The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  “You are sure of this?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. I saw it all so clear.”

  Cesare eyed the man with contempt. He worried that this witness could lead the inquiry to him. The masked stranger said there would be no trail. One hundred thousand ducats for this debacle? He should have done the deed himself.

  “They saw nothing astir so they made a sign.”

  “A sign? To whom?”

  “I do not know who it was, Holy Father.”

  “But you saw him?”

  “Oh, yes, I saw him for sure.”

  “Can you describe him, then?” Cesare asked, his tone aggressive.

  Giorgio nodded. “He was a proper gentleman.”

  “By his clothes, you mean?”

  “Yes, he wore the finest and had a flowing cape.”

  “What else can you say of him?”

  “He rode a fine white stallion. Gold spurs he had on his boots.”

  “How could you see if they were gold?”

  “They were gold for sure, Eminence.”

  Cesare nodded. “Very well. Is there any more you can tell us about him?”

  “Yes, there was one thing.”

  “Out with it, man!” Alexander urged.

  “He wore a mask.”

  Vannozza gasped again, and fainted. Cesare ran to her side when she hit the floor. With help, he lifted her back into her seat. “Get some water!” he shouted.

  An attendant returned with a bowl and a cloth. Cesare wetted it and dabbed it against her brow. “Are you well, Mama?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes. “Yes, thank you, Cesare.”

  “What is wrong, Vannozza?” Alexander asked her.

  “A masked man in fine clothes and a black cape came to my house this day past.”

  “How is this?”

  “He spoke to Giovanni for a moment.” She turned to her son. “You were there, Cesare. You saw him.”

  Cesare nodded.

  “Do you know this man, Cesare?” his father asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I do not know him.”

  Alexander clenched his fists. “Does anybody know the identity of this man?”

  Giorgio shifted about. He did not like falling under the scrutiny of others. His life meant he spent much of his time alone on the river. That is how he liked it. He never much enjoyed the company of other people.

  “You have more to add?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. There is more.”

  “Pray tell us,” he implored the boatman, his hands shaking.

  “The masked man carried a body on his horse. Two others helped support it.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “Not too well. It was easy to see the rider. He was sat up high.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He turned the horse so the men at the river could take the body.”

  “That is when they threw the body into the river?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. The rider asked if they had thrown it far.”

  “And what then?”

  “They said they had, but the rider said he could see something floating in the water. So the men threw stones until it had sunk.”

  “Did you see any more?”

  “No, Holy Father. They all left after that.”

  The Pope was having difficulty keeping his composure. “Then it is good you came here and told me of this. You may go.”

  Vannozza looked ashen. “Do you think it is Giovanni?”

  “I do not know,” he said. He turned to the monsignor. “At first light, I want every inch of the riverbed searched. I need to know if it is my son.”

  The vigil had begun.

  The first light of dawn saw the Tiber filled with boatmen and fishermen. Hundreds of them crowded the river. They dragged the bed for the entire day. Several skeletons and rotted corpses came up in the nets. Men on the riverbank took each one away and threw them into a pauper’s grave.

  Alexander and Vannozza waited anxiously for any news, receiving a report every hour. The day dragged on. There was still no sign of their son from the search on the river. They both knelt and prayed there would not be.

  The search continued well into the evening.

  “I have something!” a boatman shouted.

  Everything stopped. Others climbed into his boat to help. They hauled in the net, and saw it contained a fresh body.

  The men brought it ashore and laid it on the riverbank. At once, the monsignor recognised it as Giovanni Borgia. He put his hand over his mouth and wept. The men crowded around. They removed their caps and made the Sign of the Cross.

  “Who is going to tell the Holy Father?” an archbishop asked him.

  “I should,” he said. “Have the cardinal taken back to the Vatican. I want his body cleaned and dressed before his parents see him. Do it, and lay him out in his room. I shall follow soon.”

  He waited to view the body himself before breaking the news. Just as he feared, there was no robbery. Giovanni’s purse and gloves remained attached to his belt. It contained gold and some jewels. Giovanni’s dagger, with precious stones in its hilt, still rested in its scabbard. He was fully clothed. The killers had not taken any trophies. Whatever the motive, it was an act of cold-blooded murder.

  The monsignor informed the pope. Alexander broke down, and Vannozza with him. Cesare tried to console them, to no avail.

  It was quite a time before the pope felt strong enough to ask for the details. He went to another room where the monsignor told him the grim truth.

  “Where is his body?”

  “He is laid out in his apartment, Holy Father.”

  “Does he look good enough for his mother’s eyes?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. He is clean and dressed out in his finest clothes.”

  “What of his injuries?”

  “His throat is covered. Only some minor scratches on his face are showing.”

  The pope nodded. “I should go and tell her.”

  They went together to see their son. Vannozza took one look at her boy and collapsed. Members of the Swiss Guard had to take her to another room to recover.

  Alexander stood beside his son, cupping Giovanni’s face in his hands. “Oh, my boy. My sweet boy.”

