The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

Dracula went home after leaving Rome, having not seen the green fields of Wallachia in three years. Most of what he missed about his former life, he could find here.

  He had engaged in a bitter war for the last year and a half of his mortal life. To do this, he had to leave his wife, Ilona, and never saw her again after leaving Buda. She remained there at the court of her cousin, King Matthias. He missed her very much, along with their two sons. A night did not pass when he did not think of them.

  Both boys were infants at the time of his death at Snagov. The younger of them fell ill in 1482 and did not survive. Dracula could only sense it at the time, but that was enough to confirm it for him. The whole year he spent in hiding after his burning, he mourned him. His older boy he knew nothing about.

  Much had changed in Wallachia in the time he was gone. Vlad Calugarul, his half-brother, now sat on the throne. The people knew him as Vlad the Monk. He had once tried to steal the throne from Dracula. For that, the vampire despised him still. He knew he could kill the Monk at any time. But at least he carried his father’s blood. Even that was better than the Turks controlling the throne.

  His main interest at home was with his eldest son. Mihnea was the sole product of his first marriage. Now in his mid-thirties, he had grown into a fine warrior. Dracula watched him up close for a time, though he kept himself hidden. He saw that his son had ambitions to rule, and it filled him with real pride.

  He also checked on a second son. This one was born outside of wedlock, and he had named him Varkal. The last time he had seen him was early in 1462. The next thirteen years he had spent under house arrest at Buda. He did still provide for the boy and left a hefty endowment for him and his mother. His care he had entrusted to Gabrul, who married the mother and gave the boy his name. Varkal grew up knowing nothing of his true father or of his lineage. Gabrul had been careful to see to that. Now, Varkal had also grown into a fine swordsman. His living he earned serving a powerful boyar in Brasov.

  On seeing his elder sons were thriving, Dracula moved on to Buda. He found the grave of his infant son. For hours, he sat by it and talked to his boy. He spoke of the old days in Wallachia. It was something he could never do now face-to-face.

  His need to see Ilona grew stronger than ever. Before dawn, he stole into her bedchamber, though he did not wake her. Instead, he sat on her bed and watched her sleep. The sound of her breathing brought back so many good memories. He longed for her touch again, to feel her lips brush against his.

  For a whole month, he sat by her while she slept. Seeing her like this only added to his loneliness. The ache inside him grew stronger each night, but she was out of his reach. He knew it best that she did not know of him now.

  They had one surviving son, also named Vlad. Dracula despaired of him from what he saw. Ilona and King Matthias wanted the Wallachian throne for him. Now in his first years of manhood, such a prize did not interest him at all. He cared more for the pleasures of the flesh than for glory and honour.

  It was seeing this that made Dracula decide to leave. He had expected to find comfort here so close to those he loved. Instead, it brought him only misery, and he had to go. The only place he felt truly relaxed was in Florence, and it was to there he headed next.

  He loved to spend time with Lorenzo de’ Medici. The Florentine had the most lavish lifestyle of anyone he knew. Lorenzo liked him too, and he shared with Dracula his love of the arts. It was something that had never interested Dracula before now. But this was Florence, the centre of the Italian Renaissance and the world.

  In return, Dracula taught him the art of fighting with the sword, and they often duelled for hours. Lorenzo did not care that he was no match for his friend. He was always eager to practise, and to learn. In time, he grew into quite a talent. Dracula drew a lot from this relationship, and was keen for it to continue.

  It was the height of summer, and the air was hot and humid. Dracula arrived later each evening to visit Lorenzo. When he called on this house, he always used the main entrance. He afforded Lorenzo that respect. It made his presence known to others, but of this, he did not care.

  On this night, he found Lorenzo arguing with a much younger man. They engaged in their heated debate in their native Tuscan dialect. Lorenzo had only ever spoken with Dracula in Italian. The men fell silent when he walked into the room.

  His friend smiled a greeting to him. “It is good to see you, Vlad.”

