Princess Dracula

by John Patrick Kennedy

  “Perhaps he can bring me some sewing supplies.” She crawled into his cloak and nestled in. It smelled like him, which she liked. A very masculine smell that was so different from the way the girls at the convent smelled. It stirred things inside her.

  It also stirred the hunger, but Ruxandra clamped down on it. As long as she was full, it wouldn’t be a problem.

  But what if I run out of rabbits and squirrels before he comes back?

  She found the answer the next night, in the hour between sunset and the sky going dark.

  She smelled them first—two dozen musky, earthy scents that spoke of forest and grass and trees. She followed the aroma to a glade and found the ground matted and torn, fresh hoofprints in the mud.

  Deer.

  I can’t take on a full-size deer.

  But a small one . . .

  She found the fawn nestled in the bushes. She looked for its mother, but the doe was nowhere to be seen. The poor little creature trembled in terror but didn’t move, relying on its camouflage to keep it safe. It didn’t help. Ruxandra grabbed it and sank her teeth deep into the little thing’s neck. It tried to kick at her and cried for its mother, but Ruxandra clamped its mouth shut.

  There was so much more life in the deer than there had been in the rabbits. She realized she’d never had a creature so young: the rabbits and squirrels bore litters, but she didn’t bother with their babies; they were too small. But the fawn was large enough, and drinking it gave her a definite springy feel. Like spring onions and lettuces. She almost laughed as she drank, thinking how she would explain her kill to any other person.

  When she was done, she was full—more full than she had ever felt on rabbits. She laid the little body down, then ran back to the pond. Again she watched, but there was no sign of the young man.

  “I wonder where he came from,” she asked the cattails at the edge of the water. “Well, I know one way to find out.” She started in the direction she’d seen him last go, and wondered if she was heading toward a village.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine.

  She was full. She had no desire to hunt anything, she told herself, even if she did come across people. Besides, if she saw anyone, she could run away and hide in the woods. That would be easy enough. She’d become much better at hiding in the past few months.

  The farther she went, the more trees were cut, until she came to a clearing of stumps with a small, solid log hut in the middle.

  “He’s a woodcutter,” she said through a breathy exhale. “And this is where he stays when he’s collecting the wood. I bet he has a cart that he uses to take the wood back to town.”

  She stopped talking and listened. The forest was filled with its night sounds: the flutter of bat wings and the slower, more graceful strokes of an owl. Little creatures slipped beneath the leaves and grass, and larger ones moved between the trees. The breeze blew the leaves above her, making them rustle and whisper, but there was no sound inside the little cabin.

  “He must have gone back into town,” she decided. “Otherwise, he’d be here with his cart.”

  She circled the cabin and found a wider trail with two deep ruts where wheels had dug into the ground. She thought about following it but didn’t. The ruts would lead back to his village. And that would mean people.

  But he’s people, isn’t he?

  “He’s different. There’s only one of him. If I keep my distance, I’ll be fine.” She glanced back to the hut and bit her lip. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I looked inside.”

  Though she knew it was empty, she knocked. “It’s only polite, after all.”

  The door moved when her knuckles hit it. She pushed it open, then peered inside.

  It was one room. A fire pit sat in the middle, and a thick straw mattress was to the side. There were plain wooden shelves that held wooden plates and cups and some wooden spoons. There were hooks for hanging his clothes and bow and a small table with two chairs. It was a tight, crowded little place, and Ruxandra was enchanted by it.

  It smelled like him.

  She sensed his presence on the chairs—no, on one chair. The one facing the door. She could smell where his hands had rested on the table and where he had sat before the fire pit. She could smell him on the mattress in the bed.

  Oh, the bed.

  “I shouldn’t,” she told herself. “I really shouldn’t.”

  Yet she wanted to so much.

  “He isn’t here. I’m sure he will not mind.”

