He watched as the year 1448 drew to an end, as the Wallachian nobles rejected his claim to his father's throne. He saw himself defeated in a pitched battle against the proud boyars of his homeland. He saw himself flee for his life into the Carpathian hills.
It was 1453 when the mist lifted again.
He was sitting easily upon a low-cut tree stump, surveying the little domain which was all he had to call his own. He had spent the past five years as little better than a bandit, roaming the Balkans with his little band of marauders, looting without discrimination the settlements of Turks and Greeks, Bulgars and Serbs, Macedonians and Moldavians, Wallachians and Transylvanians. His host—how dare he call this assemblage of thieves and murderers a host?—consisted-of a few hundred Gypsies and renegades, Turks who loved the fruit of the vine more than they loved Allah, Slavs fleeing from rapacious landlords, homeless Magyars, uprooted Jews, vengeful Greeks.
And in the midst of their ragged camp, bound with thick ropes, lying naked, weeping, and trembling, was Murad II, onetime master of the Ottoman Empire. Now no better than a refugee himself, he had fallen by unhappy chance into the hands of his old friend Vlad.
Unhappy chance? Vlad thought. No, there is no chance involved here. It is Ordogh, keeping his word.
Vlad rose from the tree stump and walked slowly over to the fat old man who lay in misery upon the cold forest floor. "Sublime One," Vlad said easily. "I think that it is time we negotiate with one another."
Murad looked up as the tall, thin, young man approached him. He tried to ignore the circle of ruffians who giggled with anticipatory glee as they scratched their scarred faces through flea-infested beards and waited for the fun to begin. "Little Dragon …" Murad said thickly, "we were friends … allies …"
"Yes, yes." Vlad nodded seriously. "How sad that fortune has so unjustly afflicted you, Sublime One."
"When I regain my throne, I shall give you all Dacia," Murad said desperately. "All of it, not just Wallachia. Moldavia as well, and your homeland, Transylvania."
Vlad nodded again as if impressed by the offer. "And what of Bukovina, Sublime One? Will you give me Bukovina as well?"
"Yes, yes, Bukovina as well!" Murad said quickly.
Vlad nodded once more, then shook his head sadly. "But you have no throne, Sublime One. There is another Sultan. Mohammed, he calls himself, Mohammed II."
"A usurper!" Murad screamed. "Allah will damn him for his treason!"
"That may be," Vlad agreed, sitting down upon the ground beside the onetime master of the east. He placed his hand sympathetically upon Murad's arm and said, "But the problem, Sublime One, is that this usurper happens to be ruling the Ottoman Empire right now, and you are merely the prisoner of a group of homeless bandits." He frowned as if in thought. "And yet, a sultan may bestow provinces."
"Yes, yes!" Murad agreed, the terror showing in his face. "When I have reclaimed the throne, I shall—"
"Oh, my dear old friend, I do not mean you!" Vlad said. "Mohammed has been sultan for two years, ever since your overthrow. You have been a fugitive, powerless, now even out of gold to buy yourself supporters and protection." He leaned his face close to Murad's. "Haven't you heard, Sublime One? Even now Mohammed's cannons are pounding against the walls of Constantinople. He is the greatest power since Charlemagne, the greatest conqueror since Genghis Khan. If anyone can restore me to my rightful place in Wallachia, it is he, not you! If anyone can give me Moldavia and Transylvania, it is he!"
"Little Dragon …" the old man whimpered.
"No, I am sorry, Sublime One," Vlad said, rising to his feet. "I must buy myself into the good graces of Mohammed. I think that I must do two things in order to become his friend and ally. First, I must become a Moslem." He shrugged, dismissing the idea as a trivial matter. "And second, I must give him your head as a token of my devotion."
"No! You would not dare!" Murad sputtered. "Ransom me, at least! Yes, yes, Little Dragon, a ransom! I have friends, I have friends!"