  Dracula smiled and bowed his head a touch. “Good evening, Lorenzo.”

  Lorenzo turned to the younger man already in the room with him. “Niccolo, this is Vlad Romanos. He is a native of Wallachia, to the east.”

  Romanos was the name Dracula used. The young man bowed out of courtesy.

  “Vlad, I would like you to meet Niccolo Machiavelli.”

  Dracula offered his arm in friendship, which the young Florentine took in his.

  “It is good to meet you, Vlad,” he said, though without a smile. He turned again to his host. “Forgive me, Signor de’ Medici, if I take my leave. I have another matter to attend to before I retire for the night.”

  “Good night, Niccolo. I shall speak with you soon. Ciao.”

  Dracula did not speak until the younger man had left. “That was a quite heated debate you two were engaged in.”

  “Yes,” Lorenzo said, looking troubled. “Niccolo is a headstrong young man.”

  “He says you have reneged on an old promise?”

  Lorenzo looked surprised. “I did not know you could speak Tuscan.”

  “I have a natural flair for dialects. I hear it often here in the city. It is not so difficult for me to understand any longer.”

  Lorenzo smiled. “You are a man of many talents, Vlad. Every time I see you, I am more impressed.”

  “So, who is he?”

  “You mean young Niccolo? His father and I were friends. They come from an old Florentine family.”

  “I am not familiar with them.”

  “Their money is gone, but they had much influence at one time. His father made a career in law.”

  “Why was he so aggrieved?”

  Lorenzo did not answer at once. Dracula could see he did not want to discuss the matter.

  “I am sorry for prying. I know it is not my business to ask. But I feel we are good friends, and I sensed a threatening tone in his voice.”

  Lorenzo laughed. “From Niccolo? No. He is a decent young man. I like him, and he knows it.”

  “Then why was he so angry? You do not have to say if you do not want to.”

  “I made a promise to his father once that I would help young Niccolo.”

  “And you cannot honour this promise?”

  “I can, but it is a delicate situation.”

  “A man should always keep his word, Lorenzo. You strike me as one who does.”

  He let out a long sigh. “Of course, and I do, but it is an awkward situation with young Niccolo.”

  “In what way?”

  “He is looking for a position as an official within the government.”

  “You are the head of the Republic. The request is not a difficult one for you to honour.”

  “I fear that it is. He is still quite young, for one thing.”

  “And the other?”

  “His ideas are too radical. If I give him what he asks, it shall only lead to conflict with other officials.”

  “Well, you know best of all.”

  “I shall try and help him. I feel he is not quite ready for such a position yet.”

  “Are you game for a spot of fencing tonight?”

  “No, my friend, I am sorry. It is late, and I am tired.”

  Dracula nodded. He enjoyed the sessions with Lorenzo, as it kept him sharp too. Not that he needed it. In life, he had not met an opponent that could match him. In death, he knew it would be even less likely to meet any such man.

  “You should come earlier,” Lorenzo said. “As you do in the winter.”

  “I would like to,” Dracula said. “But the
long days do not agree with me. As you know, my skin does not react well to the sun.”

  “Forgive me if I retire. I have a head that throbs so much, I fear I might go mad.”

  “Go and rest then, good friend. I might see Niccolo home safely, if I make haste and find the path he is walking.”

  “Yes, I would appreciate that.”

  “The streets are not the safest at night. Good night, Lorenzo.”

  Dracula was glad he could get away. He wanted to meet with the young Machiavelli; something about him had caught his eye. The moment he left the Medici household, he took to the air. He scanned the streets below for any sign of the young man. At once he spotted him, and saw that two men trailed close behind. Dracula dropped down to the street where they walked, sensing their intent was not good.

  Machiavelli knew they were on his tail. He looked around a few times and saw them there. When he did, they made no attempt to hide from him. Instead, they grinned in a way that made him even more nervous.

