General Ramírez nodded.
“Excellent.” Felipe vanished, reappearing in the cave in the Pyrenees Mountains. Somberly, he walked over to Diomira’s lifeless body and bent down. He stroked her face gently with the back of his hand.
“Diomira, I know you would have preferred to be buried in the meadow by the river, but you are family to me and you will take your eternal rest with them.”
Tenderly, Felipe wrapped Diomira’s body in the colorfully beaded, silk scarves that once served as room dividers in the cave. He vanished with her body, reappearing at his childhood sanctuary, placing her near one of the freshly dug graves. Felipe watched the soldiers assemble coffins, one for each of his family members, and one for Diomira. Pleased with their progress, Felipe walked over to Captain Martinez, who was yelling at his men to work faster.
“Captain, that body over there, draped in the colorful cloth,” Felipe said, pointing to Diomira’s body. “See that she is buried alongside my family,” he instructed.
Captain Martinez nodded.
There was a slight breeze and Felipe had vanished.
LAST RITES
Felipe willed himself to the sleeping quarters of Archbishop de Acuña. There, he found two attendants standing guard in the hallway. Felipe placed the attendants in a trance. He vanished from the hallway and reappeared in the archbishop’s bedchamber. He stood motionless, watching the archbishop sleeping soundly. Felipe wondered what kind of man could get a good night’s sleep after condemning innocent people to death and then watching them burn at the stake. Felipe projected his will and commanded the archbishop to awake.
The man stirred, obeying Felipe’s telepathic command. He grappled with his blanket before sitting up in bed. His eyes looked wildly about the darkened room. His eyes widened after seeing the silhouette of Felipe propped up against a table on the far side of the room. Felipe moved closer to the archbishop’s bed into the streaming moonlight pouring in from the window.
“Help! Vampiro! Help!” the terrified archbishop squealed, cowering with fear.
His trembling hands seized the rosary that hung above his headboard. He held the crucifix in his right hand, while his left hand drew his blanket tight to his chin.
“You needn’t bother calling for your attendants. I placed them all in a trance,” Felipe said.
“You have come here to kill me?” The archbishop’s voice broke with fear.
Felipe gave a half laugh. “If I had come here to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
“If you are not here to kill me, then why have you come?” he asked, from around the blanket.
“Tell me how you can sleep so soundly, knowing you murdered my family? They were innocent.”
“I was doing God’s work. Your wife came to us and gave a sworn testimony. She said your family practiced black magick and your father had turned you into a vampiro.”
“I’m afraid my wife deceived you, Your Grace. And for that reason, and that reason alone I shall allow you to live. You thought you were destroying the evil responsible for creating this monster. I suppose I cannot kill you for doing your job.”
“Well, if your parents are not to blame, who turned you into this creature?”
“My wife,” Felipe said, matter-of-factly. “As it turns out, she isn’t even human. Lilith is an immortal, the High Priestess of the pagan god, Saturn. It was Lilith who cursed me into the undead.”
“What do you want from me?” the archbishop asked quietly.
Felipe shifted his stance.
“You may yet to prove useful in stomping out the evil that lives in Spain,” Felipe loomed over the man. His eyes darkened and turned blood-red, placing the archbishop in a trance. “Get dressed. I need you to perform last rites for my family.”
The archbishop did as Felipe command, dressing in a black cassock. He reached for his rosary off the table and took a bible and a small bottle of holy water.
“Take my hand,” Felipe commanded.
The archbishop, without hesitation, took Felipe’s hand. Both men vanished.
* * *
The dark night’s sky, filled with stars, had given way to an orange, hazy horizon. The new day’s sunlight revealed dead soldiers littering Felipe’s once sacred childhood retreat. Captain Martinez’s body was face down in the river, with the blade of his own sword sticking out of his back.
General Ramírez eagerly hurried to Felipe. He bowed.
“Master, we wrapped your family’s bodies and placed them in their coffins, burying them as you have commanded. I took the liberty of making cross grave markers, writing their names on them. However, I did not know the young woman’s name, so I left her marker empty. I hope this is pleasing to you.”
