The Community Series, Books 1-3

by Tappan, Tracy

  “How dare you put your hands on me, you bootless sow!”

  Emil was a mere valet, valet to Ion Brătianu, the Romanian prime minster, true, but Pettrila was a descendent of the Rázóczi princes of Transylvania. An orphan she might be, with only one older brother to claim as her own, but her station was still one of the highest in the nobility.

  “The master has bid you come to him.” Emil’s voice was gravel on her spine. “Why do you naysay him?”

  “Quiet your tongue,” Pettrila hissed, glancing toward the stairway leading to the upper chambers. Emil had just made her sound like naught but a common târfă, and the young Elena Văcărescu, who Pettrila was visiting while the girl’s father was fighting in the war, loved any reason to gossip. Thank the stars that Pettrila was, as usual, the only one prowling the estate at night. “I went to him yestereve.” Pettrila kept her own voice low, her temper held in check by the thinnest margin. “I cannot go to him again so soon, as well you know.”

  Emil stared down at her with dispassionate eyes. The kerosene wall sconce behind him threw a hellish glare over the forbidding angles of his features, turning him into one of Satan’s familiars. “If the master says come,” he pronounced, “you come.” Bending over, he tangled a fist into her hair and used it to yank her to her feet.

  She caught back a cry of pain and rage, force of habit making her seam her lips tightly shut across her teeth. Although she needn’t have done so with Emil; he knew what she was. Hence the reason he was dragging her across the dining room, into the high, rotunda-shaped front entryway, and through the square-pillared main door.

  A fearsome black beast of a horse waited directly in front of the house, its body both sleek and muscular, its long mane falling down a noble, arching neck and across coal-black eyes. The magnificent animal was outfitted in reins and saddle of the finest Cordovan leather dotted with grommets of glinting silver: Ion Brătianu’s mount. Worry slid between Pettrila’s shoulder blades. Ion must be desperate indeed if he’d lent his most precious and fastest steed to Emil, no matter how beloved the valet.

  The horse flattened its ears and crabbed sideways at their hurried approach, but Emil tossed her onto the beast without so much as a by-your-leave. She landed sidesaddle, her long, layered skirts and petticoats leaving her little option. Emil climbed up behind her, gathered the reins in one fist, encircled her waist with his other arm, and set his heels to the animal.

  The beast leapt forward into a gallop, hooves thundering on the dirt drive. Pettrila’s long hair seethed across her face, the strands of midnight tangling in her lashes and catching on her lips. The summer sky disappeared momentarily beneath the leafy cover of trees lining the roadbed, hordes of sleeping black crows hulking like Death’s messengers on the knotty branches. They skirted a creek that looked like a long ribbon of shiny pewter under the bulging eye of the moon, then careened onto the main roadway. Here, the landscape sprawled into an endless vista of flat fields, the lush green fertility long ago baked to brown under Romania’s August heat.

  Pettrila turned her face to the sky and drew in a deep breath, calling the darkness into her lungs, her blood. The night had become a part of her just this year, when she’d turned one-and-twenty and come of age, entering into the full conditions of her breed. Her former sensitivity to sunlight was now a lethal allergy, relegating her to a life with the moon and stars. She’d thought she would miss the daytime, but with the loss of light had come the heightened sense of the dark. She owned the night now; she could breathe it, see through it, feel it as a physical entity, control it. She could let it wrap her in its cloak and make her disappear. Nay, she didn’t miss sunlight.

  She missed her freedom. Now that her survival depended upon a Sânge Taică, or a blood father, she could never be more than a week away from his vein, in this case, Ion Brătianu’s. Aye, the prime minister was one of those rare, secret few who’d once been married to a Vârcolac, thus turning him into a man whom an unbonded vampire female like herself could feed upon without creating a permanent blood-bond.

  Out of generosity, Ion had become her Sânge Taică this year, even though he already served others… Or had he done so out of an addictive lust for the intoxicating, near mind-altering pleasure of Fiinţă, the elixir which came out of a Vârcolac’s fangs when he or she fed? If his reason began as the former, it had become the latter. Tonight’s desperate need for Pettrila confirmed that all too readily.

