Mrs. Dracula: Vampire Anthology

by Logan Keys

  “Ma’am,” Garess says. “It is tonight that we should choose who will be the representing fighter for your house in the largest games and championship. This is a fight to the death, but the winner will gain freedom and a household of their own. Your house has never had a winner before, it comes with much prestige–”

  “Does it now?”

  I have not looked away from my choice. Not once. I already know who I will send.

  “Perhaps, you would give Zamir a chance at this honor,” he says motioning to the near and darker skinned giant.

  I purse my lips still gazing at my chosen champion. “Him. What is your name, gladiator?”

  He’s still tight lipped but surprised. “Alaric.”

  “Alaric, I am Freya.”

  His gaze narrows. I nod my head at his question. I am a barbarian same as he, though much older, even if I look far younger.

  My name is an altered version of his goddess Frejya and he recognizes it. If I had thought this would endear me to my newly acquired fighter, I would be wrong. His eyes flash: Traitor!

  I am now owner of our own people, and for the enemy. Romans who pit our people against themselves and other slaves, and spilling our good blood for conquerors and masters. If he means to shame me, he is in for a mighty large surprise. I am not so easily shamed anymore.

  It is human pride that creates this tension. A pride I no longer feel in that side of me.

  I have done far worse than be a traitor to my own tribesman: I am now Freya, the dark heart.

  I am a traitor to humanity itself.

  The training is boring.

  The women watch enraptured, their excitement heightened by the pouring of extra wine. I’d invited so many of them, a gaggle of geese dressed in far too little clothing, and far too much jewelry, to watch my gladiators train.

  I don’t have the best gladiators in the city, but I’ve invited the one who does.

  She was curious, I could tell, and so she’d arrived, friend’s close behind.

  At first, Irena had made snide comments about how my own choice of champion for the upcoming games was pitiful. Also, about how small he was, and so he wasn’t certain to please me in other ways.

  While some of the women agreed with her assessment, I couldn’t help but notice all of their eyes trailed after my supposedly pitiful combatant as he sweated himself to a lather working through his paces and mock fights.

  Alaric, of course, was as dour and serious as ever. Never bowing, or making it a show. His concentration is so fierce, in fact, that by the end of his rounds, the women had quieted to silence.

  And when Irena saw that despite her dismissive comments, that I would not rise to the bait, that I was actually excited to see a woman of her …bite, she’d merely watched me more carefully. But a shrewd dove dressed in bright curls and pretty eyes that did not trick one, such as I, in the slightest.

  She seems as young as I appear, for she was the child bride that most probably assume that I have been.

  Her husband lieutenants for the Romans, and from her own mouth: “He rides me like a war horse every time he is in town, and so I avoid his company as often as I can. I find a good gladiator to wash him out of my mouth almost before he is even fully out of the door onto one of his campaigns.”

  Irena’s eyes linger over my “puny choice”, and I think I know who’d she most like to rinse her mouth out with if it were her pick.

  Alaric is stunning. Small, sure, but most are by gladiator standards. But well-oiled tonight, mostly naked, and fighting like a man who hates every breath he takes. Women love a man who’s nearly mad, they just won’t admit it.

  I above all should know what it is like to fall for a monster inside a pretty package.

  I clap my hands. “Ladies, I think that is all for tonight. Let these men rest. The games begin tomorrow.”

  Irena pouts prettily.

  She leaves, followed by the ladies who are drunk, but not too gone with drink to make it home.

  More are left behind that can barely wobble to their feet, only to sit back down again. These, I offer to remain. “No need to travel. Pick up your feet, have a rest,” I say, and the two quickly agree, settling back onto my settees, fanning themselves, and finally sleeping, snoring.

  I move outside into the cool air.

  I have company, it seems. Alaric watches me. His angry eyes drill into my back.

  If I was your average jilted, or rather, neglected housewife, I might invite him to my rooms. Or even, beg him to forgive me for being an owner of our own people. If I were Roman, I’d have him whipped for insolence. Instead, I turn to face him and wait.

  Like most people, he underestimates my patience. People with a face as young as mine fidget, eyes bouncing around, or rush the conversation to its end no matter the cost. So, when faced with someone still and sure, some tend to grow uncomfortable.

  I have lived longer than Alaric. And I truly have longer to live than any gladiator the night before a big championship. One that most assuredly would kill him.

  As if I would let my new prize die.

  I see that it surprises him to break first. Angers him further. “Do you enjoy keeping us like pets?” he hisses.

  “Such insolence,” I say, but smile.

  It’s not a happy smile.

  “You’d have me beaten? Your own kin?”

  I tilt my head at such a truth. Germanic people know one way or another we are all related. There is similar blood in all of our veins. Like the Greeks we value incestuous marriages to keep pure.

  “Tell me, Gladiator.” I use the term loosely. “Why would you want to win this for me? I have chosen you, but perhaps you long for death a little too much. Or maybe, you are frightened and mean for me to have you imprisoned now? Perhaps, you thirst to be finished before an opponent can do the job?”

  “No. I long for a win.”

  “For glory?”