Vlad rose to his feet, ignoring the pleading from the fallen sultan. "Janos, Anatoly, Kurza," he snapped. "Prepare him." Three members of Vlad's eclectic army rushed forward and grabbed hold of the sultan. One of them grabbed the old man's left leg, one other the right, and the third took the sultan's head in his hands and pulled open the eyelids, so as to force Murad to watch what was about to occur.
Vlad walked over to the edge of the small clearing, and Murad's eyes followed him as if mesmerized. The young man ran his fingers fondly up and down the smooth trunk of a small, straight tree, smiling to himself and muttering a few low, unintelligible words. Murad squinted to see the tree more clearly, then realized to his horror that it was not a tree at all. It was a long stake which had been sunk into a deep hole in the forest ground, a long stake with a menacingly sharpened tip.
Murad screamed and begged and wept as Vlad pulled the stake free from its foundation with a mighty heave, then carried it over toward the old man. He dropped it heavily upon the ground and stood over Murad, smiling as one of the Gypsies handed him a woodcutter's axe. Vlad nodded to another of his men, who ran forward and positioned the sharp tip of the stake against the entrance to Murad's anus.
"Sublime One," Vlad said gently, "do you remember, many years ago, when I was an honored guest in your house? Do you remember when you gave me a little gift, a little kitten?" He waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming.
"Do you remember why you gave me that kitten?" Again no reply, only whimpers and moans from the fat old man who lay upon his back, held immobile by Vlad's men. "I remember, Sublime One," Vlad said. "I remember well. I have never forgotten." He paused. "Do you know what it felt like, Sublime One? Do you know what that kind of pain feels like to a child?" He gazed into Murad's wild, pleading eyes. "Let me give you some idea of what it felt like, Beloved of Allah."
He swung the axe back to his right as his Gypsy lifted the bottom end of the stake slightly upward. Vlad paused for a moment, then brought the flat side of the axe head around in a wide arc, striking the blunt end of the stake with all his might.
The sharpened tip of the stake drove up through Murad's intestines, and his agonized scream was choked off by the blood which began to flow like a river from his open, shuddering lips. Vlad struck again, driving the stake deeper and deeper. He struck again and again, his face twisting into a mask of unrelieved rage and hatred. By the time the tip of the stake came thrusting out of Murad's body just below his neck, the old sultan had long since died.
Vlad stood over the bloody corpse, stared at it for a long while, then laughed loudly and long. "You keep your promises, Ordogh, and I keep mine!" His laughter rang through the dark forest as his men stood by and watched, rejoicing for their leader, fearful of him, confused by his strange words. After a few moments he turned to his man and said, "Behead him. Place the head in a cask of vinegar, then leave his body for the crows. Make ready to leave, my friends," he shouted, so that all would hear him. "We leave tomorrow for Constantinople! We seek an audience with Mohammed the Sultan!"
Vlad walked away from the grisly scene, leaving his men to tend to the beheading. He walked deep into the woods until he was a considerable distance from the camp, then said, "Ordogh! Are you here?"
After a few moments the voice came to him, speaking in his ear and saying, "I am here, Little Dragon. I am always here."
"My vengeance was years in the making, Ordogh, and it was sweeter for the long anticipation."
"As always, Little Dragon," the voice said. "I have long experience with the pleasures of vengeance."
Vlad sat down upon the cold earth. "And now? What will happen now?"
"I am not here to tell you details of your future, Little Dragon," the voice said. "But these next few years will be wondrous for you."
And the mist rolled over him and carried him forward through the years. The mist carried him to the opulent camp of Mohammed II before the broken walls of the plundered capital of what had until a few weeks before been the Byzantine
Empire. The mist carried him on the campaigns of Mohammed the Conqueror for the next two years as a trusted and valuable lieutenant, and the mist carried him deep into the Carpathian forest for a secret conference with the king of Hungary.
He watched himself extract from the sultan a promise to help him overthrow the usurper who sat upon the throne in Bucharest, which was rightfully his, the usurper who had the effrontery to call himself Vlad III; he watched himself extract from the Hungarian king a pledge to allow passively the destruction of his vassal, whom he had placed upon the Wallachian throne after murdering Vlad's father and brother; and he saw himself thus become the ally of two enemies—a public ally of the Turks, whom he hated for the abuse he had suffered at their hands throughout the early years of his life, and a secret ally of the Hungarians, whom he hated for the execution of his family.
