Kiss Of The Butterfly Part 1

Kiss of the b.u.t.terfly.

Lyon, James.

To My Elusive b.u.t.terfly.

p.r.o.nunciation Guide.

Professor Nagy.

Nadge (like badge) Dusan Popovic.

Doo-shaun Po-po-vitch Miroslav Ljubovic Meer-o-slav Lyou-bo-vitch Rade Lazarevic.

Ra-day Lazar-evitch Katarina Lazarevic.

Katarina Lazar-evitch Mariana Lazarevic Mari-ana Lazar-evitch.

Teofil Simic Tayo-phil Simitch Vesna Glogovac.

Vesna Glogovats Milica Militsa.

Ljubodrag Stojadinovic Lyou-bo-drag Stoya-deeno-vitch Danko Niedermeier Dan-ko Needer-meyer.

Natalija.

Nataliya.

Srebrenica Srebren-itsa.

Sremski Karlovci Srem-ski Karlov-tsee.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Any book requires input from others, and Kiss of the b.u.t.terfly is no exception. Many people a.s.sisted me with proofreading and offering suggestions, including Neil MacDonald, Kevin Sullivan, Christopher Bennett, Christen Farmer, Barkin Kayaoglu, Roger LaBrie, Paul Fedorko, Mark Wheeler, Therese Nelson, Mary Theisen, and James K. Lyon. David Grogan did a superb job of translating Kiss and my ramblings into two fantastic book covers. I owe a great deal to my wife Maja, for pushing me forward. I also wish to thank countless individuals throughout the former Yugoslavia, who over more than three decades have given me many rich and wonderful human experiences that provided material for this book.

The creatures depicted in this book popularly known as vampires are based on authentic descriptions from Balkan folklore recorded by ethnographers in the 18th, 19th and early 20th centuries, and they differ significantly from pop-culture stereotypes. Most historical references to vampires in this book are factual. For further details, see the Historical Note at the end of the book.

Doc.u.mented reports of vampire-related activity continue throughout the Balkans to this day, the most recent having occurred in 2011 in Serbia.

Sarajevo & Belgrade, March 2013.

Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord G.o.d had made.

Genesis 3:1.

PRELUDE.

February 1476.

The victorious army followed the Drina River upstream, Serbia on the left bank, Bosnia on the right. As the host advanced, mountains rose along the river, their snowy forests thick and foreboding. Grey mists stretched forth their tendrils from the undergrowth, ascended from the emerald waters and tumbled down the mountain slopes in avalanches of billowing cloud.

The morning fog's caresses gave way to a stronger embrace that drove the sun from the valley's depths and brought twilight at midday. The vapor entered the soldiers' nostrils and lungs, under their armor, beneath woolen undergarments, as it whispered that the valley belonged to no man, that evil awaited those who dared desecrate its precincts. But the army paid scant heed, blinded by greed.

The host's armored ma.s.s cut everything before it, like the blade of a mower's scythe slicing its way through wheat that is white and ready to harvest. Outriders scouted ahead of the main body, followed by heavily armored knights, archers, infantry, retainers, baggage wagons and pack horses, closely pursued by the myriad scruffy camp followers: blacksmiths, leatherworkers, cobblers, beer and wine vendors, prost.i.tutes, cooks, washerwomen, gamblers, con artists, scavengers and money lenders. What the soldiers left the camp followers swept clean in the army's wake as winged scavengers circled overhead, ready to swoop and gorge themselves on corpses abandoned in the mud. All reaped what they had not sown, while sowing seeds of a harvest their children's children's children would one day reap.

The army had rested briefly after its victory over the Turks at Sabac, and was once again on the move southward, albeit greatly reduced in size after Hungarian King Matthius Corvinus had departed with his court and most of the knights, infantry and spoils. He left behind a va.s.sal, the Prince of Wallachia, Vlad III, to command 5,000 Serbian and Wallachian feudal levies, mixed with Italian and German mercenaries. This smaller army swept across the snow-covered Macva plain, past Mt. Cer and across the runoff-swollen Drina into Bosnia, setting torch to farm houses and villages, putting to the sword or enslaving the men and children, while taking the women for their pleasure.

Vlad halted the army at the approaches to the city of Zvornik, where the valley narrowed while his cavalry scouts overran the lightly guarded fortifications on the heights overlooking the city. Early on the morrow as the sun wrestled the mists, Vlad sat astride his horse and watched smoking chimneys rise up out of the cloud below, as a city once hidden now materialized from the morning fog. He flung back a dark green cape fastened around a bull neck to reveal full armor and a large sword with six golden dragons emblazoned on the scabbard.

A rider approached. 'Your Highness,' he spoke archaic Romanian. 'The Turkish commander will surrender the city, in exchange for a pledge that the garrison leave in peace. He asks that you spoil neither the city nor its inhabitants. The Christians of this place have pledged to swear allegiance to His Apostolic Majesty, the King of Hungary and to the Holy Father.'

Vlad looked at him with green eyes, blinked his dark lashes and sniffed curiously, as if scenting food nearby. 'And the troops?' he asked.