  She sat on the bed. Then she lay down, letting the soft straw mattress envelop her. It was far better than her own bed—far better than anything she’d slept on in months. She wriggled and squirmed, feeling the straw shift and move beneath her. It felt so good. And it smelled so much like him.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. It was warm and enticing and sent shivers down her spine in the way Adela used to do when she would lick Ruxandra’s ear. Or when Valeria would sneak up behind her and cup her breasts when no one was looking. Ruxandra squirmed again and let one hand drift down her body, caressing breast and belly and slipping between her legs.

  I am acting like a beast, she thought, as she began rubbing. Like a cat in heat.

  She brought up her other hand to caress and pinch at her breasts while she rubbed frantically against her sex. She moaned. Feeling her tension rise higher and higher until she gasped and convulsed on the bed, inhaling his smell as she shuddered through her release.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  Ruxandra sat up, too embarrassed to stay. She straightened her dress and the mattress, and slipped back into the cool of the spring night. She should pray, she knew. She should calm her mind and calm herself but she couldn’t. She wandered through the woods, in a daze of pleasure. She let her eyes and ears and nose drink in all they could until the sky began to lighten. Then she crawled back to her den and, once more, wrapped herself in his cloak.

  She dreamed she was in the chapel at the convent, praying for forgiveness. But the fallen angel was there, watching. She was beautiful, with her sharp fangs, womanly shape, and unearthly eyes. The man stood beside her, his strong chest bare, his eyes devouring Ruxandra. She tried to keep praying, but could only think of them; of what it would be like to be touched by them.

  When she woke up, she couldn’t bring herself to pray anymore.

  She went back to the glade instead, and followed the hoof prints until she found another fawn. She drank until she felt full, and rushed back to the pond. She washed off the blood and put on her dress and his cloak in case he came that night.

  She heard him first. He was whistling. She didn’t recognize the tune. The nuns frowned on any song that wasn’t directed to God. From the quick rhythm of his hums, it was a dance tune, and he was likely whistling it to give her warning.

  Ruxandra ran her fingers through her still-ragged hair. It was growing back, faster than it used to, but was in no way in good condition. She patted it down the best she could.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to step into the clearing.

  When he came into sight, she stood on the far side of the pond, hidden in the trees. She stared at his strong jawline and the muscles that moved beneath his clothes. She inhaled him—his sweat, his musk, his clothes. She took a step forward and froze.

  I am going, all by myself, to greet a man whom I have never met. It was improper, and worse, it was embarrassing. What in the name of God am I thinking?

  I’m being silly, she told herself. He’s just a man. I am a woman. It is perfectly natural for us to meet and speak. I should not be so worried about appearances. I’m in the forest, for God’s sake.

  “Miss? Are you there?” His voice echoed through the forest. “Miss?”

  Ruxandra turned and fled.

  SHE LAY, WRAPPED IN HIS cloak, crying, for the rest of the night and the entirety of the day.

  “Stupid,” Ruxandra grumbled to the tree above her. “It’s stupid. I do not know him. So why am I crying? Because
I was too scared to meet him? It’s stupid!”

  She pulled herself into a tighter ball and closed her eyes, trying to sleep. It eluded her.

  “I shouldn’t be scared of him. He’s a nice man. He will not hurt me. Cannot hurt me . . .”

  Unless he finds out what I am.

  “He doesn’t have to find out. It’s not as though I’m staying around here forever, is it? I’ll run out of animals, and then I’ll—”

  I’ll drink him.

  “No! I’d leave before I would do that. And I’ll feed before I see him so I will not want to drink him.”

  She was sure that was true. Even if she did want to drink him—a little bit—she wouldn’t have to, the way she had to with the old woman. It would be no worse than those times the nuns punished her by sending her to her room without supper. She’d gotten used to that, she could get used to this.

  She wanted to speak to him. He seemed nice, and she was so, so very lonely.

  “Tomorrow night,” Ruxandra said, firm. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow night.”