He watched himself scheme and plan, kill and plunder, lie and cheat and deceive, waiting for the day when the Turks would put him on the Wallachian throne, waiting for the day when he was strong enough to cast off the Ottoman yoke and declare his allegiance to Buda-Pesth; and hoping that there would be a day when he could cast off the Hungarian yoke as well and unite the Balkans beneath his scepter.
The mist carried him to Bucharest, to the year 1456, to the day when he became at long last the absolute master of his small Carpathian realm. The mist thinned slightly, and he saw himself seated upon a throne in the great hall of a large castle. Vlad IV, the Voivode of Wallachia. Vlad Tepes. Vlad the Impaler.
And then in an instant the mist was gone. As feeling flooded back into his cold, stiff body and as his own consciousness reasserted itself, Malcolm felt the damp stone floor of the ruined chapel pressing against his cheek. The overwhelming power of the deeply buried memories had receded as suddenly, and as startlingly, as it had emerged.
Malcolm rose painfully to his knees and then to his feet, trembling and breathing heavily, then he collapsed as his legs gave out from beneath him. My God! he thought. My God! Memories in the blood! His memories, that thing's memories, in my blood!
Stay calm! he ordered himself. Don't panic! You have to gather up the dust and get out of here and get home! Calm! Calm!
He took a deep breath and then got to his feet again, slowly and carefully, watching warily for any sign of weakness or fainting. He forced himself to stumble back over toward the open sarcophagus. The jewelry box was still resting beside the conical pile of dust and bone, and his still-befuddled mind tried to devise some way of removing the remains without touching them. Looking around the chapel crypt, he spied a short, thin piece of wood lying on the floor amid a pile of debris. He reached down and picked it up with his shaking hands.
He used the thin wood as a shovel, scooping and scraping as much of the dust as was possible and then pouring it into the jewelry box. He wiped his feverish brow with the sleeve of his trembling arm, and then, after checking the interior of the coffin one last time to make certain that no bits of bone or dust remained, he shut the lid of the jewelry box and locked it. He left the chapel hastily, and only when he was back in the great hall, heading for the doorway, did he take a moment to reflect upon the remarkable experience he had just had; one that he earnestly hoped never to repeat.
The power of the blood, Lucy had told him. She had said nothing of the power of the dust. But then perhaps she had not known.
The sun was setting as he walked back out into the courtyard, and he felt for no logical reason that he had best be far from the ruins before darkness covered them. He knew this was foolish. He knew that no vampires were left to emerge from the dark windows or to crawl down the cold gray stones. But he hurried into the car and sped away.
He had driven for about fifteen minutes when he pulled over to the side of the road and leaned his head against the steering wheel. He placed his hand upon his chest in an attempt somehow to calm his racing heart.
The blood and the dust, the blood and the dust.
It was as if the blood had a life of its own, a mind of its own, and for the first time since he had begun to believe the tale his grandfather had told him, he was aware of an alien power inhabiting his body. It made him feel polluted and dirty, and he prayed silently that he would be free of it when he cast the accursed remains to the wind on the far distant continent.
It was well past dark when he arrived back at the hotel in Oradea. He was tired, drained from his vision, sore and weary and worn. He parked the car in front of the hotel and walked groggily inside, past the desk and into the bar. Holly was sitting at a table alone, and only two other patrons, obviously locals, were in the room. Holly looked up at him as he entered, and a flood of relief washed over her face. "Oh, Malcolm, thank God! I was frantic!" She stood up and ran to him, grabbing him joyfully and hugging him to her. He was so tired that he could barely manage a halfhearted squeeze in return. "What happened? What kept you so long? Did you find it? Are you okay?" She stared apprehensively at the jewelry box.
"One thing at a time," he said. "Yes, I found it, and yes, I'm okay."
