Vlad

by Stacey Rourke

  “I swear, one day, you’ll be the death of me, Dorian Gray.” My attempt at a chuckle morphed into a hacking cough from the smoke I inhaled earlier that morning.

  “Only if this goes really wrong.” Situating himself in the center of the circle, Dorian sat cross-legged on the floor with his back board straight. One by one he lit the candles around him. The last of which he used to spark the sweet-smelling smoke of his bundled herbs. Closing his eyes, he recited the summoning spell meant to call forth the unholy serpent within me. “Drákon Enn Jedan tasa hoet naca Drákon. Drákon Enn Jedan tasa hoet naca Drákon.”

  Once, I made the mistake of chanting along with him. After spewing blood out of every orifice of my face for a full day, I quickly came to realize this was not a crowd participation project. Instead, I filled my lungs to capacity, and waited for that tug that made my blood run cold.

  Drákon didn’t make us wait long.

  He never did.

  His essence trumpeted its arrival by seizing my muscles into taut ropes he could pluck at his pleasure. Choking on a scream, the taste of sulfur scorched my tongue. During a summoning he didn’t force me under a blanket of darkness. I was made to watch him move and maneuver me like his own marionette meat suit.

  Floating from the floor, The Dragon’s grating voice—more beast than man—reverberated from my chest. “You dare call forth Drákon?”

  “Drákon, I pay thee tribute with a humble offering.” Dorian tugged the lead tied to the goat, pulling it to him.

  Head tilted, Drákon smacked his lips in titillated interest.

  Holding the goat tight to his side, Dorian flipped the dagger free from the sheath on his hip and drove it straight into the squirming animal’s heart. Shushing its pained cries, he kept it locked under his arm in a deadly embrace until the thread of life severed. Swallowing hard, most likely out of regret for what he had done, Dorian pushed the goat’s body outside of the circle in offering.

  Settling into a seated position, Drákon wriggled two fingers into the animals fatal wound. Extracting his hand, he held it up, watching the candlelight flicker off the crimson gore. “What is it you ask of me, human?”

  Dorian rose to his knees, head bowed and arms thrown out wide. “By blood offering I pledge my devotion to you. Your current host is weary and unworthy. Allow me to be your vessel, that I may walk this earth in servitude to you and call you master.”

  The Dragon’s neck rolled with a snake-like fluidity, eyes narrowing to lethal slits. “You speak of unworthiness, yet thought me simple enough to be swayed by a dead goat?”

  Fingers curled into white-knuckled fists, Dorian let his hands fall to his sides. “T’was I that called you forth from the bowels of hell all those years ago. I was meant to be your host from the start. I’ve prepared for it.”

  The Dragon lunged forward, slamming against the invisible force of the protective circle. Bringing one hand to rest on its mystical barrier, he drummed his fingertip against it in a taunting tap. “You think my will is a sword I would ever allow you to wield? That you may use my strength to compensate for your deficiencies? You are nothing. An insignificant larva that would rather leach off my power than develop any of your own. I see you, Dorian Gray, for the languid coward you are. Kill a herd of goats, it will make no difference. I would sooner be vanquished from this earth than to ever allow you to serve me. Do not call on me again, boy. This circle cannot protect you forever.”

  Drákon’s departure hurled me to the floor. Panting, I peered up at Dorian. “You okay?”

  Grinding his teeth, he stared at the amber beams of light streaming in from the window. “The Hunter’s Moon falls in the next lunar cycle. We’ll try again then.” Blowing out the candles, he gathered the tools of the ritual in his arms. “This isn’t over. Far from it.”

  Chapter Six

  Vinx

  Proving even the undead can be moved by a good motivational speech, the V.H.M. extended us an invitation to Castle Dracul. Driving through the streets of Transylvania, I quickly discovered how skewed my impression of the land was thanks to Bram Stoker and Bella Lugosi. Wolves didn’t chase our caravan of limos and Lincoln town cars. Heavy gray shadows didn’t cloak the landscape in a foreboding gloom. Brides of Dracula didn’t beckon wayward travelers into their lust-filled web of hunger.

