Fangs

by Anna Katmore

  “We can set up new rules,” she pleads.

  Vlad pats her hand where it rests on his arm. “Rules that he will break before the week is over, love. You know it as well as I.”

  Since this isn’t the first time we’ve talked about rules, I can’t even contradict him. Whatever I say now to defend myself will only end in his temper exploding again. Silence seems the more diplomatic way to handle this, and a hurt look at my aunt could prove useful.

  “See,” she says, “he’s already sorry. Give him a chance.”

  Yes, give me a chance, for blood’s sake.

  “Fine.”

  What? I sit up straight. He really relented?

  Uncle Vlad’s gaze moves from me to my aunt and back to me. Then he picks up the matchbox from the table and pulls out a single stick. He holds it in front of me. “Light it.”

  I blink several times. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “If you can light this match, you can stay and show that you’re willing to learn to control the powers given to you.”

  “Okaaay…” I’m certainly missing the catch. I search his face for any hint of what he really means, but his features are unreadable. So, I reach out for the match in his fingers.

  Uncle Vlad pulls his hand away. “No. With your mind.”

  Aaaaand, there it is. My stomach slides to my feet. Vladimir Dracula can burn a city to ashes with only his will. He juggles fireballs while deep in thought, and in the past ten years, he hasn’t used a match to light the fireplace once.

  I, on the other hand, believe that pocket lighters are there for a reason. I have never done anything even halfway close to this with my mind. Ever.

  “So?” he prompts, brows lifted.

  All right. Get your shit together, Quentin. This can’t be so hard. I take a deep breath through my nose, push up the sleeves of my white hoodie, lean forward with my elbows braced on my knees, and concentrate on the tiny, red head of the match. My hands ball into fists, my molars grind against each other, and my eyes may pop out any second, but the damn little stick won’t go up in flames.

  I glare at it with more intensity. The muscles in my neck cramp from the effort. Heck, with this much channeled power, I should be shooting lasers from my eyes. Fire! I command. Burn! Burn, you little shit! Burn, burn, burn!

  A grim smile creeps across my uncle’s face. “If you do whatever it is you’re doing just a little longer, you’ll likely detonate right there on the spot.”

  Letting go of all the tension in my body, I slump back. “Yeah, very funny!”

  “It is funny.” The next instant, the chiding grin drops from his face. “Now, pack whatever you want to take with you. You’re leaving before dawn.” He lifts from the couch and strides out the door, Eleanora following on his heels and compassionately glancing back at me.

  “Does this stupid castle have Wi-Fi?” I grumble after them.

  The lightbulbs explode above my head, and a thousand tiny glass shards rain down on me in the dark.

  I guess that means no.

  Chapter 2

  We don’t stock frozen humans

  Quentin

  I’ve never been out of the United States before; thus I haven’t yet had to travel in a goddamn coffin. Usually, we can arrange for night flights or just take the cars to get where we need to go within the country. But Romania—with a stopover in Paris? Not possible. So, here I am, sealed away in this little, itty-bitty, three-by-eight-foot prison. And already after the bumpy takeoff, I know this is going to be the worst eighteen hours of my life. Anybody would become claustrophobic in here.

  Hopefully, Uncle Vlad has some sleepless years because of this.

  At least I have my phone. The little light it puts out is the only thing keeping me sane while trapped in this wooden cell. That and the chance to while away time on Twitter. May he rot in Hell for this! #uncomfortable #WhoNeedsFamily was my last tweet, thirty minutes ago.

  We must be somewhere over the Atlantic now, and it’s nearing dawn. I’m getting tired, thank God, so I close my eyes. Sleeping is the best way to survive this journey. Since I’m entering a deathlike state now, I won’t breathe myself into a coma either and can save some of the air in the coffin for later. Not that I would die without any air in here, but the pain in my lungs would certainly drive me insane.

  *

  A hard rattle of my casket wakes me up. Can it be that I slept all the way to Paris and we’re changing planes already? There’s no opportunity to lift the lid even just a tiny bit because it’s tied down with a strap. And stretching my limbs won’t happen in here either.

