by Ricky Fry
And so the mood was generally light when they rode off as a pair, hopeful but unsure of what fortunes the day might bring.
The man with black eyes was, as promised, waiting for their arrival atop a horse which, by its haggard appearance, had seen better days. “Hello, my friends. Only two? Where are the others?”
Bogdan thought he saw a hint of disappointment on the man’s face. “I’m afraid they’ve had too much to drink. The beer is much better than anything we have back home.”
Whatever disappointment Ion had shown was erased by a smile. “Yes,” he said. “Our city is famous for the quality of its beer. It’s the water—snowmelt from the mountains.”
In short time, the city gave way to the forest. The horses grunted and flared their nostrils, heavy breaths visible in the chilly morning air, as they followed a steep track up into the foothills.
Bogdan was happy to leave the city behind. It had only been two days, and already he felt like a chicken in a cage. While he hoped to find some answer that might lift the curse, he was eager to get back to the village—eager to hold his son. Still, there was some fear about what awaited his return. More than once, in those fleeting moments of fitful sleep, he’d dreamed they were all dead, every last soul in the village consumed by the evil spirit of Vlad the Impaler.
They’d just crested the first of the foothills, mountains rising up in the distance, when Ion turned around in his saddle. “Won’t be long now.”
Halfway down there was a small clearing, a place where the hill leveled off and the trees opened to a view of the river below—white water cascading over boulders as it began its final descent toward the city.
“Here,” said Ion, pointing to a spot on the ground. “I give you the final resting place of Vlad Țepeș.”
Bogdan climbed down from his horse and looked around. Other than the impressive view, the location was entirely unremarkable. There was no cross, no headstone, nothing to mark the grave of a fearsome and bloodthirsty man who had once carved out an expansive principality with his iron fist.
Svyatoslav shrugged. “What now?”
“I don’t know.” Bogdan stood above the spot where Ion had pointed.
“Do you feel anything?”
He closed his eyes and listened, hoping for a sign, something to signal the presence of the evil spirit. The only sounds were the gentle stirrings of the forest and the rushing waters of the river below. “No,” he said. “I don’t feel anything.”
Svyatoslav dismounted and joined him. They waited together for something, anything, that might lead them toward the answer they were so desperately seeking.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Ion hadn’t bothered to climb down from his horse. “He’s been dead a very long time, you know.”
Bogdan was still listening, his eyes closed tightly against the mid-morning sun, when he heard the sound of horses approaching from the forest.
Svyatoslav must have heard them too. “Listen,” he said. “Do you hear that?”
Three more riders emerged from the trees and took up position next to Ion. The largest among them was armed with a heavy axe, much like the one Svyatoslav had left back at the tavern.
“What’s this?” Bogdan said.
“I warned you,” said the man with black eyes, as that same toothy grin spread over his face. “The only evil in our city is the treachery of its residents.”
Svyatoslav had been right. It was trap, and they’d been lead willingly like cows to the slaughter. Bogdan’s heart stirred in his chest, blood rising up and beating in his ears. “What do you want?”
“Easy now,” said Ion. “Nobody has to die. We only want the horses, and whatever else you might be carrying.” He pointed in Svyatoslav’s direction. “I’ve had my eye on that gold ring since you first put it down on a game of dice. Is it real?”
“Real enough,” said the big man. “But I have no intention of letting it go.”
Ion scoffed. “My friends have come all the way out here on the promise of four horses. I’ll need something to make it up to them.”
Bogdan wondered if they should run, make a break for the horses and disappear into the forest. But they were unarmed and in unfamiliar territory. If they could only hold them off until nightfall, perhaps the evil spirit of Vlad Țepeș would come to claim them, as he’d claimed the cannibal king.
The opportunity came when the man with the axe said something to Ion in their language. The words were too foreign for Bogdan to understand, but it mattered little. They began to squabble among themselves, and Bogdan saw his chance.
He never had to take it.
An arrow hissed past his shoulder and stung its target. The man with the axe fell from his horse, screaming and writhing in agony. Svyatoslav moved quickly, much faster than any man his age should move, wresting the heavy axe from the fallen man’s grip and burying it into his skull with a single blow.
A second arrow flew from the trees and found flesh. This time it was Ion who fell from his horse. Svyatoslav was on him just as quickly as he’d moved on the first, raising the axe above his head in a high arc and bringing it down in a violent blow that sent the man’s head rolling away from his shoulders. It came to rest at Bogdan’s feet, black eyes staring up at him with an expression that might have been disbelief.
Bogdan had seen many things in his short life, but he had never seen the horrors of battle. He could only watch, frozen and bewildered, as the two other men who had come to rob them kicked their horses and galloped away. It was over as quickly as it had begun.
“Are you okay?” It was Svyatoslav, who’d placed a blood-stained hand on his shoulder.
“Yes,” he said, though in truth his vision had gone blurry and the world spun. He dropped to one knee and steadied himself.
“Sit,” said his friend. “It’s normal. A few more deep breaths and it’ll pass.”