  Emil yanked the horse onto the cobbled drive leading to the Princely Palace where Ion sojourned for a meeting with Romania’s dignitaries, slowing them to a jolting trot as they rode past the red brick cathedral. Before them loomed the Chindia Tower, an adornment to the estate built in the 15th century by Vlad III Draculă, a man known less affectionately as Vlad the Impaler, for his renowned cruelty. Dracul, meaning dragon, indicated the “Order of the Dragon,” a secret fraternity created in 1387 sworn to defend Romania against the powerful Turks. But Pettrila knew the political agenda of the Order to be but a façade. In truth, the group was a collection of men sharing a common, special lineage, one that was now intimately intertwined with her own race.

  The mixed breed of Dragon Vampires.

  Emil reined to a halt in front of the palace, also made in red brick, and swung to the ground. He plucked her out of the saddle and led her into a rectangular antechamber, candles spilling dull yellow light from three small, recessed niches. They traversed a long, vaulted hallway, passing regularly spaced wall sconces, flames low at the wicks and unnervingly still beneath their protective glass covers. Shadows of her and Emil thrust up the whitewashed walls in large, grotesque shapes as they passed each lamp.

  At the end of the hall, they arrived at Ion’s private chamber, and Emil pushed her inside without knocking. More kerosene lamps were lit here, ornate glass and porcelain pieces trailing corkscrew wisps of smoke into the air. Tapestries of the finest Flemish variety, depicting scenes of hunting and war, were hung artfully on three of the four white plaster walls, their brightly colored threads reflecting brilliantly in the candlelight.

  Ion was slumped in a hearthside chair in front of a dying fire. He was a man of average build, with dark, wavy hair cut short, and a thick beard. He had fifty-six years, but showed nary a gray hair on top of his head nor at his chin. The result of Fiinţă and its youth-sustaining properties.

  Ion turned to look at her, lifting and moving his head in what appeared to be a strenuous effort. His lower lip pouched out a bit and his pupils were glassy with the pain of withdrawal.

  “Oh, Ion!” Pettrila gasped, rushing to him. “Behold you, poor man.” She knelt at his side and took hold of one of his hands.

  “Pretty Pettrila.” Ion touched trembling fingers to her swollen cheek. “What has become of your face, dear heart?”

  Emil grunted out a reply from near the armoire. “The lady needed to be chivvied to come, sir.”

  Ion tut-tutted. “Emil worries after me so. You must forgive him, Pettrila.” He turned his wrist over, presenting his veins to her. “My pretty, pretty Pettrila,” he murmured.

  The scent of Ion’s blood scraped into her nasal passages like a claw-footed beastie. She pressed her lids closed briefly, fighting down a surge of revulsion. Even when she hungered, it was nigh an insurmountable task to feed on Sânge Taică blood, smelling so much like a chamber pot and tasting just as foul. Tonight she doubted she’d even get her fangs to extrude. “Sweet Ion, you grow ill from too much Fiinţă and weak from blood loss. I mustn’t feed.” She gently set his wrist away. “Not tonight.”

  His bloodshot eyes watered. “I ache down to my bones, dear heart. Please, you must do it. You must.”

  “I crave your pardon, Prime Minister, have I intruded on…a moment of the privacy?” The male voice, speaking in thickly accented Romanian, came from over by the door.

  The three of them turned to look.

  Athletic of build, with light-colored hair and mustache, the newcomer stood lance-erect just inside the doorway. He was weari
ng the dark green single-breasted tunic of a Russian officer and uniform trousers of summer white tucked into the tops of high black boots. A sabre hung at his side, and several loops of gold braid adorned his tunic, along with an impressive collection of medals on his chest: around his neck hung the Order of Saint George. Pettrila’s breath caught. Heavens, not just any Russian officer.

  General Nikolai Pavlovich Kridener, Commander of the 9th Army Corps.

  Striding into the room, the general leered as he looked between Ion and Pettrila.

  Ion blinked his eyes into focus, then craned to peer over the general’s shoulder at the open doorway, surely wondering how the man had come to be here unannounced.

  Removing a glove one finger at a time, Kridener stopped several feet away, his hawk-like gaze running over Ion’s face.

  Noting the prime minister’s glassy eyes and sagging features, perhaps? A prickly dread rippled up Pettrila’s spine. The general’s leer vanished.