  I pat the soft insides of the casket for my cell phone to check the time, but when I punch a button—any button—the display remains as black as my cruel uncle’s soul. Really, the battery died? Now, in my absolute worst misery? Figures.

  Snorting, I notice that we’re moving again, so I brace for another rattling takeoff. But it never comes. We’re just headed in one direction. So either this is the longest runway in the world, or we’re driving down a road. I must have slept through Paris, and we already landed in Romania. Uncle V said Reginald was supposed to take a hearse the last bit of the way, so shouting won’t get me anywhere with him. He won’t hear me, sitting in the front.

  The journey comes to a sudden end after a bumpy ride that gave me a headache. Ten minutes later, I hear noises that sound like the straps being released. Eventually, Reginald opens the lid. About time, old man! I want to snarl, but the first breath of fresh air is too precious to waste on him.

  “Good morning, Master Quentin,” he greets me with his usual emotionless look from under those bushy gray eyebrows. “We’ve arrived.”

  I rise from my sleeping position, aching and stiff. Every joint pops with a much-needed stretch.

  “We have to hurry,” Reginald informs me. “The sun rises in a few minutes, and we need to carry your coffin inside. I already took your suitcase to the great hall in the west wing.”

  “The west wing, huh?” I groan with mild sarcasm. Just how big can an ancient castle in no man’s land really be? It’s probably a barn with an attic. Ignoring Reginald’s disapproving gaze, I climb out of the coffin and squeeze past him in the low back of the hearse that forces me to bend over to get out. An endless landscape stretches out in front of me, with a small village situated at the foot of the hill we’re on. Far, far in the distance, the mountains reach so high that there are no houses to be seen on the upper halves, only steep rock walls and an occasional tree growing here and there. Vampire eyes work better than any binoculars in the world.

  The rising sun already touches the peaks, and the golden light is fanning out quickly. Whatever is behind me throws a giant morning shadow over the dreamy village a mile below us.

  I walk around the black meat wagon and lift my head, then I nearly land on my ass with my eyes popping out. Holy bat shit. This isn’t a castle my uncle ran in the late fifteenth century. It’s a freaking town!

  “I couldn’t get the gate to open any farther, or I would have driven all the way to the entrance, Master Quentin,” Reginald apologizes as he walks up to me on the pebbled path in front of the stone wall enclosing the castle. He’s not blessed with inhuman strength, another feature vampires are amped up with.

  With a slight push, I shove open the iron gate and walk a few steps onto the property. Grass, bushes, and trees cover everything from here to the castle’s massive black double doors. The panels are made of wood with intricate iron sublimates and stand slightly ajar. Over the last five-hundred years, the vegetation has claimed this place like mold eats a slice of bread forgotten in a corner.

  And this is where my uncle wants me to live? Where the hell is the beach? The swimming pool? The garage, for blood’s sake?

  Behind me, a loud thud pulls me out of my staring. I whirl around and see that Reginald has made short work of my casket and pulled it out of the hearse by himself. “Hey, careful with that,” I gripe. “I need it intact for my journey back home.” How hard c
an it be to kill a wolf, anyway? With some luck, I’ll be out of here before the week is over.

  Together, we carry my coffin to the entrance, the pebbles on the path crunching eerily under our feet from the extra weight. I put it down and knock on the panel of one of the doors, peeping through the crack. During the first months after my transformation, I bumped into several invisible barriers, even though the door to a house was wide open. It’s another stupid thing about being a vampire. You can’t just walk into anybody’s house as you want. The inhabitants always need to ask you in first. There are some other rules that Uncle Vlad taught me in Vampires 101, but it’s been so long that the only thing I remember off the top of my head is the allergic reaction to garlic. And, of course, the tiny issue with wood being really painful if it’s driven through any part of our body. No return when it stakes the heart.

  “Hello?” My voice echoes inside.

  Reginald coughs beside me. “You’re a direct descendant of the Dracula bloodline, Master Quentin,” he says with a professorial edge to his voice. “You can enter the place without being invited.”

  Uh-huh. I cast him a dismissive glance and then push the heavy door farther open. It’s dark inside, except for a lonely candle burning on a table near the stone wall. “Did you light that?” I ask the butler, turning to him.

