The Community Series, Books 1-3

by Tappan, Tracy

  Numbness fanned over her. Both of her parents were dead, now Octav, too, and Ştefan might as well be dead, gone from her life forevermore. Loneliness ate a hole straight through the center of her, the will to resist ebbing away. What did it matter? She slipped a hand into her skirt pocket and touched Ştefan’s letter. Her throat tightened in a spasm. She let her fingers fall away from the grainy parchment. What did it matter…?

  She twisted one trembling hand into Grigore’s shirt. Wooden and without emotion, she drove her fangs into his neck.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Present: Community of Ţărână, October, 4:00 p.m.

  Pettrila Nichita entered Ţărână’s underground garage with stiff dignity, presenting to the gallery of observers the urbane, impassive mask which was her public viewing face; no expression showed on her countenance that she didn’t consciously and deliberately put there.

  She’d never been down to this part of the town before—little wonder; the place smelled ghastly—but the Tribunal had wanted to reconvene here for the gruesome work that lay ahead.

  She sniffed. Gruesome work. Pah. That was a jest. For all of Devid’s failings, he was not a murderer of innocents, no matter how much he wanted his human. Unless… She frowned inwardly. Had the Tribunal found some dissolute child molester who was already destined for the electric chair for Devid to sacrifice? Someone whose death wouldn’t give Devid’s conscience the slightest twinge? There had certainly been enough time to find the perfect sacrifice, what with all the manufactured delays.

  Yes, wasn’t it convenient that Dr. Parthen had ovulated the day after Devid was charged with his grisly task? Not that such a nuisance could’ve been arranged on purpose, but it was interesting, suspicious even, that Dr. Parthen had chosen now to procreate with her hideous demonoid mate. If the doctor had put herself away for only her fertile time it would have cost the Tribunal only two days. Instead everyone had been forced to wait the several days required for the doctor and her mate to perform the act which would get her pregnant, then the additional three-day hibernation period of recovery a Vârcolac male fell into after the stress of constant intercourse. And while her mate was all but unconscious, the doctor had refused to resume without him…and the Tribunal wouldn’t have dared reconvene without that woman. Six days had elapsed, and if the doctor hadn’t used reproduction, an act which always took precedence in this community, to stall for time, then Pettrila was the Queen of Sheba.

  For what asinine purpose remained to be seen.

  There had been one good outcome of the delay, at least. What was supposed to have been a single night stay in a jail cell for Devid had stretched into six long, miserable days.

  Jacken Brun hadn’t wanted to incarcerate Devid at all, but Pettrila, of course, had insisted.

  “Devid will surely slink off and bond with that human if left to his own devices,” she’d snapped. “Ask him yourself, if you doubt my word.”

  Devid had given Jacken Brun a look of barely banked fury. “Would you have let anyone keep you from Toni?” he’d said baldly.

  So, away he’d gone, stupid boy.

  The wannabe Soothsayer entered the garage now, along with Dr. Parthen. She was dressed in a forest green turtleneck this afternoon, even though the community’s temperature never altered from 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Vârcolac reproduction was unquestionably barbaric since the male vampire shifted into a primal state that rendered him insensible to the process. But to engage in the act with a degenerate Half-Rău like Jacken Brun had to be immeasurably worse; the doctor’s neck no doubt sported a panorama of bruises and savage bite marks.

  Devid was escorted in by Jacken Brun. Her son’s strides were heavy, as if his ill temper weighted every footfall. Indeed, his mood looked filthy.

  Pettrila sat in the seat reserved for the claimant of the blood-debt, the best place to observe the sacrifice, and watched dispassionately as her son was led to the sacrificial area, where a large table—large enough to hold a body—was placed, a sheet of plastic spread underneath. An array of sharp instruments was arranged on a small side table, and she saw Devid blanch.

  Pettrila felt one of her eyebrows flicker upward. Interesting. Did the boy not know what was to transpire? Had Dr. Parthen’s minions plotted Devid’s rescue without his knowledge? How truly odd.

