by Ken Brosky
“Well, that’s how I roll.”
“So it seems.”
Another bead of sweat had gathered on his forehead, where his dark black hair met his pale skin. Homesickness my butt—he’s hiding something. “Are you sure you’re OK?” I asked him.
The prince was silent a moment, staring at me. I returned the favor, trying not to get lost in his dark gaze. I felt an intense energy pulsating through my legs. Adrenaline flowed through me, readying me for either fight or flight … and my body sure as heck wasn’t thinking about fighting. It wanted out of this car. Out of this country. As far away from this prince as possible.
I couldn’t take it anymore. It was like he’d sent an army of ants up my legs, each one charged with electricity. I broke and looked away, glancing at Seth and Chase. They were both watching me.
Worried.
Chapter 2
The castle seemed to emerge from the trees, crawling toward us over the horizon. The sun was rising up behind it, casting an orange glare over the old gray bricks and shining in through the car’s windshield. Mr. Whitmann woke up, rubbing his eyes and turning in his seat to stare at it. He made a low whistle.
I mentally took in as much as I could:
Big, gray blocks of stone along the outer wall. Four tall towers, one at each corner. Two of the towers had pointed, steeple-like roofs made of red tile. The other two were flat, with tooth-shaped turrets. The gatehouse was three stories tall, and judging by the massive opening, it looked as though there really had been a drawbridge at some point. The car turned on the road directly in front of the gatehouse, giving us a closer look at the outer wall. Smaller flanking towers broke up the flat stone every fifty or so feet, although it was hard to get a good look with Seth’s face pressed against the window.
“Castle Vontescue survived ten sieges,” the prince said proudly. “Those flanking towers were once filled with soldiers. Now, sadly, we have a single guard who patrols at night. See those small openings in the towers?”
“Murder holes,” Seth whispered, slightly awe-struck.
“Indeed,” said the prince. “Just big enough to fire an arrow through. Tourists are allowed to try their aim with a bow. If they hit one of the dummies near the ravine, they win a free dinner.”
I turned around, sure he was telling some morbid joke. He simply shrugged. “They enjoy it.”
“Wait, you let tourists into your castle?” I asked.
“Only the outer wall and gatehouse,” said the prince. “The keep and its four towers are reserved for my special guests. But you must understand, tourism is a great boon for my country. People travel from all around the world to see Romania’s historic castles, and I am proud to be a part of it.”
“Sounds like a pretty good public relations stunt,” I murmured.
“Oh, ignore her,” Mr. Whitmann said. “Say, you have running water, right?”
“Of course. You can expect all of the amenities of a modern hotel inside my palace.”
“Does that include ketchup?” Seth asked, cringing as if he already knew the answer.
The prince nodded. “My personal chef is, how you say … Americanized. Tourists are offered a variety of snacks for their journey around the castle wall, including those dreaded hot dogs your people love so much.”
“Crap, I’m so hungry,” Seth said, rubbing his stomach.
The prince was staring at the castle wall, one eye twitching slightly. “It always feels so good to return home,” he whispered.
The car stopped, pulling next to the others. Already, the boys were filing out, no doubt with the same hungry thoughts as Seth.
A young woman and a short man with sunglasses were waiting for us at the wall’s open gate. The girl was wearing a long, flowing blue dress, her black hair pulled back behind her ears and curling at the very tips like gentle waves. She was beautiful. Like, positively gorgeous, and judging by the bulging eyes of the boys, I wasn’t alone in noticing. Her hands were folded together over her tiny waist, her bright green eyes watching us approach on the gravel walk. At first, I thought she was looking over our shoulders. But no—she was watching the prince.
“Father,” she said, hugging him. He returned the gesture with more warmth than I expected, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and letting his body lean on his cane. I watched carefully, trying to figure out what his weakness might be. His right leg? Maybe. His hip? It was impossible to tell. Maybe the cane wasn’t anything more than a fashion statement—you know, a Hey I’m totally a trendy European dude sort of thing.