  He upped the pace of his walk. The sound of their footsteps behind grew louder. He knew they wanted him for something. They looked too smartly dressed for thieves, and had to be following for another reason. To murder me, perhaps?

  Just as he broke into a run, a third man stepped out in front of him. In the narrow alley, he had nowhere to turn. The other two stepped up close behind, leaving him with no avenue of escape. “What do you want with me?”

  The man in front curled his lip. “You need a lesson taught you.”

  “I know you,” Machiavelli said. “You work for Signor de’ Medici. Has he sent you to do this?”

  The man in front drew a knife. Machiavelli looked down at it, his eye falling on the length of the blade. Fear gripped him inside when the two men behind grabbed his arms. He struggled hard against them in an effort to break free. In a moment, he knew the third man would plunge the blade into his belly. Their intent was to kill him. Of that, he had no doubt.

  The third man stepped toward him and drew his hand back behind his hip. Machiavelli looked him straight in the eye. When the man brought his arm through to drive the blade home, the young Florentine spat full in his face.

  It stopped him for a moment. He wiped the spittle from his mouth and cheek and glared at the younger man. “Prepare to die,” he said, snarling through gritted teeth.

  He raised the dagger over his head. Machiavelli closed his eyes, unable to look. In a moment, it would all be over. He only hoped it was quick.

  The fatal blow did not come. He opened his eyes again to see the man had vanished. The other two realised this as well. Where has he gone?

  They looked at each other and relaxed their grip on Machiavelli. He resumed his struggle against them, knowing this was his best chance to get away. The only chance he might have.

  A cry from above made them all look up. High in the night sky, they saw the other man. Someone or something had hold of him, and had bitten into his neck.

  Dracula had swooped down and prevented the assassin from delivering a killing blow. The vampire grabbed his offending arm and hoisted him high up into the air. The sudden surge upward left the man dizzy and short of breath. Before he could recover, he felt a set of fangs bite hard into the soft flesh of his neck.

  The man still held the knife. Despite the shock and pain of the attack, he raised his arm to strike. Dracula grabbed his wrist and snapped it. The knife dropped down into the narrow alley below.

  Dracula sucked harder on his neck. The man felt the heat through his skin as his blood began to boil. He found the pain excruciating and his head began to grow cloudy as his lifeblood ebbed away. Several times, his body stiffened under the strain. Finally, his eyes closed and he died.

  When Dracula had taken the last drop of his blood, he let the man’s body fall, but reached the ground before it did. The two others stood and looked at him, their fear almost freezing the blood in their veins. Just then, the body of their friend crashed down to the ground with a hard thump. It landed in the alley between them and the hideous beast that had killed him.

  Machiavelli shrank in horror at the spectacle of it. He expected to die next. Where he had thought he might suffer a blade to the heart, now he feared something much worse. The two men let him go, and turned to flee. Machiavelli stood there, too afraid to move.

  Dracula offered him a brief glance and then sped past him. He caught the two men in moments. Raising his elbows, he struck them across the backs of the shoulders. Both men hit the ground hard. He picked one of them up and bit into his jugular.

  The man screamed. His whole body jerked at the force with which Dracula took him. His companion crawled backwards on his hands and feet. He knew he had to get away before it was his turn.

  Dracula kept one eye on him while he drank. He watched the man scramble to his feet and flee. Soon, he had drunk the second of the three dry. His eyes followed the escape of the last of them down the dark alley. He lifted up the corpse of the second man and hurled it through the air.

  The man ran for his life, his heart pounding in his chest. He could not hear any sound other than that of his own heavy breathing. Help me, God. Please!

  Something heavy caught the backs of his legs, and he crashed down against the ground. Unable to break his fall in time, his face smacked against the hard earth.

  His whole head throbbed from the impact, and his face felt numb. Dazed and confused, he touched his fingers against his badly broken nose and split lips. His blood flowed freely from his wounds, and coated them. When he looked up, he saw a pair of legs only inches away.

