Princess Dracula

by John Patrick Kennedy

  His testicles ripped free, and his penis shredded. Letting out a true scream of agony, he convulsed. He shoved her away and jumped over the building, leaving a spray of silver blood behind. Ruxandra followed. Neculai landed hard and charged forward, going through the open door of a smithy. A woman screamed. Ruxandra hit the ground and followed. Neculai was drinking from the throat of a young woman. Ruxandra hit him from behind, knocking his victim free.

  She got her claws into his back and hurled him down, following him to the ground. They rolled back and forth across the floor, slashing and hacking at one another’s flesh. They bit each other again and again, ignoring the vile taste and burning acid of the blood. Ruxandra’s world narrowed until all she saw was Neculai. Somewhere the woman screamed and another, deeper voice shouted, but Ruxandra didn’t care. All her attention was on the slashing claws and snapping teeth in front of her.

  Then something sharp pierced her side.

  It hurt. More than any of Neculai’s slashes, more than any injury she’d had since becoming what she was. She felt the thin length of the blade deep in her side and a hissing sound. She caught a glimpse of a large man, his hand wrapped in thick leather, raising the blade for a second thrust. The iron had been red-hot when it entered her flesh. Now it smoked and hissed, the red fading to steel gray. Then Neculai was on the man, ripping into his throat and drinking for all he was worth.

  Ruxandra pressed a hand against her side. The wound had been cauterized by the knife’s heat. She rolled on her back, writhing in pain. The wound should have started healing.

  Only it didn’t.

  She watched Neculai drink down the big man, watched the knife hit the ground as it fell from the man’s hand. Neculai dropped the man, grabbed the woman, and began drinking her too.

  The wound still didn’t heal.

  Neculai threw the woman down and ran out of the smithy.

  Ruxandra, gasping with the pain, crawled across the floor toward the knife. It was just a blade, with a long, smooth tang that would go into the handle when it was finished. It was still smoking hot. Her silver blood coated it top to bottom.

  As she watched, the hot metal absorbed all her blood, creating whorls and swirls of silver inside the metal itself.

  She reached out a finger and touched it. It wasn’t hot anymore.

  How come it hurt me?

  The whorls of silver—of her blood—looked almost like they were moving. Before she could think through what she was doing, she pushed the tip of the blade into her hand. Blood welled up. She waited for the wound to heal. It didn’t.

  Did whatever the demon put in me go into the blade when it went inside me? Is that why I still hurt?

  Will it hurt Neculai as well?

  She sat up, then used the wall of the smithy to brace herself while she stood. When she was sure her legs would hold her, she stumbled outside toward the screaming.

  WALKING HURT SO much.

  With each movement, the wound in her side tore. Every step sent a nauseating wave of pain through her body. Tears rolled down her face. She wanted to hide in her den until it healed.

  If it ever heals.

  A door to a house down the street exploded open, and Neculai jumped into the street.

  His face dripped with blood. His hair was matted with it. A dead child—perhaps six or seven years old—dangled from one of his hands. He looked around and sniffed the air. He threw the child hard at the door of the house across the street. The small skull cracked, and the limbs twisted with the impact. Then Neculai jumped after it, slamming himself into the door. Blood spattered off his body as he hit, and when he jumped back, there was a bloody imprint of his shoulder on the door.

  “Girl! Get away from there!”

  Ruxandra turned. Behind her, a dozen men with spears lined up, their faces white with fear and grim with determination. They readied to charge at him.

  They’ll all die.

  She couldn’t allow it.

  She turned her back on the men then staggered forward. It hurt, but she kept going, forcing herself to move faster with every step. By the time she was halfway to him, she was running. When she was three-quarters of the way, she moved faster than any human could.

  He broke through the door.

  “Neculai!” Ruxandra screamed, knowing there was nothing left of him in that creature. It was his body, but he wasn’t there. That didn’t matter though. All she had to do was get his attention.

  It worked.