  Nope.

  Not one of those stereotypes turned out to be true.

  Damn it.

  The reality was lush hills of rolling emerald, and cobblestone streets maintained with meticulous care. Busts of Vlad topped stone pedestals throughout the town, in honor of the man they viewed as a hero.

  The castle swelled before us, a romantic vision of soaring towers and peaks of terracotta. Beside the manor sat an enchanting water fountain sculpted into the shape of a beautiful woman adorned in a gown of flowers. Pulling up in front of the grand estate, we found the beauty didn’t stop at the arched walnut doors. The estate had recently undergone renovations to lovingly restore its original splendor. Polished wood floors were covered in exquisite antique rugs. Rustic beams ran the length of the soaring ceilings, adding a cozy feel to the castle’s old-world elegance. Wrought iron chandeliers hung overhead, casting halos down on us commoners fortunate enough to stroll beneath them. Following the magi down a marble hall of grand archways and pillars, I began to think we stumbled into an HGTV episode of Extreme Home Makeover: Castle Edition.

  That’s when the creep factor finally caught up to us.

  Ten cloaked figures, standing shoulder to shoulder in an ominous barricade, loomed at the end of the hall. Approaching on steps so smooth and silent they appeared to be floating, glowing red eyes gleamed from beneath the shadows of their black hoods.

  Without a word, Elodie and Thomas separated themselves from the rest of our pack and ambled over to meet them. The ghostly figures glided around them, encircling the pair in what could only be described as a terrifying huddle of impending doom.

  “Sh-should we help? Intervene in some way?” Micah leaned in to whisper.

  Carter’s mouth fell into a downward C as he adamantly shook his head. “They’re what? A couple centuries old? I feel they had a good run.”

  Rising up on tiptoe, I craned my neck to see over the shoulder of one of the hooded beings. A pale and gnarled hand appeared from beneath a belled sleeve. Lifting it to their hidden mouth, the ghoulish entity bit down on their own frail wrist, causing two black pearls of blood to sprout from their skin. Without hesitation, Elodie mirrored the gesture. As the coppery scent of blood wafted through the hall, the two offered each other their wounds and drank deep.

  “That … is the grossest way to say hello ever.” I grimaced in the awkward silence that followed.

  Jerking as if slapped, the being holding Elodie’s wrist recoiled.

  “Is this true?” He didn’t vocalize the question, but shouted it directly into our minds.

  “God?” Carter asked the ceiling, eyebrows darting into his hairline.

  Ignoring his interjection, Elodie dipped her chin in confirmation.

  “The hour is at hand.” The commanding boom reverberated through our skulls. “Burn the candle. Call forth those who swear allegiance to Vlad. Tonight … we wake our lord.”

  Dead was dead.

  Despite being brought back from that eternal precipice myself, I still believed that. Pure blood Nosferatu were said to be immortal, yet they could be brought down by silver or sunshine. Therefore, I was skeptical, to say the least, that a vampire entombed for hundreds of years could possibly be resurrected.

  The pomp and circumstance surrounding me argued otherwise.

  A line formed inside of the Draculesti mausoleum, drawn there by four candles billowing inky black smoke out a window to the town square below. The magi were the first to claim their spot, followed by Transylvania natives, all eagerly willing to give of themselves to wake their savior. Each o
f the locals in attendance were adorned with a Donator Tresâ—a thin strip of black leather attached to a lone raven feather that was braided into their hair at the right temple. The accessory declared them supporters of Vlad, and willing blood donors.

  Truth be told, I admired their faith. They believed with their whole hearts, while I felt life was an unforgiving sea of chaos that tossed and rolled us for its own amusement.

  The eerie hooded beings, who Elodie explained were Nosferatu elders known as the Court, stood in a circle around a mosaic Order of the Dragon seal that decorated the floor. One by one they welcomed the next in line onto the seal, and offered them a pearl-handled dagger. With trembling hands, each volunteer dragged the blade down the length of their palm. Squeezing their hand in a fist, they let the sticky warmth rain down on the center of the seal in fat, wet splats. The crowd moved in a steady current. Slice. Bleed. On to the next. If any among them were getting impatient about the lack of activity coming from the grave below, they didn’t let on. It’s said that faith is a blind leap of hope. That day, it soared without abandon. Even when the steady stream of new arrivals began to thin, the faithful simply bowed their heads to pray for their lord to awaken.