“My daughter,” he said, kissing her once on the top of her head. He turned to us, gently pushing the girl forward a step. “May I present to you my daughter, Sanda.”
The girl bowed slightly.
“I love you,” Seth blurted out.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“I mean …” he cleared his throat, his face reddening. “That is to say … would you like some licorice?” He pulled a red piece of licorice from his pocket. “I bought it in a vending machine. In town. It’s warm because it’s been in my pocket.”
The prince cocked his head.
The other boys snickered. The girls groaned.
“Thank you,” Sanda said, reaching out and taking the candy. “A kind gift from a stranger goes a long way.”
She smiled at him. Seth, for his part, managed to smile back. Only where Sanda’s smile was beautiful and full, Seth managed something closer to a dumb grin, the kind you might expect from a creepy person sitting at a bus stop.
“Yes, and so we are all acquainted,” Vontescue announced. “My servant, Sorin, will show you to your rooms. I bid you welcome to my home, all of you! Enter freely, and leave something of the happiness that you bring.”
“Come along,” the man with sunglasses said, waving us through the gate with one crooked finger. He adjusted his short blue tie, tucking it underneath his old brown suit coat. Everything about this guy screamed fashion nightmare. Even his shoes were mismatched. He laughed as the boys hurried past him underneath the raised portcullis. “Such worthy specimens of the fencing sport! No doubt you will win many medals. No doubt in my mind.”
“I’m glad someone’s optimistic,” Chase said, wheeling past me. His wheel got stuck on a particularly soggy spot in the gravel walk where slushy, melted snow had gathered. I grabbed the handles behind him, pushing him forward.
“I am always the optimist!” Sorin said with a crackly-sounding cackle. He looked in his forties, his brown hair lowlighted with streaks of gray. The hair obviously was unkempt. Really, had it been combed, it would have looked out of place. His big sunglasses rested less on his small nose and more on his puffy red cheeks.
“Seth,” I called out, startling him. The poor doofus hadn’t moved, still staring at the prince’s daughter.
“This way now,” Sorin said, hurrying past the boys. We were inside the palace grounds now, the large mansion-sized keep directly ahead of us about twenty yards away. It was magnificent-looking, with tall arched windows and intricate wooden trim, a flat roof lined with marble statues of humans and horses and monster, and curved corners that extended above the roof in the form of red onion-shaped domes.
“An interesting marriage of many styles,” Sorin said, waving his gangly hand at the building. “Castles that have survived for hundreds of years typically begin to adapt numerous styles. Here, we have Romanesque and Gothic styles merging.”
“What is Gothic architecture?” Miguel asked, staring up at the onion domes.
“Look it up,” Sorin snapped. Everyone flinched. He smiled a crooked smile. “Apologies! Everyone is sorry. We are all so sorry, ah ha ha. Come.”
We made our way toward the keep along a gravel path that wound its way around massive plots of foliage separated by gray brick dividers. Inside each of the plots were hundreds of different plants and shrubs, bare and skeletal, waiting out the cold weather. They were broken up by a few trees whose bare branches were carefully groomed into a spherical sha
pe. The gravel path split in both directions, branching off so visitors could circle the massive garden.
“Yes, this is all quite pretty in the spring and summer,” Sorin said, walking backwards at the head of the group. “So beautiful. Over two hundred species of plant if I remember correctly.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “No, no I think I am wrong. I think it’s four hundred species of plant. Or maybe there were four hundred at one point. I apologize.” He cackled. “So much to remember. And who cares? Now, it looks like a graveyard. Not the type of place to take your pretty ladies, boys.” He wagged his finger at Scott and Miguel. “No … ladies enjoy roses, not bare thorns.”
Chase leaned back in his chair, glancing up at me. “Any chance he’s a Corrupted?”
I shook my head, smiling.
Seth caught up to us, glancing over his shoulder with an expression both dumbfounded and longing. A string of red licorice hung from his mouth. “So … was that real? Did I really just tell a girl I love her?”
“Yup,” I said.