  Dracula considered drinking his blood, but had drunk enough. He did not often drink two grown men dry in such a short time. His bladder felt like it might burst, and he reached down and pulled out his penis so that he could empty it.

  He closed his eyes and gasped at the relief as he urinated on the terrified man’s feet. His penis grew long and erect in his hands, filled with the blood of his two kills. It changed the direction of his urine flow, behind and well beyond the man on the ground.

  The man on the ground cried out when his shoes and clothing began to smoke. He reached down in horror, thinking he had caught fire. In fact, the urine contained high levels of acid and it had begun to burn its way through all it came into contact with. The man beat at the smoke with both hands in the hope that he might dowse it, but he succeeded only in transferring the toxic fluid to them. He cried out even louder when the acid ate into his fingertips.

  When Dracula had finished, he grabbed the man by the hair and forced him to his feet. The man trembled when he came face-to-face with his abductor, struggling to stand on his burned feet.

  “There is no use calling for God here,” Dracula advised, offering an evil grin. “No one can help you.”

  The man feared more than ever for his life and, in that moment, knew he would do anything to survive. He closed his eyes and whimpered. “Please, do not kill me.”

  Unlike his creator, Dracula rarely took pleasure from the terror of a victim. He made the kills swift and did not torment those he preyed on. The drinking of blood he did out of necessity. Though he found the experience exhilarating, he was not sadistic. On this occasion, however, he found himself toying with the man in his grasp. “And what would you do to remain alive?”

  “I would do anything, My Lord, if you would spare me.”

  “Then speak. Why did you follow that man into the alley?”

  “You mean Machiavelli?”

  “Yes.”

  “We wanted to teach him a lesson in respect.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Because he needs it.”

  “You did not answer me.”

  “For the way he conducts himself. For the way he talks to people.”

  “People like Signor de’ Medici?”

  “Yes, he needs to be brought to heel. He presses Signor de’ Medici to aid his political ambitions because of promises made to people who are long since dead. He shows no respect, and it rank
les with us.”

  “Did Signor de’ Medici send you?”

  “No, he knows nothing of this.”

  “Then who is responsible? I want to know.”

  “We took it on ourselves to do it. He is an offence to us all. We only wanted to scare him, so he might take his foolish ideas away with him.”

  “Your friend was going to kill him. For that, I ended his life.”

  The man looked even more afraid. “That was not the plan, I swear it.”

  “Then the plan changed. And you were a party to it.”

  Dracula fell silent, and gazed at the man with real hate. The man was so afraid, he could not control his lower lip. Indeed, every part of him shook out of fear.

  “Please, I beg you. Do not kill me.”

  “I do not intend to.”

  The man emitted a great sigh of relief, but then his face dropped when Dracula handed him his friend’s knife.

  “You can do it yourself.”

  The man took it in his hand. He looked down at it and then up at his pursuer again. “You want me to do it?”

  “Yes,” he said, his gaze deathly firm. “Turn the dagger around and push it into your heart, with both hands.”

  His hands shook so much now he could hardly hold the blade. “This is a jest?”

  Dracula’s eyes glowered with anger. “Do it. If you do not obey me, I shall suck every last drop of your blood out through your thumb.”

  The man believed it. He wanted to drive the blade into Dracula, but knew he had no chance. The beast moved faster than the eye. He turned the knife around in his hands. Closing his eyes, he clasped the hilt tight.

  “The alternative would bring you agony you cannot begin to imagine. I can make it very long, and very slow.”

  The man took a few moments to compose himself. The death his friends suffered was not one he wanted to endure. Anything but that.

  His hands shook worse than at any time before. “God, forgive me!” he cried, before driving the dagger into his own heart. He opened his eyes for a brief moment. And then his hands fell away from the hilt of the blade. The last thing he saw was the cold stare from Dracula. Then he saw no more, and collapsed to the ground dead.