Vampires Don't Cry: A Mother's Curse

by Hall, Ian

  “Do not mistake it as a request. Your name.”

  “Faina,” she whimpered.

  “Faina,” I repeated as if it were a curse. “I am not a monster, Faina. You will not be mistreated or violated so long as you do not countermand my wishes. My intention is survival and you have just become an integral part of that.”

  Her small weeps slowly became a continuous bawl.

  “Please stop that. I have no use for frantic women and your tears will serve you no purpose.”

  Faina muted her wailing behind a cupped hand, an effort at least. So, I reined my composure and continued more gently.

  I reprised my earlier question, “Do you read?”

  She shook her head in a vehement “no”; I dare say her entire body wobbled a response.

  I gave her a disapproving look, my brows heavy with disappointment.

  “How do you spend your leisure time?”

  Faina did not seem to understand the question. I suddenly came to suspect I’d been too hasty my selection.

  “What skills do you possess?”

  Her first utterance to me had been but a squeak, “Skills?”

  “Good lord, woman – what do you like to do? Or are your interests limited to gratuitous trysts in dark allies?”

  Faina at last stifled her crying with a severe sniff. I presented a handkerchief from my pocket and she blew into it with the force of a gale wind. Two sorely red eyes peeked out from above the material.

  “I enjoy my needlepoint on Sundays after church,” she said with the voice of a child.

  “Needlepoint?”

  “Yes, sir. I am very accomplished; my work takes top coin at bizarre, sir.”

  “And that should serve me quite well should I ever get the itch to begin embroidering on doilies.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Your blood will sate the hunger, inferior as it may be.”

  Faina’s eyes grew to saucers. I thought to relieve her of a pint right then but had no immediate craving for the taste of mediocrity.

  I snuffed out the candle and left her to brood in darkness.

  Tomas took no finding. We were walking the dark streets no longer than an hour when I heard the clip of horseshoes on cobbles. At first I was surprised at the metallic sound, then recognized my own horse by his sweat.

  Tomas’s rendering of the poor gentleman was crude, his snatch of the maiden was adequate, but he left a witness in his wake. It was the job of a bungling idiot rather than the finest the Lucescu line could offer.

  I shook my head in complete despair as he rode off.

  The young man rose to his feet, and was heading for the nearest doorway when my sword entered his throat. Silenced, he fell into my arms, and I used all my senses to identify any sign of witnesses.

  Samara and I quickly dragged him into an alleyway where we drank our fill from the recent holes in his neck. I then searched his pockets, and emptied them of every item. I ran my sword over his neck a few times, cutting his bloodless flesh, disguising the puncture marks. The killing would go down as a robbery, and hopefully the affair would go no further.

  “We must make plans to leave.” I cradled Samara in my arms, our bodies hot and glistening. “We must have horses at the ready, and our funding in some kind of viable form.”

  “Do you think it will come to that?”

  “I hope not.” I teased some stray wisps of hair from her forehead, then kissed her. “But we must be ready for flight. If the stories of Tomas’s indiscretions find their way to the ears of the Hetmanate, they will act for the good of all. Until we complete Tomas’s training, and put a few years of normality behind us, our position here is not secure.”

  She fell silent for a moment, then her fingers began to trace spirals on my chest, the pattern advancing lower and lower. “Will you take me with you?” she asked, her eyes pleading and tearful.

  “Of course, my love. You are part of me now. We are the teachers of Tomas Lucescu, and through us, he will know the Path of the Wraith. We will hone the rough edges from this new Strogoi, and set him firmly on the path to the Hetmanate.”

  I smiled at my strong words, but felt no passion from them. I knew that training Tomas would test my patience to its limits.

  How their prejudice barbed me. In mortal life, my greatest moment came when the blood fever overtook me for I knew it would put an end to my miserable existence. Mistress Lucescu had warned me, hidden me. And she had been right to do so. Now I knew first-hand; the world held no tolerance for the unbeautiful and took every liberty to balk about it.

