean, "Enough. Enough. You shall be released from your chains."

The young man let go a deep, shuddering sigh, then wept softly as he whispered, "G.o.d bless you, monsieur; may G.o.d eternally bless you."

Vlad stroked Belmonde's glistening forehead, smoothing back the golden curls with paternal tenderness. And then he turned his face just enough to glance down at the foot of the rack, where Vanya stood ready, one shoulder against the base of the shining oiled stake.The Impaler signalled with a nod.

Vanya gave a mighty thrust. I am immortal, yes; and even if my life extends through all eternity, I pray never again to hear such a sound. (The horror is, I have heard it before- and certainly shall again.) Jean screamed-a scream to pierce the very gates of Heaven. I caught but a glimpse of his body arched in spasm as the stake ascended, piercing his bowels; more than that I could not bear to witness but instead closed my eyes and covered with my palms the ears of poor Dunya, who added her own cry of anguish to his. We clung to each other in our misery.

At last silence fell. I looked up to find that the young man had, in his agony, fainted; now Vanya, atremble with excitement, struggled feverishly to raise the stake.

So he did, with some a.s.sistance from Vlad, and erected it in the midst of the theatre of death, upon the scaffolding constructed expressly for the purpose. And Vlad, his own eyes ablaze like the sun, stepped back to admire his grisly handiwork: Belmonde impaled, his head hung to one side, his arms swinging limp as a marionette's, the weight of his own body drawing him downwards so that the stake travelled slowly, inexorably up through his vitals.

By dawn, if Vanya had performed his task precisely, the blunted tip would peek through the corpse's gaping lips.

"Wake him!" Vlad ordered, and Vanya scurried to procure a pole from which hung suspended a rag. This he doused liberally with slivovitz, then raised it to Jean's lips, a cruel parody of the centurion offering Christ bitter gall.

The dying man groaned as he returned to consciousness-beyond speech now, beyond all but pain. I knew what would follow now and dreaded it, yet my own hunger had grown painfully and demanded appeas.e.m.e.nt. I had grown accustomed, in Vienna, to dining nightly, and the spectre of famine made me desperate to feed while I could. Dunya was too weak, too pale to offer sustenance; I dared not even sip lightly, much less drink to my satisfaction. Jean was entirely lost. From him, I could drink my fill. . . .

I watched, disgusted at my own desire as Vlad took the suffering man's chin in his hand, turning Jean's face towards his.

"Yes, wake," he hissed. "Wake and know who it is that torments you."

And with a savagery that, to my shame, delighted and aroused me, he thrust his teeth into Belmonde's neck. The man cried out again-a weak whisper, now. Shock and pain had sapped him; there would not be much time to drink before death, when the blood began to cool.

I forgot my humanity. I pushed Dunya aside and hurried to the scaffolding, ascending it in a smooth, easy leap invisible to mortal eyes.

I stood beside Vlad, waiting anxiously as he fed, forgetting my distaste for blood tainted by terror, fearing only that there should not be enough for us both. And as Vlad drank, Belmonde's piteous moans ceased. After a time, he fainted once more, and even Vanya's persistent ministrations could not rouse him.

At that, Vlad moved aside, his eyes brilliant, green, triumphant as he watched me press my lips to the b.l.o.o.d.y wound he had opened.

I drank, angered at my own helplessness to refuse, at my own weakness. Yes, I drank, but it was bitter, bitter, bitter blood . . .AMSTERDAM NOVEMBER 1871.

Twenty-six Years Later

Chapter 3.

Telegramme from Guy de la Mer, Amsterdam, to V. Dracula, do Golden Krone Hotel, Bistritz, 12 November 1871 Subject located at last. Itinerary and arrival time to follow.

The Journal of Mary Tsepesh Van Helsing 19 NOVEMBER 1871.

My husband is dead.

My husband is dead.

Twice I have written these words; twice it has happened. To-day we buried Jan, who more than two decades ago rescued my child from unspeakable danger.

Did I love him? Yes. But ours was a cool love, more a friendship born of grat.i.tude and respect, not pa.s.sion -at least, not mine. Even so, my heart aches at the loss, and writing this, I weep stinging tears. I have lost my truest friend; or so, before to-night, I had believed.

But only one man has ever truly had my heart: my beloved Arkady-dead some twenty-six years. This I know as a fact, for it was I who served as his executioner, I who aimed the bullet that tore through his heart.

Would that it had been mine; the pain would have been less. I have treasured the gun all this time; not a night has gone by that I did not caress it in secret, did not press its cold steel to my lips and whisper lovingly to the ghost of him who still haunts me.

But a ghost he is no more. No; far, far worse than that . . .

He came to me to-night. Not as a phantom of imagination or ill-formed spectre from a dream but in the flesh-the cold, cold flesh.