  Her son glanced briefly at his human woman, seated on a folding chair in the gallery of spectators next to a whey-faced Luvera—what was wrong with that child? Then he turned to glare at Pettrila, his aggressive expression bringing Grigore to mind, as it so often did: that same arrogant set to his bearded jaw, those identical fierce silver eyes, the similar height and build to their bodies. He was his father’s replica in so many ways, making it no trouble whatsoever for her to return her son’s glare with a full measure of force.

  “Shall we begin?” Dr. Parthen asked.

  The nine Tribunal members took their seats at a table directly across from Pettrila’s chair, set on the other side of the sacrificial table and nearer the gallery.

  Pettrila maintained a bored expression, even though she was quite curious to see what tricks had been devised to thwart this. Whatever they were, she would surmount them.

  Dr. Parthen addressed Pettrila formally. “As dictated by Dantură Pravilă, the person to be sacrificed will be escorted before you for your approval, Mrs. Nichita.”

  Pettrila regarded the doctor with studied blankness. Ţărână’s leader has done her homework. The woman had familiarized herself with the edict of Dantură Pravilă which stated that the complainant of the blood-debt must approve the sacrifice or else the blood-debt would be resolved without a death. “Usher the man in,” Pettrila said magnanimously, “by all means.”

  “It’s a female, actually,” Dr. Parthen corrected.

  Pettrila gave her brows a vague lift, and without hesitation gestured for the proceedings to continue. So here was the plan exposed already. The doctor and her failed Soothsayer of a brother assumed Pettrila lacked the stomach to watch a female sacrificed. They’d made their first error, then. In her many long years on this earth, Pettrila had borne witness to a staggering array of human suffering. She’d tolerated all of it; she’d bear this.

  No, only Devid could prevent this deed.

  Dr. Parthen nodded to her brother.

  The Soothsayer opened a door at the far end of the garage and spoke to someone just outside in the corridor.

  A young woman stepped inside, a sweet blonde and blue-eyed creature, surely not more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, most likely in college. She was wearing a NYU T-shirt, blue jeans, and for some reason, she was carrying a weathered book tucked against her side.

  Pettrila sat back and gifted her son with a self-satisfied look, something close to a smile curving her lips. Are you truly going to sacrifice this girl? A cold-hearted serial killer would’ve been hard-pressed to slay this cute-as-a-button young woman. Devid would fail this test, and good; he’d never done anything in his life to warrant happiness.

  Every eye in the gallery turned to gape at Devid, the audience clearly thinking the same thing.

  Devid paled another shade toward sickly. One could almost feel sorry for the boy.

  “This is Josie D’Amberville,” the Soothsayer introduced. “She flew all the way from New York to meet you.”

  “Meet you” apparently meant Pettrila; the idiotic man escorted the girl across the garage directly toward her.

  Pettrila gave the two a look of pure ice, lingering her gaze on the Soothsayer. You think you have another ruse to play? “I sincerely doubt that.” She folded her hands politely. “But let us all take a moment to coo over what a darling girl she is.” She shot a narrow look over to Devid. “Don’t perform the ritual, son, please, I beg you. Everyone here surely begs you. I, however, will not refuse her.”

  A muscle shivered in Devid’s taut cheek and his nostrils widened.

  The D’Amberville girl’s eyebrows crowded together in an expression of confusion. She glan
ced at the Soothsayer. “I thought you said I was going to meet Pettrila Rázóczi’s great-granddaughter.”

  “You are. This is she.” The Soothsayer nodded at Pettrila. “Also named Pettrila.”

  Granddaughter…? Pettrila met the Soothsayer’s stare, and he gave her a pointed look. Ah, yes. At one hundred fifty-seven years of age, Pettrila was too old to exist as herself in human years. She would have to pretend to be Pettrila Rázóczi’s distant relative rather than the woman herself…if she were inclined to converse with this chit. Which she wasn’t.

  The girl eyed Pettrila uncertainly. “Oh.”

  The Soothsayer gave her shoulder a comforting pat.

  The D’Amberville girl hugged the weathered book to her chest. “This is…actually pretty amazing.” A small smile creased her lips. “I can’t believe you exist. Pettrila Rázóczi was supposed to have died at sea in 1877.”

