Brides Of The Impaler

by Edward Lee

  Good question, Vernon admitted. Probably another wildgoose chase.

  Finally he found a map and directory board, which showed him that the building he sought sat at the other end of the campus. A small billboard next to the directory had this message: STUDENTS PARTICIPATING IN “SARAN WRAP” PARTIES WILL BE EXPELLED.

  Vernon didn’t even want to guess.

  The building was back near the Teacher’s College, where he’d first entered; the cool air sucked him in. The first door he came to read, DR. CARL AURED -LINGUISTICS, which stood open a few inches. Vernon stuck his head in. “Dr. Aured?”

  A graying man who was bald on top looked up from his desk as if annoyed. “I can’t be bothered now—I have an appointment with a police officer.”

  “I’m the police officer, sir. Inspector Howard Vernon.”

  “Forgive me! You don’t look at all like the police.”

  Vernon smiled gratefully. Well, that’s a change. “I appreciate you making the time to see me on such short notice.”

  He held his hands up and pffft’d, like a Jewish patriarch. “The summer sessions? Not very busy. Please, have a seat.”

  Vernon sat down, having noticed enough of the cramped office to tell it was sterile and lackluster, which probably paralleled this man’s job.

  “On the phone you mentioned ‘strange’ writing at some crime scenes,” Dr. Aured recalled. “It sounds intriguing. May I ask what crimes were committed?”

  “Murder and vandalism,” was all Vernon said. He slipped the man the notes he’d taken. “Pardon my handwriting. But the words look to be from several languages. One, I suppose, is Latin, and the rest…Well, that’s why I’m here.”

  Dr. Aured appeared thrilled as he focused on the notes. “Mmmm,” he muttered several times, and, “Um-hmm.” After only a few moments, his gaze snapped back up. “It’s all Latin, in a sense—Latin-rooted, I mean—because it’s all founded in Vulgar Latin; a Romance language, in other words. This line here, for instance…” Aured touched the tip of his pen to what Vernon had transcribed from the closet in the precinct women’s room:

  TARA ROMANEASCA, TARA FLAESC ROMANAE and TARA FLAESC WALLKYA.

  “It’s a bit of a hodgepodge,” the linguist said. “Latin mixed with Saxon and Old English, and quite a bit of Finno-Ugris—the language of the Magyars of Hungary. Before the Turks overwhelmed the Slavias in the mid-1400s, the crusader princes of Romania and Bulgaria—all under the supervision of the Polish and Hungarian kings—frequently spoke in a meld of these languages so that Turk spies and non-Christians would be less likely to understand them. But these quotes are very strange…”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Oh! Sorry! Of course, the reason you’re here,” the elderly man exclaimed. “It means something akin to ‘This land of Romania, this flesh of Romania.’ And ‘Tara flaesc Wallkya’ roughly translates to ‘This flesh of Wallachia.’”

  “Wallachia?” Vernon questioned. “What’s that?”

  “Southern Romania, referred to, of course, in the first quote.”

  The next line was: ME ENAMOURER AD INFINITUM.

  From the chapel. Vernon tried to keep things sorted.

  “This is more bastardized Latin, just less bastardized. ‘My true love forever.’”

  Vernon didn’t know which was stranger, the first quote or the second. Why on earth would bum-girls write something like that? But then he realized the folly of the question. How could they come to write ANY of it?

  Unless someone was teaching them…

  Dr. Aured chuckled. “But this next quote, is by far more interesting.”

  Vernon looked at the notes again and saw: SINGELE LUI TRAIESTE, the words written in magic marker on the impaled body of Virginia Fleming.

  “Yes, much more interesting, indeed. It seems to be an unaccented attempt at modern Romanian or Româna. You see, Inspector, the modern Romanian language is derived from Aromanian and Megleno-Romanian, seven vowels, twenty consonants, and twenty-eight letters. To ease some of the confusion, we have this system today known as the IPA—”

  Why do I have a feeling that doesn’t stand for India Pale Ale? Vernon thought.