  The pope wept for a long time. Everyone but Cesare left. He put an arm around his father to comfort him.

  “We must find who did this,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Cesare nodded, but did not speak.

  “Someone has to pay. Whoever it is, I shall find him!”

  He never did.

  * * *

  DRACULA soon tired of Rome. Varkal returned home to Wallachia, where he took the gold, and hid it below the ruins of his father’s castle. Dracula and Ilona travelled again without him.

  Ilona loved it. She liked nothing better than to experience new languages and cultures. Each new tongue she found, she spoke like a native, and it thrilled her. Most of all, she liked to visit the royal courts in each kingdom. She would compare them with those she had grown up in.

  She often felt her husband was weary of it all. He never showed it if he was. His devotion to her brought them ever closer. She found that, with each night that passed, she loved him more than ever before.

  They moved through France, Portugal, and Spain. Ilona had a taste for city life. In each one they visited, they stayed for a month or more. They left a monstrous trail of corpses on their journey. It seemed to her, the more she fed, the stronger she became. The stronger she became, the greater her thirst.

  As the century drew to an end, Dracula grew restless. Although far off, he sensed something wrong at home. They set off in the last month of the year. The closer they came to home, the stronger the feeling grew.

  The Maglaks still lived in the shadow of his castle. The moment he touched down there, he knew the problem. Varkal was feeding from those who had once served him.

  His son arrived back at the castle with an ill feeling. When he retreated to his dark chamber in t
he tunnels below, he found them waiting. Dawn was already on the horizon. The new century had arrived.

  Varkal bowed. “Father? Ilona?”

  “Sleep,” Dracula said. “When you awaken, we will have much to discuss.”

  Chapter 23

  WALLACHIA. THE RUINS OF DRACULA’S CASTLE

  IN THE CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS.

  JANUARY 1, 1500.

  Dracula awoke as soon as the sun went down. He looked to his left to see Ilona still asleep. His son stirred and groaned from his resting place. Dracula scanned his mind to see images of him in a brothel.

  He rose up onto one of the crumbling ramparts. This place held so many memories for him. Some came to mind of the thousands he had enslaved to build it. Most of those were men who had stood against his father, or played some part in Vlad Dracul’s downfall. They laboured to carry the stones up the side of the mountain. Most of them perished in the process, a punishment he thought fitting for their crimes. It had heralded the beginning of his most brutal reign.

  Closing his eyes, he breathed in the crisp winter air. It always seemed so much fresher up here. The idea to build this place had come to him long ago. He modelled it on the mighty fortress at Hunedoara, building over the ruins of an earlier fortress put there by his grandfather. When it was finished, he thought it would resist any attack.

  In truth, it had only ever served as a retreat for him. He kept his first wife and son here, where he felt they would be safe. Radu, his brother, laid siege to it in 1462. Christine threw herself from one of the towers to the Arges River below, rather than risk capture. There was an escape route, but she had not known of it.

  Ilona walked outside and smiled when she drew alongside him. “Husband, what is it you are doing?”

  “I am thinking of times past,” he said, without turning his head.

  “Are you feeling well?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I am well enough.”

  “Your first wife, this is where she jumped?”

  “Yes.”

  She could tell he did not want to discuss it. “You have been distant of late.”

  “Fear not, for it shall pass. I have had much on my mind.”

  “Is it anything you wish to share?”

  “Yes, when Varkal awakens, I shall tell you both.”

  Varkal opened his eyes at the mention of his name. He left the lair where they had slept and joined them outside. “You summoned me?”

  Dracula did not look his way. “Your senses grow sharper.”

  Varkal did not answer. The sound of laughter and singing from far down the valley caught his ear. He licked his lips at the prospect of a good feed.

  “Cast them from your mind,” Dracula said, a sudden icy edge to his tone.

  “What do you mean?” his son asked, offering a sharp look.

  “You are to feed from the Maglaks no more, neither of you.”

  Ilona wondered why he had included her in this. She had never been near one of them, and would not if her husband willed it so. From his tone, she realised it best to not speak.

  “Why have you decided this?” Varkal pressed. “They are giving us an open invitation.”

  “I want them left alone from here on.”

  Varkal showed his obvious displeasure. “Since when is it we make an exception from whom we feed? Fresh blood is fresh blood.”

  “The Maglaks are no longer to suffer by our hand.”

  “Why? Give me a good reason.”

  “Your father’s word is enough,” Ilona cut in. “Perhaps you have been alone too long and forget your place.”

  “What? Why not remain quiet?” he snapped, giving her a stare as cold as hers. “At least till you have an idea that is your own.”

  Ilona leaped the short distance to him and hissed in his face. “Mind your tone with me.”

  “Why? Might you bend me over and spank me, Mother?”

  She glared at him. “I am not your mother.”

  “Stop!” Dracula shouted at them both. “I do not want to hear any of this on this night.”

  “Then what is at the root of this?” Varkal asked him, ignoring her again.

  “They used to be known as my people.”

  “Yes, they used to be.”

  Dracula looked him directly in the eye, not liking his son’s tone. “And they shall be once more.”