  It didn’t stop her from crying, which was still stupid as far as she was concerned.

  As soon as the sun vanished, Ruxandra left her clothes and his cloak behind and went searching for prey. There were no fawns nearby, so she had to make do with rabbits, which took longer and squirmed more, so they were messier. By the time she reached the pond, it was well past dark. She looked and listened, but there was no sign of him. There was, however, something that smelled different.

  Lilacs?

  Lilacs had been everywhere around the convent, and the sweet smell of the little purple flowers was one of the first true signs of spring. Ruxandra had never seen any growing near the pond.

  “What am I smelling?”

  She sank close to the earth and skulked around the pond. There was no sign of him, but there was a wooden chest, lying open under a tree. It wasn’t very big, only two feet on each side, with a plain wooden lid held in place by leather straps. She crept closer, and the smell of lilacs grew stronger. Ruxandra peered over the edge of the chest and gasped.

  A small bar of soap, the source of the lilac smell, sat on top of a neatly folded green dress. And on top of it was a small bar of soap that was the source of the lilac smell. Ruxandra stared at them in delight.

  “He left them for me. For me to use and wear.”

  She almost started crying again. She looked around, hoping to see him somewhere close, but there was no sign of him. “He’s gone because I took too long. But I cannot hunt rabbits any faster.”

  She reached for the dress, to see how soft it was, and saw the blood that coated her hand. She pulled it back fast, terrified of dripping blood on the pretty green wool. With the other hand, which wasn’t quite so bloody, she carefully took the soap off the top of the pile, then went back down to the pool to wash. The soap made the blood and dirt slide off her skin and left her smelling so pretty.

  When she was clean, she went back to the chest. She didn’t want to put the clothes on wet for fear of making the dye in the dress run and stain her skin.

  “I’ll take the whole chest back to the den. Then I can see what’s in it properly.”

  The chest wasn’t heavy at all, and she carried it back to her den with ease. She spread out the cloak on her bed frame and laid the contents of the chest on top of it. The dress was even more beautiful when it was unfolded. It had long, loose sleeves; a square bodice; a gathered waist; and a wide, flowing skirt. It would look amazing on her. And the bodice would show off her breasts very well.

  “Especially since I have no chemise. I’m going to have to keep my back straight the entire time I wear it, or he’s going to see everything all the way down.” She remembered the moment at the pond, and her stomach twisted with embarrassment. “Not that he hasn’t seen it all already, but that doesn’t mean I should be purposely immodest. Now, what’s—oh.”

  Under the dress were two chemises.

  “He really is sweet,” Ruxandra whispered. She laid them on the bed. They were simple linen, like the dress, but soft and pretty. Beneath them was another, longer strip of linen that made Ruxandra smile even wider. “And a towel. He thought of everything.”

  I wonder where he got it all.

  “It’s probably his sister’s old clothes. Or his mother’s. He wouldn’t have bought them. Not for a stranger.”

  She picked up one of the chemises and pulled it over her head. The linen was clean and soft and felt wonderful against her skin. She hugged herself, reveling in the feel of the fabric. Then she put on the dress.

  It was a little tight in the chest and a little short in the leg, but it fit well enough over her hips, shoulders, and arms. She did up the laces on the front, tied the bow, and spun in a slow circle.

  “I bet I look wonderful,” she said to the chest. “I wish I had a mirror. It would be perfect if I could see what I look like.”

  There is the pond.

  “Which is good, but I do not want him to see me.”

  Oh, yes, you do.

  Ruxandra blushed at her own thoughts. “Yes, I do. But I don’t want him to see me before I’m ready to see him. I mean . . . what if . . .”

  I run away again?

  “Yes. Except, I won’t. Besides, I need to say ‘thank you’ to him, right?”

  If I have the courage.

  Why do I care so much anyway?