  “—the International Phonetic Alphabet, which in some cases standardizes the different accents, diphthongs, triphthongs, etc., that exist throughout the world. But your criminals aren’t regarding the IPA at all, almost as if they’re trying to write by ear, and aren’t particularly educated.”

  “You nailed that one,” Vernon told him.

  Did Aured smile ever so slightly? He looked at Vernon and said, “‘Singele lui traieste’ means ‘His blood is alive.’”

  Vernon squinted at him.

  “You have some very unique criminals here, Inspector. Ultimately, they’re fudging phonotypic Cyrillic with Old Church Slavonic. No diphthongs, no triphthongs, no accents.”

  “You’re already way over my head, sir.”

  “Just the fact that the words are Romanian, I mean. It’s almost funny—not that murder can ever be funny, of course.” The linguist was digressing in his overkill of knowledge, apparently amused by something Vernon couldn’t comprehend. “Then the reference to Wallkya—Wallachia, in tandem with the line, ‘His blood is alive.’”

  “You’re still over my head.”

  Now the old academician smiled outright. “I’m afraid that’s all I have for you, Inspector.” He chuckled loudly. “Unless your murder victim happened to be impaled.”

  Vernon nearly fell out of his chair. “Was that…in today’s paper? Nobody told me.”

  Aured’s smile turned blank. “Well, no. I just made it up, based on the only inference I could assume. You don’t mean that your murder victim actually was impaled?”

  Vernon felt as though someone had smacked him in the head. “We actually have two victims who were impaled, Doctor. How could you know that? I know for a fact that it’s not in the papers yet.”

  “Oh, dear.” Aured’s eyes thinned in perplexion. “Just…from the words, Inspector. I was making a joke but now it seems…” He cleared his throat. “Wallachia is the province of Romania that was once overruled together with two more provinces, Moldava, and Transylvania, and in the mid-1400s, the warlord of these provinces was Vlad the Impaler—the historical Dracula.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  (I)

  “Yeah, I’m sorry but this was last-minute,” Paul’s voice relayed over the phone. “Jess and I have to grab a commuter flight to Boston in two hours. Big accreditation conference in the morning, and there’s no way out of it. We won’t be back till tomorrow after six.”

  “That’s okay,” Cristina told him. “If you have to go, you have to go.”

  “It’s this license-renewal stuff that we have to have because of a lot of our clients. But it’s only one night.”

  Cristina winced to herself when the implication finally set. I’ll have to spend the night here by myself, she thought. But just as quickly Paul added, “Britt’s coming over, though, so you won’t be by yourself.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s great,” she said in a repressed relief.

  “And, remember, we’re still on for tomorrow night with Jess and Britt, but don’t worry about anything. We’ll pick the carryout up on our way back from the airport. But grab some plum wine at the store, okay? And a couple six-packs of this beer called Tsing Tao. It’s really good with Chinese food.”

  She didn’t balk at his mention of alcohol. He only gets over the top when he’s drinking liquor. And, besides, it was a very busy day he’d be winding down from. “Sure, honey. Have a safe trip, and call me when you get in.” Then she half-joked, “And don’t be letting Jess drag you to any of those strip-joint places. Promise?”

  Paul chuckled over the line. “Of course, I promise. What do I need to go to a strip joint for when I’ve got a hot number like you waiting for me?”

  Cristina blushed at the crude flattery. “Good answer, so the minute you get home, I’ll give you a lap dance you’ll never f
orget,” she assured, and then they exchanged their “I love you”s and hung up.

  Cristina gritted her teeth when she flexed her shoulders back. Every muscle in her body continued to ache. She popped two Advils just as the knocks sounded at the door.

  “Hi!” Britt greeted at the threshold. “Your overnight guest has arrived, and—” Thunder rumbled overhead. A light drizzle had just accelerated to heavy rain.

  “Come in!” Cristina urged and stepped back. “I hadn’t even noticed that a storm was coming.” When Britt rushed in, Cristina peered down the street and watched late afternoon grow darker in fast increments. She began to close the door but paused when she thought she noticed a curtain flutter in a sidelight window across the street. The church, she thought. Then her eyes darted right; wet footsteps slapped down the sidewalk as two unkempt women ran, giggling, to escape the rain. Cristina watched after them but they disappeared quickly amid the torrential sheets. I wonder if it was those girls I saw. She came off her heels an inch when a crack of lightning roared. Cristina slammed the door and locked it.