“In here now,” Sorin said, opening the large wooden door to the keep. It looked as if it had been virtually untouched for hundreds of years—an intricately carved door with a simple brass lock. A touch of modernity complementing the ancient feel of the place. Easy to cut through with my magic pen, if necessary.
We walked into a pretty standard-looking hallway. Well, it would have looked “standard” if not for the rich wood panels and the old-fashioned slip-shade light sconces along the walls. At the end of the hall was the kitchen. Not just a kitchen … a kitchen for a five-star restaurant. Two giant steel fridges, a massive gas range with double oven, even a prepping station complete with a wooden butcher’s block. A walk-in freezer in the far back. Three chefs moved from station to station with a determined look on their sweaty faces. One furiously chopped at pink meat while another chef added green-and-black seasoning to a large bowl. The third—much chubbier—sang a low-pitched song in his native language while he stirred something in a large pot sitting on the stove.
“Apologies!” Sorin said. “The back door does not offer the most glorious of entrances, I’m afraid, but you can rest assured these fine folks are cooking exclusively for you. And you will be free to raid the kitchen when you are hungry. Heh, heh … I like that word … raid.”
It smelled like a five-star restaurant. Whatever was inside that boiling pot was forcing all of us to walk just a little slower so we could savor the scent: a hint of fruits, maybe squash, along with a generous helping of spices that tickled the nostrils.
“Come along, now,” Sorin said, opening the swinging door at the far end. We followed him into the dining room. To call it a room was an understatement. It was the size of the entire first floor of my freaking house! The dining table sat in the center, flanked on either side by a dozen seats. It was made of a dark wood, polished, with place settings and delicate-looking glasses in front of every seat. Old paintings hung from intricate golden frames, lining each of the stone walls. On one side was a massive fireplace laid with fresh logs.
In each of the four corners was a stuffed lion. Like, as in used-to-be-a-real-lion. Each one sat on its haunches, staring apprehensively at the dining table, its flowing red mane puffed out as if bristling at some grave insult.
“Fear them not!” Sorin said, stopping beside one and tapping one on the nose. “See? No one’s home!” He cackled. “They are stuffed … as shall be all of you, after you enjoy our chefs’ wonderful cooking, heh heh.”
The girls exchanged wary looks.
I walked over to the opposite wall, where a handful of small prints hung from beautiful wooden frames. They were in black and white, barely more than sketches. In each one, a terrifying skeleton sat in front of a thick book, making notes while a terrified person dressed in rags looked on.
“Ah, Francisco Goya,” Sorin said, coming up beside me. His coffee breath forced me back a step. “Goya was fond of allowing the subjects of his drawings to peer into the darkness, struggling to see what resides within. As do we all, I fear. The darkness is frightening, but also … curious. It does not give up its secrets without cost.”
“Unless you have a flashlight,” Seth said.
“Come,” Sorin said, hurrying to the opposite end of the room and opening another old door.
We followed him into the main foyer. Jasmine and Margaret both let out collective gasps. Rachel nodded approvingly. We all stood in momentary awe. It looked like the palace of a fairy tale prince right down to the polished marble floor. To our left were two giant gold-encrusted doors that no doubt led out into the garden and the front of the castle. To our right was a grand staircase with marble steps partially covered by a dark red carpet. The golden bannisters curled at the bottom as if the gold had been poured and left to drip down. Two marble lions stood guard at the base of the staircase, regarding us with eyes made of a green stone that glistened in the light of the ornate crystal chandelier hanging high above.
The stairs led up to the second floor, which wrapped around the giant foyer. There were more than a dozen closed doors, each one carved in a unique style. Waves. Horses. Flowers. A shield. The moon. The sun. Foxes. Birds. A tree. A woman.
“It’s beautiful,” Jasmine declared.
“Your rooms,” Sorin said, waving a hand at the doors at the top of the landing. Each one was painted a dark red. “And more,” he added, waving toward the other side of the staircase, where there were a few more doors between tall paintings of scenic Romania hanging from the stone wall. “For your handicapped friend, of course.”
“Thanks,” Chase said.