“Excellent, general, I am pleased that—” Felipe was interrupted by his insatiable, ungodly thirst for blood that consumed him. “Wait here. I promise you and your men will soon get the reward that you so richly deserve.”
Felipe turned to the archbishop, who was standing at his side. “Perform the funeral rites for my family.”
The archbishop walked over to the freshly dug graves and sprinkled holy water on the graves.
“En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo. Amén,” the archbishop said, making the sign of the cross.
Felipe knelt beside his family’s graveside, clamping his hands together in prayer.
“I didn’t mean for you to die because of me. I ask that you forgive me and find peace,” he said, looking at the graves. Felipe stood up, his eyes turned pitch black and sharp fangs emerged as he walked over to General Ramírez.
“General, it is time for your reward,” he hissed.
Felipe opened his mouth wide, exposing five rows of sharp teeth. He clamped down hard on the general’s neck, greedily drinking the man’s blood. The general’s body turned blue as Felipe drained every ounce of blood from his body. Felipe tossed the dead man’s body to the ground like an empty sack. Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth. He gave a toothy, demon grin.
Still hungry and thirsty, Felipe looked at the remaining soldiers. A single drop of bloody saliva dripped from his fangs. In an instant, Felipe was upon the men, feasting on their flesh and blood. Vivid, haunting images of Zaybeth and his family burning at the stake and Diomira tormented him. Felipe tore himself away from the last soldier, leaving the man on the ground, convulsing on the ground, blood spurting out of his neck.
Felipe looked up, the night’s sky and stars had given way to a spectacular sunrise. He retracted his sharp fangs and wiped his bloody mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. He walked over to the archbishop.
“Your Excellency, there are several things you must do for me before I take you back to your bedchamber. First, you must never allow anyone to disturb this land. Declare it sacred. Only I will be allowed to enter and build upon this land. I don’t care what happens to the manor, but no one must touch this land. Secondly, you must purge Spain of the ones who did this to me and my family! Anyone who isn’t of Spanish blood must be flushed out. They worship pagan gods and practice black magick. Tell your successor that they must see to it that Spain is cleansed of anyone who is a nonbeliever, anyone who is not a Catholic.”
“Sí, I understand and I will do what you have commanded of me.”
Felipe patted the man on the back and gave him a half-smile.
“Excellent. Take my hand.”
The archbishop placed his hand inside of Felipe’s hand and both men vanished in rolling smoke.
WALLACHIA
Early morning. Valencia, Spain.
High atop a rocky cliff, Felipe looked somber as he gazed down at the choppy blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. His family all burned alive at the stake. Zaybeth was being held a prisoner in a Netherworld—wherever that was. Lilith had taken everyone he loved from him, leaving him with nothing but bittersweet memories that were quickly fading away like the tide that swept away the sand.
“Damn you, Lilith!” Felipe screamed in anguish. He lifted his e
yes up to the sky. “Please, God, I beg you to set Zaybeth free from the Netherworld. She doesn’t deserve to be punished because of me.”
Felipe tried to imagine how scared Zaybeth must be. He tried to will himself to her, but all he saw as a black void. He remembered what Diomira said about the future, that they will meet again surrounded by strange objects. Then he thought back to the curse. If he didn’t turn Zaybeth into a vampire, Saturn would possess her and give her the power to kill him. The curse left him in an impossible situation.
“Zaybeth, my love, be brave. If what I am about to do works, the curse will be broken and you will released from your prison.”
Felipe looked down at the waves. He had read somewhere in an ancient text that water had the power to break curses. How he prayed that was true. He braced himself. Felipe wasn’t afraid to jump, he was afraid his farfetched plan wouldn’t work. He took a step forward. A couple of loose rocks gave way beneath the weight of his feet and fell into the crashing waves.
“Forgive me Father for my sins. I ask that this hellish curse is lifted the moment my body hits the water.”
Felipe took another step. This time his feet teetered on the edge. He took a final step that sent him off the cliff. Quickly Felipe’s body submerged into the water, leaving a cloud of white foam floating atop. His body sank to the bottom where he remained face down, waiting, hoping, and praying the curse would be lifted.