  “You don’t hear that a whole lot,” Britt called. “Jeez, like a bomb going off.” She’d set down her small overnight bag, plus a grocery bag, and was already in the bathroom drying her hair off.

  Cristina meandered back. “No, you don’t.” She stopped at the spacious kitchen counter, looking at the bag. “I just don’t like the idea of Paul and Jess flying somewhere when there’s bad weather.”

  “Little sister, a flight from here to Boston is so fast the stewardesses barely have time to get the complimentary drinks out before they’re landing. And if there’s lightning, they’ll delay the flight a little while till it’s gone. Relax. They’re big boys.”

  Cristina nodded to herself, peeking into the grocery bag.

  “And we’ll have fun!” Britt continued. “We can watch movies and get smashed!”

  “I’m still a little wobbly from all that booze the other night with Bruno.” Cristina pulled some things out of the bag, including a bottle of teriyaki marinade. “What did you bring?”

  “Dinner. You ever have skate filets? There’s delicious with teriyaki, taste just like sea scallops. Plus some fresh soybeans. The Japanese say that skate is a big aphrodisiac.” Britt laughed. “Too bad the boys are away, huh?”

  “Great,” Cristina said. “You’re cooking this stuff, right? I can’t cook.”

  “Leave it to me. You stick with weirdo art, I’ll do the cooking. And I can’t wait till tomorrow night. That’ll be even more fun.”

  Cristina guessed she was right. The thunder rumbling kept her off-track. Britt bounced back out, having changed into shorts and a tank top. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving so let’s give this to-die-for kitchen of yours a workout. You do the soybeans, I’ll do the skate, okay?”

  “Sure,” Cristina said. She cumbersomely began popping the small beans out of their pods while Britt flopped two big triangles of pale fish into a bowl and added the marinade.

  Skate, Cristina thought with some doubt. I didn’t even know people ate it.

  Britt grabbed a large fry pan off the rack. “So how have you been since the big Mold Mystery was solved?”

  “Fine,” Cristina said but winced again at the nagging aches in her arms and back. “But a contractor came out and said the mold wasn’t the toxic kind.”

  “You’re kidding me?” Britt shrugged. “Forget about it. Whether it is or isn’t, let Paul get the basement pressure-washed anyway. It can’t hurt. Besides, I’d trust the doctor’s opinion over some punk contractor.”

  Good point, Cristina surmised. “I just basically took it easy today.”

  “Good. Rich doll designers have that luxury.” Now Britt prepared some cooking oil and spices. “And speaking of luxury, I’m off till Monday so how about getting me a drink? A rum and Coke would do quite nicely, and do me a favor and pour yourself one.”

  “How is me drinking doing you a favor?”

  “Then I won’t feel like a lush!”

  Cristina smiled and walked around to the bar. “I’m not in the mood myself. Maybe later.” At the bar, though, she noticed the basement door opened a crack. I’m sure that was closed earlier, she thought but stalled. At least I think it was. She closed it and got Britt’s drink.

  “What’s on your mind?” Britt asked after a sip of her drink. “You don’t seem yourself.”

  Snap out of it! I always do this! I bring other people down with my moods! “No, no,” she half-lied and got right back to the soybeans. “I’m fine, and I’m really excited about the new line.”

  “The first four figures are in stores when?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “That’s great. All the more reason to celebrate. Actually we’ll celebrate twice. Tonight and tomorrow night. I haven’t had Shun Lee carryout in ages. Tell Paul to be sure and get an order of the ostrich.”

  “Ostrich?” Cristina exclaimed. “Skate, ostrich, cuttlefish—you’re really into some off-the-wall food.”

  “Not just food,” she giggled but didn’t comment further.

  As Cristina popped more soybeans out, she noticed that even her fingers were inexplicably sore. “I’ve had these outrageous muscle aches all day,” she said.