  “They all share the same dagger, yet no one has asked for it to be sanitized?” Micah observed, her nose crinkling in disgust. “I feel like we are watching the birth of a whole new thread of hepatitis.”

  “These are all faithful followers of Vlad,” I murmured, glancing around at the white stone walls of the crypt. “They cleanse themselves by ingesting a drop of vampire blood each night. It’s not enough to turn them, but keeps their blood healthy and pure. I learned that in one of the million books you made me read.”

  One corner of Micah’s mouth tugged back in an almost grin. “And I thought you only paid attention to the ones with pictures.”

  “Not true. I started avoiding those after the trauma of the pop-up book.”

  “You. Your heart still beats.” A grating voice stabbed into my brain, licking at the walls of my sanity. “You will bleed, and He will rise.”

  “What the hell, man?” Slapping a hand to my forehead, I checked to make sure my skull hadn’t actually cracked open. “Give a little warning before the invasive mind probing!”

  The hooded elder said nothing, but held the dagger out to me.

  Before I could take a step, Micah’s arm shot out to block me. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but in any and all bloodsharing ceremonies isn’t it customary for the progeny to go before their sire?”

  It was almost comical to watch those giant hoods turn to each other in search of clarification. A rash of nods spread through the lot of them, confirming Micah’s claim.

  Reaching for the hilt, her voice took on the cool, commanding tone of a college professor. “Her blood is chemically altered due to the manufactured version of her vampiric state. Mine is as well, but made marginally more organic by being sired by traditional methods. It seems a wise idea to try the lesser version on the vampire god before hitting him with a full dose. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Ever the scientist.” Glancing down at that ominous seal, I chewed on my lower lip. “Quick question, oh brilliant one, are we sure a few drops of our high-octane advanced formula blood won’t mutate whatever is in there into some sort of monstrous Uber vamp? Because that … seems it would hurt our cause more than helping it.”

  Turning the dagger over in her grip, Micah’s tongue toyed with the thin gold hoop in her lip. “I really want to say no. But, the thing about experiments is there is always an element of unpredictability.” Gritting her teeth, she sliced into her palm. “Keeps things exciting, right?”

  A heavy hush fell over the mausoleum as she closed her hand to let beads of life rain down.

  Splat.

  Splat.

  Splat.

  The floor shivered underfoot, barely noticeable to anyone not hyper focused on it. Which we all were. It was little more than a flutter, like the flap of a bat’s wings launching it into flight. As suddenly as it began, it stilled.

  “The other, now!”

  “There’s no time to waste!”

  “Blood that he may rise!”

  “The girl is the key! She must be!”

  A chorus of voices pierced my frontal lobe, the anguish of their intrusion ripping a scream from my lungs. Folding in half, I pressed the heels of my hands to my temples, feeling that was all that prevented my head from exploding. “Okay! Shut up! I’ll do it! But, before I do; one of you creepy SOBs shared blood with Elodie. You know all about me. Are we sure this is the way we want to wake up someone known as The Impaler? Seems he might not be the kind of dude you want to take unnecessary risks with.”

  This time they spoke as one, drilling their message deep. “You will bleed, and He will rise.”

  “Good talk. I really feel heard,” I jabbed back. Righting my posture, I accepted the offered dagger from Micah.

  “Not too much. No more than a drop or two,” Mics warned, her expression locked in a mask of concentration.

  “Bleed, but not too much,” I grumbled, weighing the blade in my hand. “It’s always about the blood. Before my change I went entire days without thinking about it. I had hobbies, read books. Now, it’s all about … the blood.” Grinding my teeth together, I felt the bite of the blade against the meat of my palm. Scarlet drops fell on the head of the dragon, streaking between the tiles.

  One drop.

  Then, a second.

  That’s all it took to make the earth buck beneath me.