"You've been gone almost eight hours!"
"I know." He sat down heavily at the table. "Get me a drink, will you? I have a hell of a story to tell you."
She ran over to the bar and managed to explain to the bartender that she wanted a large glass of vodka. When she returned and gave it to Malcolm, she sat down and said, "Okay, so what happened?"
Malcolm looked around. "Where's Jerry? I don't think I could go through this story twice."
"Oh, that creep," she muttered. "He went upstairs about two hours ago. Said he wanted to get his cigarettes or something, and when he didn't come back, I went up to make sure he was okay. He picked up some girl somehow!"
Malcolm laughed softly despite his weariness and his unease at the day's events. "In the middle of all this, Jerry picked up a girl?"
"Yeah. Do you believe him?" Holly could not help but join in his laughter.
"Is she pretty at least?" he asked.
"I assume so," she replied, "though I doubt that it would matter to him one way or the other, considering the mood he's been in. I didn't see her. I just went to his room and heard their voices, so I didn't intrude."
Malcolm poured the vodka down his throat and said, "Well, I'm not so polite. Let's go upstairs and get him. Like I said, I don't think I can tell this story twice."
They went upstairs and walked to Jerry's door. Malcolm heard the gentle sound of a woman's laughter from within, and he smiled at Holly with amusement. He held the jewelry box tightly to his side with one arm as he knocked on the door. "Jerry, it's me. Sorry if I'm interrupting anything, but I have to talk to you."
The woman's laughter rose and she sang out, "Come in!" Malcolm went white and began to tremble. He recognized the voice.
He flung open the door and rushed into the room, then froze at the sight before him. Lucy Westenra was kneeling on Jerry's bed, her mad eyes dancing with her laughter. She was wearing a simple peasant blouse and skirt, but the blouse had been pulled down from her breasts. She was holding Jerry Herman's head by the hair as his body lay sloping upward in a cobralike manner. Her breasts were covered with blood, and she was pressing his face against them, and he was gurgling audibly as the blood poured into his mouth and down his throat.
"Welcome to the nursery, dear Malcolm." She laughed, then with a movement bespeaking contempt, pushed Jerry away from her. "I can't thank you enough for all you have done for me."
"You can't be here," Malcolm whispered, his voice cracking and his knees growing weak. "You can't be here!"
"Oh, but I have been with you every step of the way, little Harker," she purred. She glanced down at Jerry Herman, who was paralyzed with shock, his open mouth streaming with her blood. "I hope you don't mind my dropping in like this, but"—and she frowned in consternation—"no one in this bloody village speaks English!"
A sudden surge of anger gave Malcolm back his strength, and he dove at her, but she raised one hand and grabbed him by the throat, bringing h
im to an abrupt stop. "Don't be a fool, Malcolm," she hissed, "or at least don't be a bigger one than you already are." She grabbed the jewelry box from him, then pushed him away as easily as if he had been a small child. "Did you seriously believe that I had any interest in helping you eliminate the power of the blood? Little idiot! I needed the master's dust for my own protection, not for yours!"
"Then … then …" he muttered, "the curse … the blood …"
"It is yours, my dear," she said, smiling. "Make the most of it." She pulled her blouse up over her breasts and it clung to the wet blood that covered her. "The master's blood gives me my power. If his dust is scattered, you would indeed be free of your, ah, interesting family situation, but then I would cease to awaken with the sunset." She laughed. "Oh, you are so easy to trick, you modern men! Van Helsing would never have believed me. He wouldn't even have spoken to me!"
Malcolm was having a difficult time accepting what he was hearing. "Then … then the dust does have a connection …"
"Of course it does, idiot!" She laughed. "The blood, the soil, the body. The Devil, the World, and our Flesh!" She wagged a finger at him reprovingly. "You don't read your Bible, Malcolm!"
Malcolm struggled to control his rage as Holly stood at the doorway, gazing at Lucy with undisguised dread. "But why?" he demanded. "Why have you done this? I don't understand!"
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