  His derision is palpable. “I have family left. They are not all dead despite your Romans.”

  I show my teeth and he seems to notice them for the first time. He frowns at me, but the flash is gone, and so as usual, he’d tell himself he was seeing things. “They are not my Romans,” I chide. “They are not my anything.”

  “You would be able to free them as a free man? Your family?” I ask.

  “For a pittance.”

  I could buy his family. I could bring them here. But then they’d watch him die in the games. This way is far better for his future. And though I don’t usually care about the future of what is basically food for me and mine, I feel something when I look at Alaric and his struggle. His very human struggle.

  And I have not felt something in a long, long while.

  “Fine,” I say. “Then you shall win.”

  “You say that with such confidence.” He glares at the earth. For all of Alaric’s anger he is not confident in himself. He knows that for his family to be free he must win, but also is certain that the shot is long.

  “You will win,” I repeat. “I will make certain of it.”

  “If the championships could be paid for, my lady, then it would have been done so by houses much richer than yours. A purse as deep as yours, even, is not enough for this tournament. It will be by blood or none at all.”

  “Hmmm, blood. Firstly, my purse is deeper than the Dead Sea, and I’d be willing to bet I could buy myself a Caesar or two if I chose. However, I merely like this airy home and I enjoy not being exactly in the middle of the city so that I might have quiet and time to think. Secondly, I won’t need to buy anyone off. You will win, Alaric, because I deem it so. Now, leave. Because my temper is not short, but the night is young and I am as hungry as I am weary of your questioning me.”

  Alaric searches the table for my meal, but is wise enough to give a nodding bow, and flee the area to his chambers.

  Once he is gone, I drink the two half-wits on my settee fully dry.

  When they gave Alaric his win, he just stared across the roaring crowd righ
t at me.

  I was only there for the night fights, but the Coliseum was alive all hours these days.

  He’d won against the top competitor of the day in the first week of the championships, an almost impossible feat, but not nearly as unbelievable as it would be in the days to come. The battles would get more eccentric, deadly, and he’d probably face a few opponents with nothing but his bare hands. Even clothes would be not allowed in a few of the challenges.

  The fighter tonight was much bigger, faster, and stronger. But it was Alaric who held the bloodied spear, pointed end through the heart of the man on the sandy floor. Alaric had his wits about him, I’d give him that, but he was outmatched and he knew it.

  This was Irena’s champion he’d beaten. One of her many we would come to face throughout the competition.

  I left my seat early, smiling and nodding at the congratulations from other owners and spectators. It wasn’t my style to bask in the win, and besides, my residence would host celebrations until dawn.

  Alaric would be offered food, drink, even women, or men; it was his choice.

  I made my way, instead, into the alleys of Rome, needing solace, darkness, and to feed. I knew I’d find some ladies of the night here, but they weren’t my goal. I had listened, ears pricked to the sounds of something devious, patient, watching, waiting…

  “So, there are more of you around.”

  He pulls away from his prey, eyes glittering in the darkness. Spotting me in my hiding place, the vampire grins, blood spilling down his chin.

  “Rome seems a good place for our kind, yes?” I ask.

  The girl moans and struggles.

  “She likes it,” he says.

  I stiffen. Something about him is off.

  I flinch when he snaps her neck, not finished eating, but this hunt for him has been playful and not for food. She slumps to the ground, and I purse my lips at his frivolousness.

  I’m no saint. I eat and kill my fill, but there’s something bothersome about the vampire’s glee. Like he’s more animal than anything.

  He disappears.

  He’s fast, but he’s full of new blood, so I trail him easily. Barely a fledgling, but strong, I sense something else peculiar…

  A familiar scent….

  When I get close, I snarl, “Dracula.”

  He isn’t here, but this thing is his.

  Another woman lays in the alley further ahead, and then I find another. Before the end of the night, the vampire has taken seven souls altogether. Women. All of them. And none of them run dry, just a sip and then he’s killed them. Throats ripped out, terror still imprinted on their faces.

  I’m leaning over his latest, when I hear a child’s scream.

  I chase through the turns, past some of the more daring in the late night of Rome, and find him in a dark doorway. The parents are already dead in their home, and he’s stalking a young girl who’s trying to get away.

  Despite our dark hearts, we have rules. This is one of them.

  We do not feed on children.

  Youth’s blood gives us tremendous power, or so it’s said, but we only take from those old enough to have lived.

  I grab the beast by the scruff of his neck, done with this game. He viciously turns on me, fangs snapping at my throat, body writhing like a snake, claws scratching at my arms.

  “I’m not interested in watching you fatten yourself like a tick on children in my city.”

  His wheezing laugh fills the night air. “Your city?”

  The vampire roars at me, hoping I’ll be impressed by his long teeth, red eyes.

  Like any beast, he is too stupid to see that I am his better. Even smaller, I am far stronger. I prove this by smiling, before plucking his heart from his chest.

  He stumbles around, clutching at the now empty rib cage.

  I place the organ into my bag. I will have to burn it later.

  With my head cocked to the side, I watch him stumble out into the night, mouth gaping wide in horror.

  He’ll burn at sunrise.