Felipe waited and waited, but he was still very much the undead and to his surprise—bone-dry.
I am so sorry, Zaybeth.
Frustrated, and with no place to call home, Felipe decided to allow the undercurrent to take his body out to sea. After drifting aimlessly for hours, a childhood acquaintance came to mind—Vlad Dracula, the rather odd-looking, sadistic boy who impaled his dog, many years ago. Felipe recalled his father’s words.
“Vlad might be an alliance to seek.”
At last, Felipe had found his purpose.
Dracula was now the prince of Wallachia and perhaps he could use the powers of a vampire to win the war against his enemies, the Ottoman Turks, Felipe thought to himself. He vanished.
It was dusk when Felipe appeared in Braşov, the border between Transylvania and Wallachia. He happened upon an old man, sitting on the side of the road repairing the wheel of a rundown wagon. The man was too busy hammering and cursing at the wheel that had fallen off his wagon to notice Felipe standing right in front of him.
“Bună seara,” (Good evening) Felipe said.
The old man looked up startled, dropping his hammer.
Felipe flashed the man a friendly grin. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, but I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find the voivod, Vlad Dracula.”
“If I were you, stranger, I wouldn’t go looking for Dracula. The pathway to the castle is soaked with the blood of hundreds of men and women who went looking for the voivod. All were impaled on sharp wooden stakes. I’d turn back if I were you. Turn back before the son of devil knows you’re looking for him and you end up on a wooden stake, too,” the old man warned.
Felipe sniffed the air. The smell of fresh blood made him salivate. He turned and looked at the old man.
“I appreciate your concern for my personal safety, old man, but you should really worry about your own well-being.” Felipe seized hold of the man’s throat. “Now, where does Dracula live?”
The man’s eyes widened as his ruddy weathered beaten face turned pale. “There! The voivod lives there, in Bran Castle,” he said, raising his hand and pointing to a white stone formidable fortress, perched high on a steep cliff. The citadel’s red, spiral roofs stood out like pointed festival hats against the evening sky.
Felipe stared at the old man, his eyes darkened, ensnaring him in a hypnotic trance. Slowly, his fangs emerged and he gave a low, sinister growl that sent the man’s horse rearing up on his hind legs and bolting down the road, dragging the broken-down wagon behind him. Felipe saw only horror in the old man’s eyes as he clamped his fangs down into the man’s throat.
As Felipe gorged on the old man’s blood, the man's lifetime memories started flashing before Felipe’s eyes. The old man’s name was Beniamin Georgescu. He was seventy-three years old. He was a hunter. He and his beautiful wife, Relia of forty years, lived in a modest cottage that sat down in the valley. They raised two boys and a girl and had eight grandchildren, with another on the way. When Beniamin was seven, he broke his leg chasing…
Felipe staggered backwards, riddled with guilt. He turned his head away, not wanting to see any more of the old man’s life—a life he had taken. Zaybeth’s smile entered into Felipe’s mind’s eye.
“Oh, God,” he said, looking up to the sky. His fangs retracted. “Zaybeth,” he sobbed, with a mouth filled with blood, still holding the old man’s lifeless body.
Felipe’s guilt was short-lived however, as the desire to eat the man’s flesh consumed him. Using his sharp talons, Felipe brutally ripped inside the man’s body, tearing at his flesh, devouring the man’s liver, tossing aside the kidneys and gallbladder. He wrenched out the man’s heart and gobbled it down like a voracious animal. By the time Felipe had finished feasting on the old man, night had fallen. He glanced up at the citadel and vanished.
PRINCE VLAD DRACULA III
Once inside Bran Castle, Felipe found a complex maze of passage ways, secret chambers, hidden stairways, and tunnels. Vanishing and rematerializing—so fast, Felipe appeared only as a shadowy blur in the eyes of palace guards and servants. After an exhaustive search, Felipe found Vlad Dracula relaxing on the second floor in a secret parlor, which was located down a darkened hall, hidden behind the wall of a main chamber. The room was painted a vivid blue and shrouded in colorful tapestries that hung from the ceiling to the floor. Purple velvet drapes adorned the windows and was drawn tight. Vlad sat across from a fireplace that had a rather large mirror on its mantle.