  He turned and snarled at her, and she drove the dull blade forward with both hands, right into one of his eyes.

  He jerked backward, screaming louder than he’d ever done. He fell to the ground, his hands clapped over the gaping hole where his eye had been. He writhed in the dirt and howled in agony.

  Ruxandra fell on him like the vengeance of God.

  Her hands moved in a blur of speed as she stabbed his chest again and again. He brought his arms down, trying to protect himself. She drove the knife into his other eye, sending blood spraying and making him thrash even harder. His screams and howls grew louder until she managed to pierce his throat. After that, there was nothing but gurgling.

  “Die!” Ruxandra screamed at him. “Die! Die! Die! Why won’t you die?”

  Still, he kept fighting, even as his silver blood sprayed all around him.

  Ruxandra shoved the dull blade into his shoulder joint. She twisted it and wrenched it back and forth until the tendons snapped and the joint separated. She grabbed the limb and ripped it the rest of the way from his body. He thrashed even harder and tried to bite at her. She shoved the talons of one hand through the bloody sockets where his eyes had been, pinning his head to the ground. She drove the blade into his neck with the other hand and began sawing. Around her, the men formed a circle, their spears pointing at the pair of them. No one came close though.

  Neculai’s bones cracked and broke, his spinal cord severing with a snap. The last of the tendons gave way, and Neculai’s head came off in Ruxandra’s hand.

  And still it kept snapping at her.

  She dashed it mouth-first against the ground a dozen times. The teeth snapped, and the jaw broke. She tossed it aside and went to work on the rest of the body, hacking off the other arm, then both his legs. It was awful, bloody work. Silver ichor sprayed over her flesh.

  When she finished with the legs, she stood.

  The men around her still had their spears pointed toward her. She turned in a slow circle, taking them in. Their eyes were wide with fear and horror. Several looked ready to flee, others ready to vomit. Their knuckles were white around their spears.

  She remembered that she was naked save for the coating of blood—both silver and red. She didn’t have it within her to care. One of the men swallowed and took a step forward. He was very unsure of himself. His eyes shifted from her to the spear and back again.

  He’s going to attack me.

  “I am Princess Ruxandra Dracula, daughter of Vlad Dracula, voivode of Wallachia. Put down your weapon.”

  “You are not!” The words were blurted out of another man in the circle. “The princess went missing when her father was murdered. She’s dead.”

  “Yes,” Ruxandra said. “I am dead. And I am still her.”

  The men went pale. Several prayed. One dropped his spear and stumbled away.

  Ruxandra looked at the head. The broken jaw still moved, trying to bite. She picked it up. “Where is the town square?”

  The man who had stepped forward first pointed. “That—that way.”

  “Pick up the rest of him.” She walked forward. The pain in her side was worse than before. Fresh silver blood oozed down her side. She still wanted to fall down and cry but knew she couldn’t. Not yet.

  The one who had spoken fell in beside her, though he kept his distance. “What are you doing?”

  “He needs to be left in the sun,” Ruxandra said. “But you cannot let the pieces touch. They might join back together, and then he’ll come after you all again.�
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  The walk to the town square seemed to take forever. She glanced behind and saw that the men had shoved their spears into the rest of the pieces and carried them as far away from themselves as they could manage. She nodded her approval and kept going. By the time they reached the square, a crowd had formed behind them. The townsfolk kept their distance but followed. Many wept. Some were injured but very few. Most of those who had met Neculai had not survived.

  Ruxandra walked to the middle of the square. “Where does the sun hit first?”

  The man beside her pointed. “There.”

  “Give me your spear.”

  He stared at her, uncertain. Ruxandra grabbed it before he could react and pushed the point of it into the ground between two flagstones, burying it deep enough that it wouldn’t fall. Then she took the head and shoved it down onto the raised butt of the spear.

  “Put the rest of the pieces on the ground here,” she said. “Do not let them touch. When the sun rises, they should burn. If they do not—”

  Then what? She had no idea, she realized. “Try putting them in a forge. Or find something hotter. But the sun should do it.”