  The walls shook.

  Cement cracked with a thunderous boom.

  Dust filled the air, blurring my vision and filling my lungs.

  From within the pandemonium of destruction, he emerged. Features shriveled by decay, his jaws snapped in a vicious snarl. Before I could blink, he was on me. Knees catching my hips, he rode me to the ground. My head bounced off the floor with a sickening thunk. Black spots danced before my eyes. White hot pain radiated through me as his hooked fangs sank into my neck. Consciousness waning, I fell limp, powerless to stop the father of all Nosferatu from draining the life from me.

  Chapter Seven

  Vlad

  “For the first time since the rule of Suleiman the Magnificent, the Ottoman Empire has secured it’s stronghold across southeastern Europe.” Seated on his golden throne within the Ihlamur Palace of Istanbul, Murad combed one hand down the length of his beard. “That is thanks to the savagery and skill of this man, Vlad Tepes of House Draculesti.”

  A smattering of polite applause echoed through the throne room, twisting the ever-present knife of guilt deeper into my heart. “The credit doesn’t belong to me alone, sire. It takes a powerful army to—”

  “Now, now,” Murad tsked, brushing his hands off on the front of his gold embroidered robe. For years he had hidden the gray in his hair with kohl, to maintain the illusion of his youthful virility. Fear of his wrath prevented anyone with an ounce of sense from mentioning the ring of dusky black forever encircling his neck, or the layer of soot that often covered everything he touched. “There is no need to be modest, young Dracul. The reputation you have earned has spread far and wide. Never have I witnessed a more ruthless specimen. Which is why I brought you here today. To reward your efforts.”

  Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I gulped down the bitterness of his compliment. Every luxury bestowed on me, every compensation granted, further darkened my soul. “My life is but to serve, my liege,” I muttered, respectfully bowing my head.

  Thin lips twisting into a knowing smirk, Murad nodded to the guards stationed by the door. “As of this moment, that is no longer true.”

  Two of the guards strode to my side, their armor clapping with every motion. Unclasping the leather straps of my Ottoman crest breast plate, they let it fall to the floor with a deafening clang.

 
Brow furrowed, I glanced from them to Murad and back again.

  “It is my decree,” Murad boomed, throwing his arms out wide, “that from this day forth, you are released from the binding arrangement made between your father and myself. With my blessing, Vlad Tepes, you may go. The world awaits, oğlan.”

  Heart hammering against my ribs, I feared grabbing hold of that dreamscape would turn it to dust between my fingers. “My liege?” I managed.

  Settling back against his bejeweled throne, Murad inspected his buffed and oiled fingernails. “You’ll have decisions to make, of course. Where you’ll go. What you’ll do. The Dolmabahҫe Palace sits vacant. Its gardens are the loveliest I’ve seen. If you were to settle there, we could find you a fitting bride to tie your bloodline with mine. My sister’s husband is a worthless lay-about. Let me kill him for you. It would be my pleasure.”

  I could feel a threatening smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, brought on by hope and possibility. Lest my actions and demeanor be deemed inconsiderate, I battled to keep it at bay. “That is a kind offer, sire. However, if it’s all the same to you, I would very much like to return home … to Transylvania.”

  Murad clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, nose crinkling in distain. “That paltry burg? Why would you choose there, in light of all I could offer you?”

  This time, there would be no suppressing my grin or the hot blush that filled my cheeks. “Why does any man commit any foolish act? There’s … a girl.”

  Resting his elbows on the arm rests of his throne, Murad’s hands dangled over the rounded edges. “Of course there is!” His boisterous peal of laughter echoed through the hall. “Isn’t there always? Other men struggle for a fraction of your military expertise. Yet you manage to juggle that, and find love. Tell me of this damsel whose hand you seek.”

  I had never spoken her name to another living soul, or confessed my feelings for her even to myself. Even so, with the path of possibility stretched out before me, my soul soared at the mere idea of it leading me straight to her. “She lives in my village. We used to play together when we were young. Her name is Jusztina, and her eyes are the color of a freshly sprouted meadow wet from a spring rain.”