  Pettrila pressed her hands together, her controlled expression almost slipping as a wash of memories hurled her back in time to the smell of gunpowder and salt water, to the sight of sails hanging in ragged shreds from their spars, ship debris floating in a heaving sea next to facedown bodies. And all of the red blood streaking the deck of the Tempest, crisscrossing the planking, back and forth, to the toss and roll of the ship. A prickly sensation crawled across her scalp. It was a wily ploy for this degenerate Soothsayer to throw her off her stride by reminding her of that tragic night of fear and betrayal. Clever, but cruel, and not to be tolerated.

  She took a moment to adjust the lay of her skirts, taking hold of her composure. “No one of your years would know about such an event,” she told the girl.

  “Oh, but I do, ma’am.” Josie’s expression brightened. “My great-great grandfather knew Pettrila.”

  “Did he?” Pettrila arched her eyebrows at the Soothsayer. “I don’t know what disgraceful antics you’re trying to employ, young man, but I think all of us here can agree that this girl’s relative never knew a Vârcolac.”

  The D’Amberville girl blinked. “A what?”

  “Never mind, child.” Pettrila gestured imperiously. “You’ve either been misinformed, or you’re outright lying.”

  “I…” The girl faltered. “I’m not.” She cast a desperate glance at the Soothsayer. “I swear.”

  “I know.” The Soothsayer gave the girl a reassuring nod.

  “Shame on you,” Pettrila snapped at the Soothsayer. “Did you pay this poor child to spout such nonsense?”

  “Excuse me,” the D’Amberville girl cut back in. “I don’t mean any disrespect, ma’am, but my great-great-grandfather did know Pettrila.” A breath escaped her lips. “Knew her and adored her.”

  Pettrila slitted her lids, her pulse hammering with a sudden flare of rage. “No one adored Pettrila.” Images of her interminable, loveless marriage to Grigore flipped across her mind’s eyes like a time-lapse slide show. Forcing down a sudden unpleasant taste in her throat, she swept the Tribunal with an authoritative glare. “Enough of this. I’ve already accepted the girl. Proceed with the ritual or release Devid Nichita to his life of solitude.”

  “Josie has a diary,” the Soothsayer tried again, “proving that what she says is true.”

  The girl nodded vigorously. “That’s right. My great-great-grandfather wrote this”—she held up the weathered book—“about Pettrila after she died. He was so consumed with grief over her death. Every page is filled with an outpouring of love for her.”

  Out of nowhere, longing cramped Pettrila’s stomach, and she stiffened her spine against the back of her chair. She never allowed herself to think of love. Too much betrayal lay behind that emotion, too much loss.

  The Soothsayer took the diary from the D’Amberville girl. “Luvera mentioned that you once knew a man called Ştefan Dragoş, so I—”

  Inhaling a discordant breath, Pettrila jerked in her seat, the name striking her with bruising force. The garage spun crazily around her, floor and ceiling smashing together momentarily. Air roared through her ears.

  “—tracked down his lineage,” the Soothsayer was saying, “and found Josie. It was pure good luck for us that Jose has this diary. I figured you’d—”

  Pettrila surged to her feet. “Lies!” she hissed venomously. “How dare you bandy the name of Dragoş, making this girl Ştefan’s relative in order to compel me to refuse her. I should cut out your tongue and your gizzard for such a disgraceful sham. Speak his name again, and I will!”

  Pettrila had never hurt anyone in her life, but she was a Pure-bred Vârcolac, with savagery a part of her blood, and as she issued her warning, she let all of the predatory darkness of her breed show in her glare. These two would be made to understand that her threat was real.

  As a single body, the Soothsayer and the girl stepped back. The girl’s eyes were round as platters. The knot in the Soothsayer’s throat bobbed.

  Silence dropped like a dark, tangled net over the garage, anxiety simmering in the air like brimstone before a storm.

  “At grave risk to my well-being,” the idiot Soothsayer dared, “I have to ask you, don’t you want to know the truth?” He flipped open a random page of the diary and held it before her. “Don’t you recognize this script as being Şt—uh…as being familiar?”