  One of the streets from the village square led back to the forest. She turned and started walking away. No one tried to stop her.

  There might be time to reach the pond before sunrise.

  She made it as far as Neculai’s cabin before she collapsed.

  The next night, she slid from under the ruins of Neculai’s bed. With her remaining strength, she’d crawled underneath it, pulling the blankets over like a tent to cover her from the sun. She had felt the heat of the sun when it shone through the doorway, but it hadn’t touched her.

  She sat up. The pain in her side was still awful, but not as bad as it had been before. She put her hand on it and felt for fresh blood. None came.

  I’m healing.

  She still had the knife clenched in her other hand.

  She found soap—not the pretty soap he had given her but strong lye soap. She took it to the pond and waded in. The water touched the wound, and she cried at the pain. Slowly, carefully, she washed away the blood and ichor. The soap got into the wound, making her cry harder. She kept at it, scrubbing until her skin and hair were clean.

  When she was done, she walked through the woods to the den. The journey took the rest of the night. She stopped on the way to pick up Neculai’s cloak. Then she went inside, wrapped it around her, and lay on the bed until night came again.

  She could move better the next night. She explored the wound with her hand. It was still open but smaller. She walked slowly through the woods, taking her time, and found a clearing. She sat where she thought the sun would hit first and waited.

  She watched the stars all night long. They moved across the sky in a dance as old as the world itself. They twinkled white and yellow and red in a sky that was brilliant shades of blue and purple and black. The stars taunted her with their indifference. She could see the vast wonder of existence, feel the questions in her throat—Where did it all come from? What is God?—questions of a human girl with inhuman powers. So strong, possessing nothing. Nothing but death.

  When the sun started to rise, she raised the knife to her throat.

  One thrust, she thought as she pointed it to the side of her neck. She could feel the pause of her blood beneath the skin. I thrust in through the vein, pierce my spine, and rip it across. That should make it so I cannot move.

  Then I just have to wait.

  Timing was key. She needed to do it just before the sun rose to prevent any chance of recovery. With luck, she’d be burned to a cinder well before her body could move again.

  It is strange what passes for luck in this death-in-life of mine.

  She watched the light grow, watched the colors of the day come. Peach and lavender and soft, pale green. Gentle colors yet still so brilliant they made her eyes water. Tears of grief spilled down her face—for Neculai, for those she had murdered, and for herself. They were also tears of relief.

  A little longer, and this nightmare will be over.

  It will hurt. But then it will be done. I will be free.

  The sun neared the horizon.

  She closed her eyes, breathed deep to take in one last smell of spring—of life—and . . .

  Her arms wouldn’t move.

  Oh please, please, please, let me do this. Please. Let me end it all.

  She tried with all her might to drive the knife into her throat. Her arms shook with the effort. The tip of the blade pushed into her skin but would go no farther. She couldn’t make her arms move, couldn’t break the skin. Her body would not move, would not let her kill herself, no matter what she wanted. Its hunger to survive came as the thoughts of an enemy.

  Was there a tiny message threading from one self to another? Gratitude?

  No. I do not deserve to live. I’m wrong.

  It didn’t matter. Her arms dropped to her sides. She looked at the line of fire where the sun would break the horizon.

  Then she stood and went looking for shelter before her body ended up in another grave of its own making.

  It took three days for her to decide what she must do.

  She was walking through the woods when the man saw her. She’d seen him first, of course. She’d just taken down a deer, and the blood filled her belly to the point of bursting. As long as he didn’t try to touch her, she knew she wouldn’t drink him. So she kept walking.

  She’d forgotten she was naked.

  He called to her twice before coming over. She tried to walk around him, but he stepped in front of her. Something sharp pricked her belly. She looked down and saw the knife in his hand.