  “Yes, Master. I also shut all the curtains in the west wing so you can move freely without the sun burning you.” On that cue, he pushes me inside just as the sun peeks over the highest tower of Castle Dracula, lighting the green ground outside and making it look almost juicy. I flinch farther back and escape to absolute safety. After a wager with Ronin where he made me stick my hand into sunlight once, I know how it feels to get the flesh burned off your bones. I don’t recommend it. It’s only because of our super-healing ability that my hand was back to normal a few hours later.

  Reginald drags my casket into the big hall and lets it drop to the floor without respect for my personal belonging. “Welcome to Castle Dracula, Master Quentin. I hope you have a pleasant stay.”

  Isn’t it nice when an eighty-six-year-old man pulls out his dusty humor? “Not funny, Reg. Where’s the food?” My stomach started rumbling when I woke and thought I was in Paris.

  “Well, if you’re lucky, you might find a blood sausage somewhere in the kitchen. Then again, maybe not.”

  He is enjoying this a little too much. I grit my teeth and plant my hands on my hips. “Where’s the living food?” He knows I can’t eat anything but humans for breakfast. “The staff!”

  “Ah. I believe your aunt and uncle informed you that there is no staff at this castle. You will have to go down to the village and fend for yourself.”

  “The sun is up,” I point out with a wry face.

  “Well observed, Master Quentin. Then I suggest you wait until the evening before venturing out. If you’ll excuse me, the way home is long, and I have to catch a return flight.”

  Oh, what a warm-hearted old man. I never liked him much. Then again, I never had much to do with him. He is strictly my uncle’s personal servant. That Vlad would send Reginald with me surprised me the moment he mentioned it. He must be getting a hell of a laugh out of this.

  Instead of being unhelpful, Reg should let me open his vein. Drinking from a man would be a first for me, and he’d probably taste of wilted human, but old food is better than no food. “Did my uncle pay you to be such an ass?” I grumble.

  Reginald snickers. “He did mention something about a bonus.”

  “Come on, Reg. I’m hungry,” I whine and step around the casket between us. But the old man surprises me when he flaps his long coat aside and pulls out a goddamned crossbow.

  “He also said I should shoot you in the chest if you go for my carotid.”

  “Seriously?” Halting in my tracks, I resist the urge to lift my hands in surrender. Instead, I point a finger at his face. “This is such a load of bat shit, and you know it. When you get back, tell my uncle I hope he rots in Hell for this.”

  “I believe he knows that already from your Twitter feed, Master Quentin. The altered instructions came after you tweeted #WhoNeedsFamily, I may add.” His eyes crinkle at the corners with a gleeful smile. “By the way, you should know that your uncle also sent out a decree to the entire coven last night. For the time you’re in Romania, none of your friends are allowed to get in touch with you or even reply to your messages. You’re out here on your own.”

  A scornful laugh breaks free from my throat. “And you think they’ll abide by that?”

  “They would be suicidal not to.”

  There’s not a fucking ounce of humor in his tone now. Shit! I’m doomed.

  He whirls around and shuffles out the door, pulling it shut with a loud thud, and leaving me and my coffin behind in this alien place.

  Frustrated and hungry, I heave a sigh. Trapped in a castle that reeks of death and mustiness is not exactly my idea of a nice summer vacation. What’s worse, I’m not the least bit tired. This is normally the time when a vampire goes to bed and sleeps away the sunny hours of the day, but with my damn jetlag, I’m wide-awake. Might as well give myself a tour of Casa Dracula.

  I pick up the candle from the small, round table. The light doesn’t illuminate much more than a three-foot radius around me, but with this source, my vampire eyes do the rest.

  I’m inside a bloody rock. Everything is made of dark stone. The walls, the floor, the wide staircase leading to the second level. Only the doors opening to more rooms in this catacomb are made of solid wood. Black like the front door, I should add. With the lack of friendly color in this place, I can understand why Uncle V was so crabby when he lived here. I wonder how long it will take for me to go insane and start knocking my head against a wall.