Felipe stood motionless, hidden in the shadows, watching the voivod. He still looked the way Felipe remembered him as a child—pale, with large eyes, an aquiline, high bridged thin nose, with arched nostrils and long black wavy hair, with heavy curls. But as a man, Vlad wasn’t very tall, but he was very stocky and strong. He wore a slightly upturned thick mustache.
Vlad turned his head slightly and Felipe remembered something about him he had long forgotten—he had odd-looking swollen temples and thick veins bulging from his forehead. Vlad’s malformed forehead and swollen temples was hidden by crown— crimson-colored, velvet, upright, ostrich-feathered plume cap, augmented with rows of pearls and a gold star.
Felipe moved into the light.
Vlad leapt to his feet. He pulled out his sword.
“How did you get in here?” Vlad asked standing in front of Felipe.
Felipe remained silent.
“It doesn’t matter how you got in here because I know how you’re leaving.” Vlad said, raising his sword, pointing the steely blade in the direction of Felipe’s heart. Vlad stared at Felipe for a moment.
“Wait, I know you,” Vlad said. His pale, aquiline face put on a surprise half smile. “You’re that Spanish boy, the one whose dog I killed a long time ago, Felipe de Hayos.” He laughed, putting his sword back in its scabbard. “Don’t tell me you came all this way to avenge that old, mangy mutt.”
“No, that’s not why I’ve come here,” Felipe said, shifting his weight.
“Well, state your business and be quick about it.”
“Vlad, let me win this war for you. I can ensure victory within months where it would take you a lifetime.”
“And why would a Spaniard crave the flesh and blood of my enemies, the Ottoman Turks?”
“Let’s just say I’m bloodthirsty.”
Vlad looked around the room and burst into laughter. “Where’s your army, boy?” Vlad’s eyes searched Felipe. “Why, you don’t even carry a sword.”
“I do not carry a sword or have an army because I do not need one.”
“Then how do you
plan on defeating hundreds of thousands of Ottoman Turks in months, without weapons or an army?”
“With my special powers.”
Vlad’s eyes narrowed. “Take my advice, boy, and go back to Spain before you are carried back in a wooden box.”
“Vlad, you are the Prince of Wallachia, but why not King of England, France, or even Spain? With my powers, you can become ruler of the world. And the best part of all, no one will be able to stop you. I will be your secret weapon.”
“You’re mad. And you are beginning to try my patience.”
“Let me show you.” Felipe vanished and reappeared across the room.
Vlad rubbed his eyes. “How did you do that?”
“Oh, I can do much more than that.”
His eyes widened, his pupils dilated and became black as pitch. Felipe’s hands and feet distorted began to distort, his fingernails and toenails grew into sharp talons. His flesh turned black and slick, devoid of any hair. His facial features began to distort. Felipe’s back arched and enormous black wings replaced his shoulder blades. Right before Dracula’s eyes, Felipe had made a full anthropomorphic transformation into the eight-foot tall vampire.
“What manner of devil are you?” Vlad stammered.
Felipe gave a fiendish grin. “I’m a strigoi, a vampire.”
“I want no part of you, demon. Guards!” Vlad yelled.
“Vlad, wait! Listen to me—”
“Back to hell from whence you came,” the prince said as he thrust his sword deep into Felipe’s chest.
He pulled out the sword and threw it on the floor. The wound instantly healed.
“Fool,” Felipe snarled. His eyes darkened and leered at Vlad. Footsteps of guards rushing down the first chamber hall distracted Felipe.
Vlad tried to escape, but Felipe quickly wrapped his wings around the prince, imprisoning him in a deadly embrace. Vlad struggled to free himself, but it was useless. Felipe’s wings were like iron bars tightening in all around him.
Eye of Saturn (The Daughters of Saturn Book 1) Page 30