  The thought came out of nowhere but gave her pause. To get her clothes and soap and a comb? He was a wonderful man. And he was handsome too. Strong, straight arms and legs, a wide chest, and perhaps even—

  Those pictures were too large, she scolded herself. Valeria said so. Now stop it.

  Ruxandra folded the extra chemise and put it in the little chest. She picked up the comb and began working it through her hair. It had grown back much faster than Ruxandra had expected and was now the same length as it had been when she cut it off. That was wonderful. The tangles, however, were not. She spent a good hour pulling the comb through her hair again and again until it was all tangle-free and smooth. She thought about braiding it but left it alone.

  “An unmarried young woman’s hair should flow freely so her lover will be enticed by it. That’s what Adela always said.”

  You do not have a lover.

  “I know I don’t have a lover. It’s just something Adela said.”

  Why is he so important?

  “I don’t know!” The words came out half as a yell, half as an animal snarl. Ruxandra stumbled back at the sound of them. She hit the bed frame with her calves, lost balance, and fell on her backside on the cloak. She didn’t move. She had frightened herself with the sheer animal power of the words. It hadn’t sounded like her at all. It hadn’t felt like her. It felt like the ravaging beast that had slaughtered her father and the others.

  It can’t be. I’m eating. I’m satisfied. It will all be fine. Her next words came out as a whisper. “But I think I must be very, very careful.”

  The comb had fallen to the ground. Ruxandra picked it up and with slow, deliberate strokes began combing her hair. She was the daughter of the voivode of Wallachia, raised in a convent, and was living as a hermit, dedicated to God. She was not a vicious beast.

  I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

  When she was done with her hair, she took off her dress, folded it neatly, and put it in the chest. She kept the chemise on because a lady did not sleep naked, even if she was a hermit. They wore clothes, as was proper, and she was a proper young lady.

  The next evening, she rose and then dressed. She was very hungry but knew that it would grow worse as the evening went on. Even so, she couldn’t risk not seeing him. She ran the comb through her hair and put on the dress over the chemise. She did her best to make sure there was no dirt on it. Then she ran to the pond.

  It was odd, running in clothes she cared about. With the other dress, it had long since ceased to matter if it snagged on something. This one, though, was new and pretty, and Ruxandra was not going t
o risk damaging it. So she moved carefully through the woods, going around brush she once charged through. She moved at human speed, rather than her own pace. It was safer for the dress, and if he happened to see her, she wouldn’t have to explain anything.

  If he sees me. What if he’s not there?

  “Then I’ll go to his cabin and knock on the door and introduce myself.” Ruxandra ducked under a tree branch, followed an animal path and then went wide around a thornbush. “Like a proper young lady.”

  She had to fight the urge to pick up her pace. Instead, she slowed. She would approach at a brisk, purposeful walk. The walk of a young lady who knew where she was going and had someone to meet when she got there.

  She smelled him.

  It froze her in her tracks. Her knees quivered. A warm fluttering, like a butterfly made of smoke and heat, filled her stomach. He smelled the same—warm and strong and so human. She so wanted to see him. She growled with frustration, then slapped a hand over her mouth. No animal noise, Ruxandra. You do not want to scare him.

  She forced her legs to move again, slow and steady, through the forest. The evening light was fading, and soon it would be dark, and he would go back to his little cottage, and she would miss her chance to see him. But as she approached the pond, her feet dragged. The butterfly fluttered more frantically, and her mouth went dry.

  Then she stood at the edge of the pool, hidden behind the thick trunk of a tree, and she could see him.

  He had on the same clothes and the same strong muscles and wide chest and divine smell. He stood where he had left the chest. His eyes scanned the woods. She froze. His gaze swept right past her, then back again. He sighed and squatted down, looking at her footprints. They led straight to the pond and back twice. But after that, they would lead him back to her den.

  He must not come to the den. He must not see how I’m living.

  I must talk to him.

  He stood up and sighed. He scanned the woods once more. Then he turned his back and headed for the path to his cabin.

  Don’t let him go! “Wait!”