  “You’re a man of admirable statecraft, of this I have been assured.” Kridener began removing his other glove, then paused, as if needing to confirm that. “You understand the many importances to Romania of this war, yes?”

  “Of course, General.”

  Romania was making a bid for her independence by fighting on Russia’s side against the Turks, hoping to finally throw off the yoke of the Ottoman Empire, which had held the country in their power for centuries.

  Kridener tucked his gloves into his belt. “Russian high command has ordered us to take the town of Plevna. In the first attempt, the Turks repelled us. For the second, we asked the help of your countrymen.”

  “And we sent you those reinforcements.” Ion ran his tongue along his dry, cracked lips. “Our leader, Prince Carol himself, commanded the troops into battle.”

  Kridener inclined his head. “An excellent fighter, the prince is, this is a truth. Howsoever, the rest of the Romanian soldiers are…they fight as if they have a daze. They are…how do you say—?” He gestured vaguely, searching for a word. “Lethargy in their ways.” He clasped his hands behind his back, his expression flattening. “We lost that second battle at Plevna, Prime Minister.”

  From where she knelt on the floor, Pettrila saw Ion’s fingers on the armrest flex in a spasm of pain. “The Turks are a formidable enemy, sir.”

  The general pursed his lips, as though giving Ion’s statement careful consideration. “Perhaps. Or perhaps something else is being the problem.” Kridener’s shrewd eyes flicked in Pettrila’s direction, only the barest glance, but she felt it like a drench of icy water.

  She tried to melt into the side of Ion’s chair and disappear.

  “Rumors are reaching my ears, Prime Minster. Of dangerous creatures who drink the blood of men, possess them, bind them in a spell, steal their will.” Kridener exhaled sharply. “We cannot be winning a war with men in such a condition.” His voice lowered an octave, a dark undercurrent running through it. “We must see to the destroying of these creatures.”

  Ion’s hand twitched.

  Near the armoire, Emil’s face went unnaturally blank.

  Something had entered the air…a hovering, calculating stillness.

  Pettrila’s heart broke its rhythm, sweat running between her breasts. The general knows. Her chest heaved on her next breath, her corset biting into her ribs.

  She heard Ion swallow. “Surely you must realize that such rumors are mere nonsense, utter blather soldiers spread to pass the time. I wouldn’t give this any credence whatsoever.”

  “No?” Kridener’s smile was gleaming and narrow. “I look upon your face, Prime Minster, and see that I come to the right man for the answering of this problem.” In three swift strides, the general was upon Pettrila, taking her chin between thumb and forefinger in a pincer-like grip.

  Pettrila gasped, fear compressing her lungs as Kridener jerked hard on her chin to open her mouth. Pain tore through her jawbone and she cried out, wrenching her face from the Russian’s grasp. But it was too late. The general had seen her fangs.

  “Vampire!” Kridener glared at Ion. “And you are doing the harboring of one.”

  Ion’s complexion turned the color of undyed wool. “It isn’t as you think. There are only a very few of us who have…relations with…with…” He cleared his throat. “The Vârcolac cannot be responsible for so many lackluster soldiers, I assure you.”

  The general’s upper lip curled in a preemptive sneer. “These are lies. I see the soldiers’ faces and they are wearing the same look as you. I won’t allow these creatures”—he gestured rigidly at Pettrila—“to be the cause of losing my war, I assure you.”

  A large shadow cut across the room.

  Kridener whirled toward the doorway, his hand going to the hilt of his sabre.

  A lone man stood in the portal, chin down, nostrils flared wide, silver eyes glittering unnaturally bright. Massive shoulders filled the span of doorway. He was the incarnation of pure menace.

  “Saints and Martyrs,” Ion murmured. “Does the cursed butler sleep at his post?”

  Pettrila’s heart stumbled to a halt. Lună şi steluţă. She pressed a hand to her breast. Moon and stars, how had he come to be here? Had he been following her again? A blush crept into her cheeks. Evidently.

  The lone man stepped inside, his chin jutting dangerously beneath a closely cropped black beard. He crossed to their group.

  She flashed him a warning look. Fool! There’s talk of destroying Vârcolac and you waltz into the lion’s den.