For a moment, he thought he saw Yekaterina appear from the forest, but as his vision cleared he recognized a familiar face—Svyatoslav’s son.
The two men, father and son, embraced and exchanged subtle nods without speaking a single word.
And so it was Bogdan, feeling somewhat recovered, who spoke first. “Will they return?”
“Alone?” said the big man. “Not a chance. Though I suggest we don’t linger any longer than necessary. It’s possible they went to fetch more friends.”
Bogan couldn’t help feeling disappointed. They were no closer to saving their village than when they’d left. He waved a hand toward the two bodies spread lifeless in the dirt, one with a crushed skull and the other without a head. “What should we do with them?”
Svyatoslav smiled. “We bury them.” His old, smoke-stained teeth appeared white against his blood-splattered face. “I know just the place to dig a hole.”
They’d dug many holes together, though this was the first without the benefit of a proper shovel. They took turns, the big man breaking up the dirt with the blade of his new axe, only stopping to rest as the two younger men scraped at the softened earth with bare hands.
It was slow going, and the sun was high in the sky when the axe struck wood. It took another hour to clear the rest of the dirt away, revealing the lid of a long wooden box that resembled something like a coffin.
Bogdan ran his fingers over the spongy, badly decomposed wood. A slight tingle ran up his arm. He couldn’t be sure if it was the same feeling he’d had on more than one occasion when the evil spirit had been near, or if it was nothing more than anticipation for whatever they might find hidden away inside.
“Are you ready?” Svyatoslav hoisted the axe above his head for the final blow.
He nodded.
The big man swung and the axe fell, pieces of wood collapsing into the dark, hollow space within the box. They dropped to their knees, pulled the rotting planks free until the contents were exposed to the light of day.
If Bogdan had expected to find the prince, well-preserved and intact save for a missing head, he would have fac
ed more disappointment. Whatever the evil prince had once been was no longer—the ravages of time had reduced his former glory to a pile of dust.
“Is it him?” Svyatoslav wiped blood from his hands and lit his pipe with a flint-stone. “Could just be another one of Ion’s lies.”
Bogdan scanned the forest, hoping for a glimpse of the evil spirit, or something that would confirm the ashen corpse in the grave was his. He closed his eyes again and waited, as he’d done in the moments before Ion’s treachery. But there was nothing, only the steady hum of the river and the chirping of birds.
Then it came to him—one last hope in his search for some kind of answer.
He lowered himself closer to the wooden box and ran a hand through bits of dust and bone. He’d almost given up when he felt something cold and hard. “Hold on,” he said. “I think I’ve found something.”
He wiped the dust off with his shirt and held it above his head, glistening and shiny in the sun. It was a metal stake, sharpened to a fine point at one end, and though Bogdan knew little of precious metals, he knew without a doubt it was made of silver.
TWENTY-THREE
“Please stay!” Nancy followed the housekeeper toward the front door with a cup of tea in her hand. Hot liquid spilled and splashed on the hardwood floor. Normally, she would have loathed such a mess, but as the days dragged on, she found herself giving less consideration to the things that had once mattered so much to her.
Inez had returned only long enough to gather her things. “I’m sorry, Nancy. But that poor boy’s death was the last straw. Something about this old house just isn’t right.”
“Don’t leave me,” she said. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
In truth, the housekeeper’s departure was inevitable. Funds were running desperately low, and Nancy had spent the last few weeks working up the courage to tell the only woman she still considered a friend. It was something of a relief, she thought, Inez deciding to part ways on her own terms. But as she watched the woman who had been their housekeeper turn the handle of the front door for the last time, she was overcome with the feeling of sadness and the loss of something she knew would never return.
“Wait,” she said, ducking into Byron’s study and returning a moment later. “I have something for you.”
It was the last of the cash she’d had stashed away in a safety deposit box. It was for a rainy day, she’d told her husband when they rented the box.
“I can’t, Nancy.” Inez’s face betrayed her secret pity for the sad woman who, in the last few months, had aged more than in the previous decade.
“Please,” she said. “Take it home for your grandkids. Buy them something nice.”
“Oh, those kids don’t need anything. I spoil them with love.”
Nancy was sure she did. “If you need anything, a job reference maybe, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Same to you, dear.”
And just like that she was gone.
Nancy fought back the urge to run to the window and watch her climb into the cab. It would only hurt more, she thought, as she slumped to the floor, back against the heavy door, and cried.
Her quiet sobs were interrupted moments later by a loud knock. Maybe it was Inez, returning to say she’d had second thoughts about leaving.
She jumped to her feet and swung the door open without pausing to peek through the peephole. Inez had only just left. Who else could it be?
Whatever fleeting hope she’d felt disappeared when she saw the camera and a young woman in a trim suit holding out a microphone.
“Nancy Hardaway,” said the woman, “is it true a young boy died in your house? What can you tell us about the circumstances of his death?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been advised by my attorney not to make any comments to the media.”
She was about to swing the door closed when the young reporter put one foot across the threshold. “Does this have anything to do with your husband’s recent conviction?”