“But I must warn you.” Sorin pointed with one crooked finger to the set of red double doors at the top of the landing, square with the staircase. “That room leads to the third floor. The third floor belongs to the prince. You must never go through those doors, or you forfeit your life.”
Everyone held their breath. After a tense moment, Sorin cackled wildly, spittle flying from his mouth. “I joke, I joke. But seriously, do not go there. The prince is very private and he will yell at you. Now, I understand you’ve had a long journey. Please, find a room and make your toilet and then come to the dining room for a hearty breakfast!”
“I don’t think I’ve ever made my toilet before,” Seth murmured.
“Let’s not ask him to elaborate,” I said, wheeling Chase around the grand staircase, to one of the heavy wooden doors. I opened the door and stepped inside, nearly gasping when I saw the opening just beyond the bed.
A bathroom. A beautiful bathroom. Bright white tiles and big vanity mirror and giant shower stall with a bathtub and—gasp!—multiple showerheads.
“Oh my gawd I’m so jealous!” I exclaimed.
“He’d better have hot water,” Chase said. He chuckled. “Thanks for picking me a good room. Although it would be nice if it had a window.”
Seth bumped into me, sidling into the room. “Woah,” he said. “Chase, you can’t touch anything.”
He was right: the room looked like it was worth more than our lives. The bed was large, covered by a dark red blanket and half a dozen fluffy white pillows. Its frame was wood, hand-carved. Tucked in the corner was a bookcase, and sitting atop each shelf in front of the books were porcelain statues of colorful princesses. Each one was in her own unique pose. Some looked bashful, staring out at the bed. Another—with a blue dress and blue eyes—was dancing, arms arced over her head.
There was a dresser, too, just as expensive-looking as the hand-carved bed frame. A small flatscreen TV sat on top.
“Oh jeez,” Seth said, marveling at the end table beside the bed. It had a brass surface, held up by four marble statues of half-naked Greek guys who’d clearly just hit the gym.
“Careful,” Chase said, nodding to the gilded vase-shaped lamp sitting on the brass tabletop. “That thing’s worth your entire comic collection, pal.”
Seth nodded. He turned, taking in the pictures the walls. Each one depicted a battle. Some were paintings, o
thers simple wood carvings that had aged and faded over the years. We moved to one of the carvings, scrutinizing the picture: a man, sitting at a table with a glass of wine and a plate of food. Behind him: bodies. Hundreds and hundreds of bodies of soldiers wearing armor, their swords lying on the ground.
“Not the most uplifting images,” Chase murmured.
“Is this suitable for our impressionable young minds?” Seth asked.
“Hardly.”
We turned, watching the door close on its own. Briar appeared out of thin air, one paw obsessively smoothing a wrinkle in his vest.
“How did you get here, dude?” Seth asked, giving the rabbit a high-five/four.
“I hitched various rides,” Briar said stiffly. “I’d rather not discuss it.” He eyed the wood carving on the wall. “Just as I suspected: Vlad the Impaler.”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
He pointed his paw to the man enjoying his meal beside the dead bodies. “Dracula.”
Goosebumps prickled the skin on my arms. Chase wheeled back a few inches.
“The Dracula?” Chase asked. “As in, blood-sucking and all that?”
“To be more precise, the man who inspired Dracula,” Briar said. He rubbed his furry little chin, thinking. “Vlad the Impaler, a Wallachian prince who fought the Ottoman Empire as it expanded into Europe during the middle ages. He was known to impale his enemies, taking quite a bit of pleasure in it. It’s said that Prince Vlad once left hundreds—perhaps thousands—of dead soldiers for an invading army to see. The army was so sickened and terrified by the sight that they turned around and went home.”
I felt my stomach lurch. War. Carnage. Death. I’d already had enough reminders of humanity’s dark side to last me a lifetime.
“Difficult to be sure if the rumor is true, of course.” Briar stepped back, sniffing in a helping of the musty air. “After Prince Vlad’s death, a number of writers and historians were killed and their writings burned as the Ottoman Empire took over.”
“Men fighting men for land,” Chase said with a frown. “And books destroyed. It is not only the living who are killed in war.”