'They seek prizes, my prince. His Majesty did them great injustice by taking the plunder with him to Hungary.'

'Yes,' muttered Vlad pensively as he stroked his long bushy moustache. 'The Turks will have their safe pa.s.sage, but without weapons. They must swear never again to fight against the Holy Cross. Then hurry to Mircea, and tell him to take the German and Italian mercenaries to the south of the city.'

'Yes, Sire.'

'We will take much spoil in this place,' Vlad thought to himself. 'I will enjoy this greatly.'

His stocky body wrapped in silks, Vlad reclined against velvet cushions set on a lush carpet, sipping blood-red wine from a gem-encrusted goblet. He could smell himself from the blood and human gore that soaked his clothes following two days of unfettered indulgence. 'Tomorrow I shall bathe in the thermal springs,' he thought. 'And I shall order the troops to do the same.'

It was late and the orgy of bloodshed had exhausted him. Oil lamps cast a dim light on oriental decadence that flickered between shadows: cushions, rugs, bolts of silk, all doused in the splendiferous nuances of brilliant golds, purples and scarlets. A naked girl whimpered softly at his side where he had tossed her, iron bands around her wrists and ankles, bruises on her body, her face swollen from blows, trickles of blood running from her nose, lips and thighs.

Although Vlad had promised safe pa.s.sage, his mercenaries had fallen upon the unarmed Turkish soldiers and the heavily laden wagons of the merchants and artisans. They had separated the men from the women: the men he had impaled on stakes along the roadside as warning, the women he had given to his troops. And the Turkish commander, yes...he had taken such delight in torturing him. 'Impalement is so time-consuming,' he thought. 'But the Turks understand only that.' Even now some of the victims clung painfully to life, the night breeze carrying their faint moans to Vlad's tent. He had set his soldiers loose on the city, running amok among the Christian inhabitants, looting, burning, raping. When the town's priest complained, Vlad had strangled him with the very chain from the priest's own cross. Not a soul had escaped south to warn the Ottoman garrisons in other cities and towns.

Firelight danced around the entrance of Vlad's captured Turkish tent to highlight an approaching shadow. The guards challenged it, then permitted it to pa.s.s, and the shadow emerged into the dim light, a tall, dark-haired man with handsomely cruel features, his bearing unsteady. The nostrils of Vlad's thin nose flared as he sniffed: the newcomer smelled of wine and human blood.

'My prince,' he uttered with slurred speech. 'You called.'

'Mircea,' the prince said softly, brushing his dark curly locks from his face onto broad shoulders. 'You have served me well.' He extended the bejeweled chalice to Mircea: 'Take wine from my cup. It was found in the cellar of the garrison, a Pavlovac from the slopes of Mt. Kosmaj in the coasts south of Belgrade. It is so thick that one does not drink it...rather, it must be eaten.' He laughed at his own little joke; Mircea laughed along and took the proffered goblet. 'Isn't it funny how the soldiers of Allah drink the fruit of the vine like Christians?' Vlad poured himself more wine, and then struck the girl across her face. 'Silence,' he said viciously. She curled up in a ball and wept quietly.

'Mircea, tomorrow we raise camp and move towards Kuslat. From there we will move towards Srebrenica. Have you heard of Srebrenica?'

'Yes, Sire. Isn't it an old Roman town, fabled for its mines of silver? It will make us wealthy. The troops speak only of this.'

'Hasn't Zvornik offered sufficient for their needs?' inquired Vlad.

'My Lord, the city is small, and we are 5,000,' Mircea answered.

'Yes, you're right. Tomorrow I'll lead the army to Kuslat. But take 150 riders, disguise them as Turks, and take them to Srebrenica. Tell the garrison commander there that the Christians have been defeated and withdrawn. On market day, we'll surround the city walls. Then strike fear in the hearts of the people and open the city gates.'

'Yes Sire.'

'And what says Monsignor Rangoni?' The expression on Vlad's narrow face showed his distaste for the Papal Legate accompanying the expedition who had proven difficult from the very beginning.

'He has a delicate const.i.tution, Sire, and the reality of war troubles him,' Mircea's sarcasm was evident. 'He tried to stop us from plundering the Christians, and he got angry over the death of the schismatic priest. But now he's drunk, and I sent a Turkish boy to his tent.'

'What about you? Have you taken your fill of pleasure?' Vlad wore a sinister grin on his face.

'Sire, can man ever satiate himself?' Mircea answered, grinning back.

Vlad laughed again, his green eyes surveying the ruined girl. 'Take her. Give her to your men.' His smile was now vicious. 'When they're done, have her join the others on the stakes.'

'With pleasure, Sire.' Mircea rose to leave.

'Mircea, stay with me a little longer,' Vlad grabbed Mircea's blouse. 'Within these hills lies a power dark and terrible. It's in the mists... it draws me closer,' he smiled darkly as he sipped from the goblet. 'It calls and nourishes me.' A red droplet ran from the corner of his mouth, down his chin.