Nancy wondered if there was anything these people wouldn’t do to fill a time slot.
“What about the dead nanny?” The reporter took another step forward, the camera operator sliding up beside her to fill the open doorframe. “Is it true this is the second suspicious death under your roof?”
Mr. Bennett had told her not to respond. It’ll only encourage them, he’d said. But as the woman in the suit edged closer and closer, Nancy felt the sum of her frustrations, forced down into some dark place deep inside her, come bubbling to the surface.
“Fuck you,” she said, the words rising up and spilling from her throat before she could do anything to stop them. “Fuck you people with your cameras and your ridiculous questions! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
The reported looked genuinely shocked, struggling for a moment to compose herself before pressing on with another question.
Nancy never gave her the opportunity.
She dug her heels in and shoved hard, forcing the reporter back over the threshold and into the crouching camera operator. They went down together in a tangled mess of flailing arms and expensive equipment, the camera breaking into several pieces on impact.
“That’s assault!” said the reporter, before turning to the camera operator. “Did you get that on film? Please tell me you got it.”
He was too busy fumbling with pieces of the broken camera to respond. “Shit! This better not come out of my paycheck.”
With the door clear, Nancy slammed it shut and turned the deadbolt. It serves them right, she thought, harassing people in their own homes. Besides, they were clearly trespassing. Let them show the footage. What did she care?
Her sudden act of defiance had lifted her spirits, and she was feeling rather good about herself as she poured a drink and took a seat, not on the sofa, but behind the desk in her husband’s study. The cellphone in her pocket rang before she could raise the glass to her lips. Mr. Bennett’s face, framed by one of his expensive suits, lit up the screen.
“Ugh,” she said to the empty room. “What now?”
She took a sip before answering. Lord only knows, she thought, how much money her husband had paid that snake of a man. He could wait a few more seconds.
“What is it, Anthony? I’m in the middle of something important.”
The lawyer sounded surprised, as if he couldn’t imagine she had anything important to do. “I’ve got good news. The judge granted our petition for Byron’s release. I’m on my way to the jail as we speak.”
“He’s coming home?”
“For now,” said the lawyer. “If all goes well I’ll have him back to you in time for dinner.”
It had been a long time since she’d last cooked, but with Inez gone she’d have to figure out something to prepare on her own. It didn’t matter. She’d missed her husband more than she would have imagined, even the stupid way he snored and tossed around in bed, and she would be happy to have him back in the house. “Thank you, Anthony.”
“Don’t thank me too much. It’s only temporary, just until he goes back to court for sentencing.”
The last part didn’t matter. At least for now she wouldn’t be sleeping alone.
“Nancy—” He was still in the same suit he was wearing when they’d taken him off to jail, and had only to say her name to send her bursting into tears.
She threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Oh Byron, it’s been just awful without you here.”
“I’m home now,” he said. “I’m home.”
When the tears had dried, he excused himself and went upstairs to kiss Nora. Nancy finished up dinner—a simple penne pasta with canned tomato sauce—and lit a single white candle at the center of the kitchen table.
It was almost romantic, the two of them eating together as the candle flame bounced and flickered. If he was disappointed by the simple meal, the way he devoured his plate didn’t show it.
“I hope it’s okay,” she said. “I never was much use in the k
itchen.”
“It’s no secret—you were always too busy entertaining guests to bother with cooking.” He reached across the table and took her hands. “It’s the best meal I’ve had since they took me away in handcuffs. Never go to jail, Nancy. The food is awful.”
She wanted to laugh at his stupid joke, but instead the tears returned to her tired eyes. “What are we going to do, Byron? This house—where are we going to go?”
“Do you remember Stephanie?”
She nodded as she wiped away the tears. Stephanie was his sister. Nancy had met her only once, at their wedding. The only thing she remembered about Stephanie was that she lived in California with her husband, a little-known music producer, whose only real credit was a Christmas album for a popular teenage pop star. Nonetheless, it was a major hit, played on radio stations coast to coast during the holiday season.
“I talked to her while I was in jail. She and her husband bought a lake house up in Oregon a few years back. Haven’t used it once, and the place is just sitting empty. She said you could stay there with Nora. They’d actually be glad to have someone looking after things.”
“Oregon? Who do I know in Oregon?”
“It’s only temporary, at least until I get released from prison. Think of it like a fresh start—a new life away from Boston.”
More like a banishment, she thought. But maybe a fresh start was exactly what they needed, far away from the things that reminded her of the glamorous life she’d once lived. And there was something else—an image she couldn’t erase from her mind. It came to her each night as she drifted off to sleep—the dead boy in the bodybag and those red eyes, glowing in the dark.
He squeezed her hands. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“It’s the boy, isn’t it? I wish I could have been here to help you through that.”
But you weren’t, she thought. You were in jail, and I went to bed alone at night with the screams of the caretaker playing over and over in my head. “Can we talk about something else.” She was tired of thinking about it—so dreadfully tired.