  He heeded her warning not at all. “This woman is under my protection,” he growled, his eyes slits of fierce silver ice.

  One of Kridener’s pale brows rose. Rather than bristling over the blatant hostility, the general appeared intensely curious about their intruder.

  Pettrila’s champion offered her his palm. She looked at it and, after only the barest pause, slipped her hand into his and allowed him to help her to her feet. Perhaps it was not the wisest course of action to encourage this man’s affection for her, but it would be stupider still to refuse his rescue.

  Without another word, her champion led her to the door.

  She heard the Russian general make a thoughtful noise in his throat. “Who is that man, Brătianu?”

  Ion released a pent breath. “That, sir, would be Grigore Nichita.”

  Chapter Five

  Present: Topside, 4:37 a.m.

  “Oh, God, not more.” Icy sweat broke out over Marissa’s flesh as the rusted-out, one-eyed Honda Civic and the green Ford Taurus careened onto the road behind the Impala. Three cars total, lots of bad guys in each.

  “Shitfuckpiss!” Dev cursed. “Stay back!” he ordered the three women.

  Marissa pressed her aching spine against the van’s metal siding, hiding as best she could behind the one closed door. Tears welled into her eyes. This night sucked so bad.

  The Impala gunned closer, almost ramming their bumper. Red-haired Tollar chin-upped himself out of the passenger-side window and jumped onto the hood of the car, riding it like a surfboard. He cocked his arm back, preparing to throw something.

  “Bătaie Blade!” Bull Tattoo Gábor shouted in warning.

  Dev slammed his shoulder up against his side of the van to get out of the way as, whoosh, a knife sliced inside and embedded in the back of the Dodge’s passenger-side seat. A second later, whomp, the seat exploded.

  “Jay-sus!” Sedge the driver batted at the cloud of yellow foam balls and vinyl pieces floating around him. It looked like Winnie the Pooh had just stepped on a land mine.

  Tink-plink-tink-tink.

  Someone inside the Impala was peppering the van with bullets. Marissa ducked further into the shadows, not that there was anywhere to go, and squinted her eyes at the driver of the Impala. It was the neo-Nazi Bat Man Dev had thrown a knife at over by—

  Tink. “Aargh!” Dev’s rifle flew out of his hands, hit the van floor, and smoked from its bullet wound. Dev shook his hand. “Fuck.”

  “That�
�s what you get”—Gábor grabbed the interior metal frame as the van swerved hard to the right—“for stabbing Krolan.”

  Marissa pitched over into Hadley. Did these guys know each other? This was so bizarre. She scrambled upright as whizzzz—plink. A bullet hole materialized in the front windshield.

  “Shit on a stick!” Sedge glared over his shoulder at the men in back. “Do you think maybe you assholes could shoot those dickheads already!?”

  They all lurched as the Impala rammed their bumper.

  “It’s called a gas pedal,” Thomal yelled back. “Do you think maybe you could use it some time soon?!”

  “This thing drives like a fucking cow, dammit, and that Impala has a V8.”

  Marissa screamed, not caring who had what. Tollar had just leapt from the hood of the Impala into the Dodge and socked Dev hard in the gut.

  Grunting, Dev ducked the next blow, then kicked Tollar out of the van with a booted foot rammed in his gut.

  The Impala veered sharply to avoid his somersaulting body.

  The half-blind Civic shot forward to take its place.

  Tollar staggered to his feet and sprinted for the Impala.

  Marissa exhaled roughly. My God, were these bad guys made out of an indestructible alloy?

  With a neat flick of his wrist, Dev threw a knife at the escaping Tollar. It flipped end over end through the night, the glint of streetlights racing along its length, then buried hilt-deep in Tollar’s butt.

  Tollar hollered and arched.

  “Oh, ho,” Dev laughed, “the quarterback is toast. That’ll show you, Tollar, you dildo.” He kept laughing. “Won’t be sitting for a week.”

  Marissa stared at Dev, watching him laugh in the middle of this tornado. He had one of those Bruce Willis laughs, the kind that’s filled with a delight over life’s ironies, even when the world was falling apart around him. “You didn’t kill him,” she observed.

  “What?” Dev glanced at her. “Tollar?” He shrugged. “Just returning the favor, I guess. He hasn’t killed me a time or two when—”