  “I think this is foolish.”

  Ilona looked to her husband. It annoyed her that he allowed Varkal to talk to him with such little respect.

  Varkal picked up on it right away. “Oh, Mother, must you always try and see me incur Papa’s wrath?”

  Ilona flew at him. She drove a knee into his chest that left him flat on his back. He laughed when she grabbed his long hair and raised a hand to strike him.

  “Enough!” Dracula shouted. He glared at his son. “It is time you showed my wife the respect due her.”

  Varkal got to his feet. “There is no sport in either of you.”

  Ilona had never liked him. “Perhaps it is because you irritate rather than amuse.”

  “I am what you both made me.”

  “I had no part in it,” she reminded him. “It is a shame your father did not let you swing from that rope.”

  “A shame for you, perhaps.”

  Dracula walked up to him and grabbed his collar. Until that moment, Varkal had not known his father’s strength. “I have already warned you,” he said, his voice cold and threatening. “You do not want to vex me.”

  Varkal did not say another word. He did not even look at Ilona, although she continued to glare at him.

  “I am thinking to remain in Wallachia for some time,” Dracula informed them.

  “Good,” Varkal said. “I can never sleep well on foreign soil.”

  Ilona was not as happy to hear the news. She enjoyed travelling and seeing new things.

  “Mihnea shall need us soon. I want to be here when that time comes to pass.”

  “A Draculesti on the Wallachian throne again?” Ilona smiled.

  “Yes, that is what I want.”

  Varkal grunted to himself. No one had ever afforded him the benefits of his lineage.

  “For that reason, I wish to make peace with the Maglaks,” his father told him.

  “What benefit is there in that? They shall not fight for our family’s honour.”

  “If we are to remain, there may be a time when we need someone to watch over us while we sleep. They would serve that purpose.”

  “And what should we offer in return? They would want some compensation for it.”

  “There are many factions in this country that can hurt them. We can offer them wealth and our protection.”

  “These people do not care for wealth. When they gave their blood, they did it from loyalty to you. They are simple people, and live off the land.”

  Dracula began to grow irritated with his argument. “Loyalty you rewarded by killing them when you could have taken others.”

  Varkal did not let it deter him. “When do you propose to make this peace with them?”

  “I am going to speak with them this night.”

  “When?” Ilona asked. “You know they no longer venture out after dark.”

  “They are out this night.”

  “Then why not make haste?” Varkal suggested. “I need to feed soon.”

  “For once, I must agree with him,” Ilona said. “If we wait till after we feed, we might not see them before the morrow.”

  “Very well. We go.”

  The three of them took to the air, eager to reach their destination for differing reasons. Varkal showed the effects of a strong thirst, and he wanted to satisfy his craving. Dracula gave him a sharp look to indicate he meant what he said.

  Life as a vampire suited Varkal. Yet he differed from his father in many ways. Dracula killed out of necessity as Lucifer had willed it. He did not discriminate with his victims, unless in need of a foetus, and he usually made the kill quick. Varkal, on the other hand, often killed
for pleasure. Sadistic and cruel, he liked to put his victims through terrible suffering before drinking from them. He subjected them to all manner of physical and mental torture. In his need to satisfy his sexual appetite and perversions, he would do anything.

  Neither Dracula nor Ilona cared much for what he did. As long as it did not involve one of the Maglaks, he could do as he pleased.

  Then they heard it; the sound of laughter coming from the depths of the forest. Varkal looked to his father for approval. When Dracula gave the nod, he changed course and turned into the trees, with his father and stepmother close behind.

  Dracula and Ilona soon left him in their wake, possessing abilities far superior to his. He did his best to keep pace with them, but soon lagged behind. They moved with blinding speed through the darkness, where the trees proved no obstacle.

  Varkal took risks in his eagerness to catch them. A protruding branch caught his shoulder and knocked him off course. He crashed into the trunk of a nearby sycamore with a sickening thud. The stump of a broken branch tore his clothing, and the flesh on his right arm. He emitted a piercing scream and landed on his back. The sycamore toppled over.

  Not too far away, a small group of gypsies sat around a roaring fire. They all heard the inhuman cry, their laughter coming to an abrupt stop.

  The elder stood up and looked to the trees. “He is coming,” he said to one of his sons. “Take the women and children inside the tents.”

  The eldest of the women walked up to her husband. “Must you do this, Andrei?”

  “Yes, my love,” he said. “You know I must. We have been together fifty years.”

  She sighed hard. “I fear it is going to bring danger to our loved ones.”

  “Do not worry, Antonia, my love. No harm shall come to any of you while I can still draw breath. I have been ready for this a long time past. Go inside with the others.”

  She planted a soft kiss on his cheek and walked away.

  The men in the group saw the women and children safely inside as the elder instructed. They armed themselves and waited around the fire.

  “Are you sure this is what you want, Papa?” one of them said to the elder.

  “Yes, my son,” he whispered. “I have waited very many years to speak to Vlad Dracula. This is the moment.”