  Faina’s blatant revulsion of me stuck in my side the whole way back through the maze, stirring memories better left suppressed. All too clearly I recalled the day my father first presented Nicolette to me in my bedchamber; how he brought her to me in darkness, how easily she came to my bed, how she melted to me and welcomed me eagerly. Only the next morning to run, shrieking, from my room; even through the many years since I’d never known her such a willing hostess as our first encounter.

  Greedy eyes, forever in search of perfection but never willing to look beneath the skin. These women may never acquire affection for my face, but they would learn respect by my hand. And so would their replacements.

  With these dark sentiments occupying me, I emerged from the tunnel, quite startled to find company waiting in the parlor. He’d been peeping out the window, anxious as a bridegroom. Realizing my approach, he quickly snatched the curtains shut and an expression of utter relief relaxed his tense features.

  For the first time I felt grateful for Ivan’s demeanor towards me. Besides my immediate family, he was unique for his acceptance of my appearance. Because of the events of the last few days, I felt glad to see him.

  Even his demanding tone did not put me off.

  “Has something happened?” he asked.

  “Happened?”

  “You were down in the secret room – I assume for good reason.”

  I made with a hasty excuse. “Just being prudent; you were well overdue and I feared the worst. I’m afraid my nerves got the better of me and thought it wise to keep hidden ‘til morning.”

  For once, Ivan afforded me an approving nod. “You were well to do so, Tomas. This is no time for any of us to lower our guard.”

  Ivan made for the lounge; in a very uncharacteristic fashion, he draped himself over it like an empty garment. All his extraordinary strength had evaporated. Even the effort to speak seemed nearly too much for the man.

  “So, no word of any kind from Moshny?”

  “Not so much as a pebble at the window,” I said, attempting levity. “I don’t believe the villagers will be surrounding the castle with pitchforks and torches anytime soon.”

  “Do not think yourself out of the woods so soon, boy,” Ivan snapped, gaining some of his usual potency back. “There are rumors being spread about the streets of Moshny.”

  “Of what sort?”

  Ivan glared at me then said, “Is your head empty as well as bald?”

  “Rumors of the ambush that befell us in the forest?” I grinned at my own irony.

  “Do not be glib, Tomas! Eye witnesses have made testimony and their account grows more fantastic with every telling.”

  “Precisely!” I exclaimed jubilantly. “Barstool tales dribbled through the lips of drunkards! Who’s going to believe them?”

  “The Order believes them!” he barked, rising to pour a snifter.

  Ivan’s foul mood began to ebb my enjoyment of his company. I took his place on the lounge and allowed him to pace the room, swirling brandy in a slow and thoughtful motion.

  “Things did not go well at your meeting I surmise?”

  “A scout was sent to Moshny,” he said, as if recalling a bitter dream, “upon his return he reported loose tongues in every tavern and on every corner, all wagging the same story.”

  Ivan stopped, his back to the window, the dim glow of the curtains engulfed him in a red halo.

  “I assure you,
Tomas, your fate is being decided this very hour.”

  When the coup came, three weeks later, it proved to be swift and bloodless, and to my eternal remorse, unforeseen by me; Cossack Vizier Ivan Vyhovski.

  I lay in bed with Samara when I realized the first incursion; hundreds of shuffling feet running in our own corridors. I rose with curiosity, but the unfamiliar colors of the troops made me startle, and I stood for a moment at the open door of my quarters with my jaw dropping to the floor in shock.

  Suddenly, the towering figure of Boran Pugachev stood far closer than he’d ever been.

  “Vizier,” he nodded. “You’d be prudent if you went back inside.” He looked past me to the sight of a half-naked Samara clutching a robe to her bosom. “Feast yourself on your woman for a while and leave the Lucescu line to its destiny. It ends here, now. The Hetmanate have spoken.”

  I poised, ready to throw myself at the man, but Samara’s hand on my arm held me back.

  Swallowing chunks of pride, I bowed my head slightly. “The Igmars were always the Hetmanate’s favorites.”