  Pettrila’s heart caved into the back of her ribcage. “I do,” she said in an acid tone. “It’s the same hand in which Ştefan wrote a letter to Pettrila, tossing her aside like a picked-over bone while he then contrived to murder nearly her entire race of people.”

  The Soothsayer shook his head. “After talking only briefly to Josie, I get the impression that this”—he nodded at the open diary—“tells a different story from the one you’ve been led to believe for your entire life.” He gently closed the book. “Ştefan didn’t betray Pettrila. Someone else did.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Pettrila flared her nostrils around an aching inhalation. Her lungs hurt, her breath like frost.

  The Soothsayer handed the diary back to the D’Amberville girl. “Isn’t that true?” he prompted.

  The girl’s throat worked for a moment. “Yes, ma’am. Ştefan was forced to write that letter you speak of because Pettrila’s life was in danger. The person who actually conspired to harm her people confronted Ştefan and threatened to put Pettrila on one of the ships scheduled to sink if Ştefan didn’t end the relationship. Ştefan agreed for the sake of her safety, but also because he secretly planned to come after her. He was imprisoned after he’d written the letter, though, and…” Lines of sorrow marred the girl’s smooth brow. “Many pages of his diary are filled with such regret that he didn’t make it to the guns on the Constanţa jetty sooner in order to save more of the ships in Pettrila’s armada.”

  Pettrila took a swift step back, the backs of her legs bumping her chair. We were rescued. I know not by whom, but whoever ’twas, they manned the cannons on the jetty and fired relentlessly at the Russian frigates, sending our enemy limping away. She curled a fist into her blouse. That had been Ştefan?

  “My great-great grandfather was utterly heartbroken when Pettrila’s ship sank.” The girl swallowed. “That’s the truth, ma’am, you can read it for yourself in his diary.”

  Pettrila peeled her fingers out of her blouse, forcing herself to present an outward calm. “If Ştefan was on the jetty, he must have seen that two ships survived. Why wouldn’t he have considered that Pettrila was on one of them?”

  “He knew which ship she was supposed to be on, and watched it sink with his own eyes.” The girl ran her fingers along the spine of the old diary. “My great-great grandfather had spies within the Russian camp, and he’d been told about the deal struck between one of Pettrila’s own people and General Nikolai Pavlovich Kridener. He didn’t find out in time to stop it, unfortunately. The general handed over a large sum of money to the betrayer in exchange for information about the escaping armada, but as a part of the deal, the general was supposed to let two ships survive: the Lady Revenge and the Randy Saint.” J
osie released a sigh. “But Kridener wanted all of Pettrila’s people killed, so he reneged and tried to sink the entire fleet.”

  Pettrila took another stilted step backward, knocking her chair sideways as images of that fateful evening swept over her. She pressed her eyes closed, remembering Grigore’s rage when they’d missed sailing on the Lady Revenge…and his reluctance to board the Tempest. He must have known it would be sunk.

  Pettrila’s eyes burned strangely when she opened them again. “Grigore Nichita is the name of the betrayer, isn’t it?”

  The girl visibly startled. “Yes, ma’am. How did you know?”

  Someone in the gallery gasped.

  After that, nothing. Silence descended on the garage, a silence so complete that Pettrila could hear the slow drip-drip of oil from one of the minivans, the huffing expulsion of air through a vent. The noises sounded thunderous…same as the sound in her memory of Grigore yelling, “Bloody betrayer,” after the Lady Revenge had taken a fatal hit, not cursing Ştefan, as she’d originally thought, but rather the Russian general who’d broken his word.

  “Why?” Pettrila ironed all but the smallest rasp from her voice. “Why would Grigore betray his own people, do you know this, child?”

  “For power,” the girl answered in a voice weighted with compassion. “He knew that his people would keep to the old ways of aristocracy in their new life, and he wanted the throne. Pettrila had the closest blood ties to royalty; marrying her would earn him the powerful seat he wanted. The deal he struck with the Russian general was insurance; he was securing his position by removing other rivals. He made certain that important families would be on the ships slated for sinking: Cantacuzino, Brâncoveanu, the House of Mihnea—”

  A sharp growl erupted from Roth.

  Pettrila met Roth’s eyes: Roth Mihnea, their leader…instead of a Rázóczi.