  “Too much sex,” Britt laughed. “But I wish I had muscle aches for the same reason.”

  Cristina frowned. “It could be, considering how much we’ve been doing lately. I feel like I’ve been digging ditches all day.”

  “I love it! Sex equates to digging ditches!”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just…ache.”

  “Trust me. It’s from sex, and that’s a good thing.” Britt grinned wolfishly. “Come on. How often do you and Paul do it?”

  A pang of embarrassment flared. “Two or three times a night, I guess. Sometimes more.”

  Britt squealed.

  “And I guess it’s more me than him,” Cristina admitted next. “I’m just…insatiable sometimes, and Paul’s always ready to accommodate me.”

  “I’m so jealous, girl!” Britt had the pan heated up now, and was sliding in the skate. “Jess only gets that way on weekends so during the week I give him his treat at bedtime and just let him go to sleep. Then I let Mr. Rabbit out of his hutch.”

  She’s something, Cristina thought and smiled.

  The bizarre dinner turned out to be excellent, and over the course of the evening, Cristina did indeed begin to unwind. Paul called briefly to let her know they’d arrived safely at their hotel, after which Cristina felt awash with relief. At ten she fixed herself a drink while preparing Britt her fourth. They lolled on the wraparound couch watching old movies and found themselves mainly laughing at antiquated hair-and dress-styles.

  Within an hour, Cristina was huddling close to Britt, as if for solace from the storm. Sheets and sheets of rain teemed against the house; that and the lightning flashes seemed hypnotic. All the while, the alcohol lulled her further. She nodded in and out, and at one point when she roused, she found Britt fast asleep beside her. The TV was still on but the sound turned down silent, the house still all around. The rain had stopped; lightning continued to flash in the windows but noiselessly now. We should go to bed now, Cristina thought groggily but before she could drag Britt or herself up, she fell fast asleep herself—

  —only to be dropped right into the middle of her recurring dream and all its accoutrements…

  Moisture trickles over the damp stone dappled by candlelight as she squirms in the clenching plea sure. She’s so familiar now with these cryptic surroundings that she feels at home in them while the warm hands and bodies incite her nerves. A haze sweeps across the scape of her vision, like looking through a veil, and she sees the other faces moving this way and that—faces that are smiling with the same lust that’s making her cringe on the warm stone floor. She feels blanketed by moving hands that explore every inch of her body. Two wet-lipped mouths descend through the dark haze to lick her neck, tongues circling in corkscrew
shapes until they find their way to her nipples. Another mouth toys with her navel, then licks up and down her sweating belly, the wet tip inching ever so slowly down …

  Now her lust is as much a haze as her vision. She knows that something else is occurring around her but the crush of sensations prevents her from concentrating. She’s seen all this before but now she senses she hasn’t seen it all. She tries to focus but then her attendants press down. The blanket of hands and mouths has now become a blanket of hot, squirming bodies, and the firelight changes into the furious illumined lines of black, green, and red shifting snakelike on the stone walls. She cranes her neck even as her phantom lovers take her, and she glimpses the stone slab beyond and the angled shadow that grows more resolute with her stare: the nun.

  “Kanesae…,” the voice—a man’s voice—croaks, and that’s when she notices the man on the slab in heavy leather, boots, and chain mail. He’s quivering on the slab, a deep gash at the side of his throat. To his side sits the decanter you remember from before, and you sense that it’s full of blood but when you glance at the nun again, she shows you the fangs amid her grin and lowers the bowl she’s just filled. “Singele lui traieste,” she whispers, and then she grabs the man’s wrists and with little effort pulls him off the slab and begins to drag him up crude stone steps.

  The colors churn. A dog barks. Her body goes tense and she releases one echoic shriek after the next as her climaxes break and her lovers titter and giggle and grin down at her, all showing needlelike fangs….

  Cristina felt in a trance as cognizance returned. Her mouth pressed forward while smooth thighs vised her cheeks. What am I …Her thoughts began to trickle through. She felt fingers ranging through her hair. What am I doing? Another thought told her it must still be that nasty dream but eventually, as her lips continued in their task, she knew this was too real to be a dream.