  “What did you do?”

  The party is at its high point and everyone is drunk. At Irena’s accusation, I spin around, conscious of my cargo that’s leaving an iron tang wherever I go from my bag.

  Everyone else is drunk on my good wine, that is, everyone except me…and her.

  I avoid looking to where the heart is hiding. She can’t know about that.

  Irena is furious, however.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I know you drugged my fighter. I know you did something to win. Your shrimp certainly couldn’t have done it all on his own.”

  Ah. Alaric’s achievement. “Perhaps, he is just that good.”

  Irena comes forward, mere inches from my face. “Perhaps you don’t know who you are messing with,” she hisses. “I will ruin you.”

  “Okay,” I reply.

  “Okay, what?” she asks, surprise revealing how very young she is. Her face smooths into almost babe-like features, all round cheeks, and moonish eyes.

  “Try to ruin me,” I challenge.

  Her eyebrows, pretty and arced, climb high on her forehead. Then something blossoms in her eyes and she smiles. It’s not a sweet smile.

  It’s a promise.

  If I had known that even a human could be dangerous to our kind as Irena wound up being to me, I would have never challenged her. I would have let Alaric lose, and I would have stayed in Rome much longer than what I had.

  But, I’d always felt invincible.

  And Irena was the type of woman who had taken down the invincible many times over.

  Alaric waits for me outside. The party has ended and, in the cool air, he stands sober and half dressed.

  When we are sure we are alone, he says, “I know you helped me win. I should feel shame, but I do not. It is one step closer to my family and…my lady. Thank you.”

  And he bows to one knee, head low. “I owe you my life.”

  If my emotions had not been locked away under the bitterness of an unloved wife, one who feels widowed in every way, and also a widower, I could cry at this honesty and praise. Instead, I say, “Fight better. Make it look more real.”

  He nods, accepting my challenge, slight fear and awe etched into his golden face, before leaving me in peace.

  I wait for dawn, then leave the cold vampire heart on the window’s edge. Then, I take the steps into the cellar where I keep the best drink and goods. It also holds the large crate that’s hidden under a swath of fabric. Where I get my rest.

  “A killer is on the loose and these new deaths probably ended up as the two who left your party and never returned, Freya,” Irena had said days later when more Romans went missing late at night. “It may all be connected.”

  And that was all she needed to say.

  Within three days of my arrival to Rome, I became her rival. Three days, and I was too much of a threat to her, and how I preyed on the blood of my victims, she preyed on the superstitions of the Romans.

  My gladiator was winning, without fail.

  And a murderer was loose.

  Since the two women were also missing from my first party, and the rampant fledglings were haunting the dark streets at night, Irena made the comment with a light and airy voice, but the implications were dark and seedy. Somehow, my name and the murders became connected.

  And that blossomed within hours.

  Most, simply thought I was some sort of witch, and even sought me out for spells, coming to my door, offering to pay me for someone’s affection. Or someone’s doom.

  I turned them all away, frustration growing, knowing that a small spark such as this could turn into a veritable inferno if left unattended.

  The last day of the championships arrives, and despite the growing rumors about my house, and the fleeing servants from my abode, I look forward to this last battle. Both between Irena and I, and Alaric and his final competitor.

  Irena’s last and best gladiator will face Alaric.


  When I arrive at the Coliseum after dark, instead of visiting my own fighter, I visit hers.

  While it would be wise to back off, let Alaric fall, and in hind sight, this is what should have been done, instead, I do what I always do. I win.

  Her fighter is a big man, brutish, belly rippling from hard labor. His heavy brow is furrowed in thought, but he’s not surprised when I enter. Many of the women owners want to be with the men before they die, or especially if they win. Then they seem like a good luck charm.

  My nose curls from the scent of sweat and nerves. His heartbeat is fast, and it’s incredibly distracting.

  I let him lean in, reaching for me, stupidly trying to satiate his lust when he needs it for the fight that he will lose.

  The big man lifts me onto the ledge of only window in the room. It faces the sand, where he will meet his end.

  Before he can do more, I prick his neck from my own need to be satiated.

  I don’t drain him completely, just enough that he will be in a haze of weakness, and the championship will be mine.

  When they announce the finally tournament, my body is light with anticipation. I feel alive.

  But the crowd waits and waits, as I wait and wait, and Alaric does not show.

  I’ve even sent for him, but none can find him below.

  He’s fled. Has he become afraid? Does he think I’ll fail him?

  If I had emotions I could have wept to see the champion announced, and Irena applauded instead of my choice. The tournament was forfeit, and the win given to Irena’s befuddled warrior.

  Rushing home, I find a cloying scent of blood that permeates enticingly. Intermingled with this blood is another familiar and lingering presence: Dracula.

  My husband is indeed still in Rome.

  I follow the smell out to the garden. Alaric is laid out on the settee, his eyes open, his mouth slack.

  I turn away from his empty gaze. “Where are you!” I demand to the night air, but there is no reply.

  With a finger to my cheek, I hold them out in surprise to see dampness. Tears of anger are rushing out of my eyes. “I am bound to a monster! And he will not even show his face!”