  “Lucky me.” He leered at her and squeezed her breast. She stared at him as if he were an insect, something nasty that the servants would kill. “A lady as lovely as you doesn’t come along every day. I’m going to fuck you front and back, little—”

  She stepped into the blacksmith shop just after sunset. The man at the forge looked in surprise at the girl in the ratty cloak tied at the waist with a rope. She had nothing on underneath it, he realized.

  Ruxandra held out the knife, tang first. “Can you sharpen this and put a handle on it?”

  She reached inside her cloak and came up with a blood-covered purse. “I can pay.”

  The smith looked unsure. “It will take a day.”

  “I can wait.”

  Sister Sofia opened the gatehouse when Ruxandra knocked after sunset. She looked her up and down three times before realizing who she was. Her eyes went wide. “Princess Ruxandra?”

  “Yes,” Ruxandra said. “Please get Mother Superior.”

  “Where have you been, girl? It’s been months. Everyone thought you were dead!”

  “Get Mother Superior.”

  “I’ll do no such thing until you tell me how you—”

  Ruxandra pushed the gate open and stepped through. She caught Sister Sofia’s robe in her hand and pulled her close. Sister Sofia cried out in surprise at Ruxandra’s strength.

  “Get Mother Superior,” Ruxandra repeated. “Now.”

  She shoved Sofia hard enough that the nun hit the gatehouse wall.

  “Send her to the chapel.”

  Ruxandra was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the crucifix above the altar, when she heard Mother Superior step inside. The old woman cleared her throat.

  Ruxandra didn’t tear her eyes away from the crucifix. “Do you think God cares, Mother?”

  “What?” The old woman took a few hesitant steps forward.

  “I prayed to him so much to help me. To stop me. He never did.”

  Mother Superior hesitated. “It is hard to believe in our Lord sometimes—”

  “I believe in him.” Ruxandra stood and faced the woman. “I know he exists. I just do not think he cares.”

  “It is you,” Mother Superior whispered. “Oh, thank God.”

  “Don’t,” Ruxandra reached into her cloak and held up her knife. “I
need you to keep this.”

  Mother Superior stared at the knife, then back at Ruxandra. Her mouth moved several times before she managed any words. “What happened to you?”

  “A fallen angel turned me into a monster. I cannot be hurt by any normal weapons, and I cannot be killed except by sunlight. I can’t even kill myself, and I’ve tried.”

  The old woman shook her head. “Ruxandra, what do you mean?”

  “I even gave the knife to someone else to have him kill me. I thought if I closed my eyes and held still, just before dawn, he could kill me. I told him what I had done. I closed my eyes, and he went to stab me and . . .” Ruxandra shook her head. “I tore him to pieces. My body tore him to pieces, even though I wanted to die.”

  The old voice quavered. “Ruxandra, what do you mean? You are not a monster. You are . . .”

  Ruxandra opened her mouth wide and raised her hands, showing off teeth and talons. Mother Superior gasped and stumbled back. Ruxandra caught her before she could fall, though there was twenty feet between them. The old woman’s eyes went wide with shock. Then Ruxandra helped her upright and pressed the knife into her hand. “This can hurt me. Nothing else can. I need you to keep it, in case someone needs to stop me.”

  “My child—”

  “I’m going to go into the woods and stay there. Maybe I’ll even die, eventually. Hopefully no one will see me again.” She went to the chapel door, then stopped. “Do not tell Adela or Valeria I was here. Do not let them know . . . what I’ve become.”

  Then she ran, moving faster than anything else on earth, leaving Mother Superior to gape after her.

  I will go to the woods again. I will stay away from people. I will become a beast. I’ll forget who I was, what I am, and what I did.

  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to die.

  THE BEAST ROSE AND stretched, then padded out of its cave on talon-tipped hands and feet. The night was dark and clear and smelled of autumn. The Beast liked autumn, when the animals were fat, the air was crisp and cool, and the leaves piled up on the forest floor. The leaves underfoot were soft and crinkled when it stepped on them.