  Boran grinned, his stained gravestone teeth parting wickedly. “You think low of me, Vizier. The Hetmanate will still decide its own leader; we are an alliance. Men of all three families now infest your Lucescu lands. My Igmars march with the Lugar men and the Eastern Tatars.” Boran grabbed the next four men who filed past. “Guard this door with your lives. No one in, no one out. Kill all who attempt to disobey.”

  I took a step back, and let the lead man pull the door closed. Turning, Samara looked as ashen as I felt.

  “What do we do?” she shook her head feverishly.

  I put my hand on hers, and patted it lightly. My mind reeled from news of the alliance of the three houses. Yes, my Lucescu line diminished as I pondered, but Boran’s news brought a ray of hope for the plague-ravaged region. If Boran had indeed allied with Yermak Ifkoshev of the Lugar men, and Azov Kuban of the Eastern Tatars, then perhaps my new thoughts should be to the greater good; the restoration of a powerful Cossack nation, rather than an ungrateful albino whelp. “We wait, my dear.”

  I wondered at the scale of the coup. In my quarters, I had heard no resistance, no fighting. I could smell no telltale smoke. There must have either been help from the inside, or the force must have been so great that resistance failed immediately.

  “We must be grateful that he did not mention Strogoi.” I threw my robe to the floor and strode naked into my bedchamber, determined to dress for the most lavish of state occasions. Ivan Vyhovsky would not disgrace the Lucescu line. “Perhaps there is a way to salvage a position for me in all this.”

  “For us?” Samara drew close to my back. Her warm breasts pushed into my kidneys, and her hands ran delicately forward to my already swelling member.

  “Yes, my dear,” I smiled, wallowing in her attention of her firm grip. Despite the bedlam outside, I began to think of the Order, rather the Lucescu line. “For us.”

  They dispatched me at late morning, the sun nearly at its peak. One man to each limb they dragged me from the dim refuge of my parlor and into the full and bright daylight. It scorched my sensitive eyes and I thought for certain my very flesh would be charred off the bone.

  As they carried me to the makeshift gallows, Nicolette chased after, screaming and cursing the way only a woman of her station could do. Her shrill, banshee cries rose high above all other voices.

  They pushed me against the great oak, bound my hands and legs, and lifted me to the platform. As the noose slipped over my head, I saw her pushing to the front of the throng. I’d never seen her hair in the sunlight before; brilliant and dazzling as the sun itself. For that split second, I loved her without limits.

  Nicolette collapsed to her knees, her body heaving in manic sobs. When she lifted her head, I saw the fire from her hair ignite her eyes.

  “Burn in Hell, devil!” she screeched and let the stone she clutched fly.

  The mob followed suit, pelting my body, and chanting in chorus: “Die, demon, die!” But my eyes never left Nicolette’s wild face.

  I felt the feeble crate kicked from under my feet. In one swift second the sun went black and the choir silenced. When my eyes opened again, the field had been vacated and the moon risen.

  The knots were good, the work of an experienced executioner. I gnawed through the ties at my wrist and freed my neck from the noose, further completing my drop to the hard ground below. Every joint in my body felt the jolt but I recovered quickly and successfully liberated myself from the remaining bonds.

  It proved a painstaking labor to return to the Keep, my abused muscles protesting in agony with each slow step. I soon discovered little reward for such great effort as I stumbled into my parlor to find six of my lynch mob helping themselves to my private stock and to my maid.

  Not that the whore seemed to mind; Nicolette, drunk with both brandy wine and bloodlust seemed all-too eager to offer her body as payment for my assignation. No doubt it had been she who advised them I would be weakest during the day, helpless when exposed to the sun. A pair of them used her in tandem and she encouraged the abuse like a pig grunting over slop.

  “Do not use her up, gentlemen; I have plans of my own for her once all of you are dead.”

  Before the first could reconcile with himself the sight of the dead man looming at the doorway, I had his throat in my teeth. I gorged, sucking the blood rapidly from his artery.