  I open several doors and peek inside. Behind one there’s a kitchen that sure doesn’t hold frozen human in the freezer. Black curtains as thick as ship sails seal the windows—the same ones as in the main hall, the library, the washhouse, and the staff room. Past the stairs is another door set into a wall. This one’s made of iron instead of wood, but it’s not locked as I first guessed when I noticed it.

  Trying to hold my non-existent enthusiasm in check, I open the panel to see what’s behind the door. Hmm, there’s no room. Instead, it’s a narrow set of stairs, leading down. Cobwebs hang from the low ceiling. I can’t see what’s at the end of the stairwell because it curves, but when a rat scampers up and speeds toward me, I bang the door shut and press against it with my back, letting out a hysterical gasp.

  Vermin. Just great.

  Done with exploring the ground floor of what Reginald referred to as the west wing, I ascend the dominating stairs, hauling up the wheeled suitcase that Reg left at the bottom for me. The bedrooms must be on the second floor, and I intend to move into the biggest one.

  Upstairs, the hallway runs in both directions away from the staircase with windows on one wall of the corridor and more doors on the opposite side. Here, too, the faintest light beam is shut out by those thick linen curtains. I check out three bedrooms before I find the one that I’m going to make mine. It has a huge four-poster bed with red velvet curtains tied to the sides. A fireplace has been hewn into the wall opposite the two giant windows with their heavy curtains, and a shelf lined with books is fastened next to a heavy chest of drawers.

  A porcelain bowl and a jug rest on it, which reminds me that I haven’t seen a bathroom in this pseudo hotel yet. A shower would have been asking too much, I guess.

  Uncle Vlad must be rubbing his hands with glee right now back in our cozy home in California, finding joy in the thought of me having to take a bath in the freezing castle pond. Gritting my teeth, I pull my suitcase over to the bed, place the candle on the nightstand, and perform a belly flop onto the blanket-covered mattress. Centuries of gathered dust soars up around me, momentarily blocking my vision. I cough until the cloud settles again, and my lungs catch a tiny breath of clean air. This creepy castle definitely comes equipped with ever
y necessary detail of a Frankenstein movie.

  Now, aren’t I lucky? If only they hadn’t left out the good parts, like the young, female staff members I could eat.

  And then I hear it. The humming of a girl.

  Chapter 3

  Dead man walking

  Abigail

  I drop my suitcase in front of the wooden frame bed and run to the ancient double wing window. After some fumbling with the old lock, I manage to get it open, and a warm summer breeze tickles my nose. Gee, how I missed the hills and grasslands here in Romania. I lean out as far as I can without falling and breathe in so deeply that my lungs expand to a painful point.

  “That’s something different from the smog you get in Norwich, isn’t it?” my grandmother shouts up to me from the front garden where she’s milking the three goats she owns. Her English is clipped, and when she says smog it sounds like shmug, but I’m glad she’s speaking my language at all because, as much as I love to spend my summers here in Ardeal, learning Romanian has never made it to my to-do-list.

  I grin as an answer, then head to the rectangular mirror on the door and rake my fringy, shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail that I fasten with a rubber band from my pocket. A few of the dark blue highlights that weave through my black strands slip out and caress my neck. I blow my bangs out of my eyes and then flitter down the wooden stairs in this old stone house to join Nana outside. Hunkering on the other side of Esther, the white goat, I offer, “Let me do it. You can go inside and rest a little.”

  Although my grandma stops massaging Esther’s teats, she doesn’t let go of them. Instead, she lowers her head from where she sits on her stool so she can gape at me from under the goat’s round belly. “Do I look like an old hag, my dear?”

  She’s small, her boobs reach her stomach under her simple, black dress, her gray hair is secured in her typical salt-and-pepper bun that has seemed to be glued on her head since I was five, and she’s still wearing clogs from ancient times, but no…she doesn’t look like an old hag at all. In fact, anyone who sees her out and about in her stonewall-surrounded front garden would never believe for a second that she’s survived three husbands, two of her own children, and is about to celebrate her ninety-seventh birthday come fall. Some say only witches can flitter about like that at such an advanced age. But I don’t care. She makes the best apple strudel in the world!