'When we descend on Srebrenica our victory shall be complete and the bards will praise the name of Vlad III, how I defeated the Turks and rode through Srebrenica in might and glory. We will gorge ourselves with gold, silks, spices, slaves, blood and flesh... all will be ours. We will feed on the city and it will give us new life. The valley speaks to me with a kindred voice and I will partake of that power.'

'Yes, Sire,' Mircea nodded.

'My dear Mircea,' the expression on Vlad's face grew suddenly distant and his eyes clouded as though covered in the valley's swirling mists. 'We will leave here changed men. I feel it. And the Order of the Dragon will finally accept me as it did my father.'

'Yes, my Lord,' Mircea answered. 'The Order will indeed accept you, and the world will never forget your name, nor that of your father. May the house of Dracul and his son Dracula stand forever as a token to posterity of your power and might and greatness.'

ChapteR One.

A LETTER FROM A DISTANT Sh.o.r.e.

San Diego: Late August 1991.

He arrived five minutes late for the start of the first day of cla.s.s, and when he entered the students in the lecture hall were fidgeting and talking loudly. From the doorway at the back he surveyed the crowded room and twitched his nose slightly, catching the acrid musk of meat-fed bodies, the sharp jolt of Eucalyptus oil, tanning lotion and sea salt, all blended with odors of newness: new paint, new carpet and new furniture. Hazy late-morning sunlight flooded through the south-facing windows, spreading a sense of relaxed cheer. After a moment's pause, he sauntered briskly down the steps to the front of the hall, placed a battered leather briefcase on the table, removed a folder and laid it on the podium, followed by a stack of papers.

The room quieted. When it was completely silent he removed the iridescent blue sungla.s.ses from atop his head and placed them on the podium, cleared his throat with a guttural rumbling that could be heard even at the back of the lecture hall, and removed from his coat pocket a tarnished silver pocket watch graven with ornate inscriptions. He glanced at it, and placed it on the podium. He looked at the folder as if double-checking something, then raised his head.

'Good day, cla.s.s. I am Professor Doctor Marko Slatina,' he announced formally with a slight, yet indeterminate eastern European accent. 'This is History 240, section 3, the Medieval Balkans. If you are in the wrong cla.s.s, please leave now.'

He was met by silence.

He appeared relatively young for a professor somewhere in his early thirties and not at all scholarly. He was far too stylish, in an Italian GQ sort of way, from the hand-st.i.tched shoes with leather tanned the color of burnished pine wood, up past the pressed jeans and red-striped white b.u.t.ton-down shirt, to the iridescent teal two-b.u.t.ton coat. He was quite tall, with short-cropped dark hair, strong features, olive complexion and a deep tan that looked Mediterranean. Already several of the female students were taking favorable notice of his taste in accessories.

'I apologize for being tardy. As our German friends are fond of saying: funf minuten nach der zeit, ist Balkanische punktlichkeit.' He looked for a flicker of comprehension among the students, but they stared back at him blankly. 'That means five minutes after the appointed hour is Balkan punctuality.' Although he smiled, n.o.body laughed. 'I can a.s.sure you that in the future I shall be punctual, as I expect you to be.'

No one studies foreign languages anymore, he thought to himself.

Through the windows Slatina noticed a red and blue hang-glider as it circled lazily over the groves of Eucalyptus and Torrey Pine trees on the university campus. He looked at the a.s.sembled students, many of whom resembled extras from a surfing movie. Some had spent significant sums of money trying to appear casual, only to be betrayed by expensive haircuts, manicures and jewelry.

'I thank you all for coming today. I am most flattered that you found my cla.s.s more important than the beach. It is truly a lovely day outside, not at all conducive to indoor education.' Although accented, his English was grammatically precise, delivered with an old-world charm and a slight inflection that hinted at a British education. Clearly he expected people to pay attention when he spoke.

The enrollment form in his folder told him that this semester would be similar to previous semesters student athletes, history majors, the curious, and as usual, a large number of his students' surnames indicated Albanian, Bosnian, Bulgarian, Croatian, Greek, Macedonian or Serbian backgrounds. He read the roll in alphabetical order: 'Ahmeti.' 'Here.'

'Albijanich.' 'Here.'

'Anderson.' 'Here.'

'Barber.' 'Here.'

'Byelitsa.' 'Here.'

'Christensen.' 'Here.'

'Chorovich.' 'Here.'

'Mr. Chorovich, is your family from the Sandzhak, Herzegovina or Zlatibor?'

'Uh, I don't know. They're from Yugoslavia somewhere.'

He continued down the list, taking particular notice of the Balkan surnames: Brankovski... Georgevich... Hadjiahmetovich... Kayaoglu... Konstantinov...

'Lazarevich.'

'Here.'

He paused, looked up at the student and smiled gently. 'Could you please come see me after cla.s.s?'

She nodded and he continued: 'Matkovich... Musliu... Nemarliya... Omerhodjich... Pappas...'

'Pesek.' 'Here.'

He glanced up to see a tall chestnut-haired girl with large brown eyes and a radiant smile sitting on the third row. 'Miss Pesek, is your family from the island of Hvar in Dalmatia?'