  Dropping the husk, I turned to the next. His first bullet met my chest square, the second grazed my neck. As the room erupted in fire from all directions, I stood against the fray. Their metal pellets broke through skin and tore through muscle but, like the slung stones, could not bring me down.

  I advanced on the next until the barrel of his flintlock pressed against my tattered shirt. It broke easily in my fist. His neck snapped with even less effort.

  The remaining four converged on me. As one, they seized my limbs just as they’d done earlier and dragged me to the floor. Naked, Nicolette rushed to the fray, drawing a sword from its fallen scabbard and plunging it through my abdomen. With a savage smile, she thrust the blade upward, splitting me open as fluid from my entrails seeped and mingled with the smell of blood.

  The men parted as my body went limp under their grips. Nicolette, however, did not cower from the gruesome sight of my splayed body. She reached into the cavity and I felt the chill of her cold fingers groping for my heart.

  With the last vestiges of my diminishing strength, I pulled the sword from my gut and slid its edge across her delicate throat. She fell dead at my side before blackness took me.

  There seemed little I could do. I stood by a high window and watched the crowd take its revenge on the last of the Romanian Cossacks. To my permanent shame, Samara knelt to the cold stone floor in front of me, and below the window’s ledge, she administered to me with her mouth as Tomas dangled to his death.

  I cried silently in pain and pleasure as his swinging body slowly came to rest. I did consider an attempt at rescue, but to be honest, Tomas’s own recent attitude belayed me. As darkness descended on the small cobbled square below, I considered that perhaps his eldest brother would have been the one to save from the blood disease. It mattered not at this late hour, but I mused over the idea.

  Wallowing in my new passion, I retired to my bed, pulling a very willing Samara with me. “We will wait ‘til the very early hours of the morning. When the town sleeps, we will cut him down and leave this place.”

  “He will live again?”

  “It is but a temporary death.”

  But my plan would never even begin. Late that night, soldiers broke into our room.

  “Rise, rise!” they roared, and I stared at their bright braziers wide-eyed. “The Hetman demands you now!”

  I slipped a heavy robe over my head, and pulled it tight to my waist. Arms grabbed me before I could find footwear, and dragged me from the room.

  Familiar corridors alerted me that I was being taken to the main stateroom
.

  The three Cossack leaders stood in feverish argument when I entered, their courtiers milling around at a safe distance.

  “Vizier Vyhovsky!” Boran cried, his face was distorted in fear. “The Lucescu snake still lives!”

  He moved to one side, and I saw Tomas, sprawled half-naked against the wall, his lifeless head at a fierce angle. Two physicians knelt at either side of his bare, white chest. They nodded to each other, and stood up together.

  “He heals, sire.”

  Boran whirled on them, striking one to the floor with a huge swipe of his hand. The other cringed back in fear. “How can he heal?”

  “Hi, hi, his cuts heal, sire,” the standing one said nervously. “His skin repairs itself as we watch. The demon within will not let him die.”

  Just to prove their point, Tomas stirred, his body twitching. A soft moan passed from his bruised and swollen lips.

  Boran drew his broad scimitar. “I will cut him limb from limb!”

  “NO!” The word sped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  Every head in the room spun to me. Decapitation would indeed kill my ward. I scrambled mentally for an avenue of escape. I approached the group with far more confidence than I felt. “He is Vampir,” I said, pushing the physician aside. “You would know of his kind as Strogoi. He has been such for many years.”

  Gasps hissed around the high vaulted room.

  “Dismembering him would only grow him new again,” I said, kneeling by his body. Tomas’s chest rose rhythmically under my hand. I stood and turned to my audience, my lies coming easily to my tongue. “Each part would grow a new Tomas. We would be dealing with an invincible army. A force of immortals.”

  I watched as the fear spread around the room.

  “Burn him.” Yermak Ifkoshev, the leader of the Lugar men, strode to Tomas’s side. A confident grin effused his old, weathered features.

  I shook my head. “Every particle of his ash would rise again. It would be worse than before. You would face a million of him.”