by Ana Calin
“Well, I see that you already know enough to understand me and my story fully. I only have a few details to add, not much, really. My adoptive parents were very loving, and for a few years things were amazing. But then they disappeared, leaving me with my grandmother, Magda—a former librarian who taught me the craft. I haven’t seen them in many years, not even when my father managed the injunction. He did it from a distance. Not even he and mum could bear to be near me, and put up with my emotional clinging.” Anger grows inside of me, and I snort bitterly. I can feel the blackness in my eyes deepening, and Dalton leans back, obviously shocked.
“I know that look in your eyes, Dalton. It’s how people used to look at me in school—fear and suspicion. All because of my stark white skin and ink black eyes. You know what they called me? Samara. It didn’t sound so bad at first, because I didn’t know who Samara was. I Googled her, though, and found out soon enough. Watched The Ring, and realized I wanted to scare the shit out of the bullies, just like Samara did. Especially those always hanging by the lockers, laughing and pushing me around. One even hauled me against a locker and lifted my skirt, pretending to fuck me from behind and daring all the others to laugh.” The bitterness turns to satisfaction, which surely shows in my grin. I can feel my eyes become even more intense, and Dalton pushes himself against the back of his chair.
“That’s when it first happened,” I say darkly. “One of his friends had a sudden change of heart. The smile suddenly wiped off his face, and he decided to attack the guy molesting me, punching him hard in the face and breaking his nose. So it was a man made of flesh and blood who stepped in, not some supernatural power that made him convulse and die. Soon though, people forgot, and a new kind of bullying began.
“The guys started betting on who would relieve ‘Samara’ of her virginity. So one of the school heartthrobs, one I had a crush on, asked me out. I accepted, eager to be kissed by him—unaware of the bet. But before he even touched my lips, a guy he owed money to stepped in and beat him to a pulp. Now, you’ll understand if I’m firmly convinced whoever is behind all this is a man of flesh and blood, not some demon. A man who’s been watching me for many, many years, and who’s refined his methods in time. And you know what? For a good while I was grateful for this stalker. Because, deranged or not, he loved me.”
I lean even closer, forcing Dalton to lean his head back, the skin folding under his chin as he tries to put distance between his face and mine.
“And love was something I craved like a starving dog. I’d never been so precious to anyone before, I’d never felt so worthy. Even my parents,” I continue, forcing the information into his head. “They tried to love me, but they failed. Sure, they left me with a caring grandma and kept sending money, but still—they weren’t there. They couldn’t find a good reason to keep me by their side. I wasn’t enough. But this stalker....” I lean back again, relishing the story in my head. “He loved me, and I didn’t want him to go away. I wanted him to show himself. At first, I didn’t do research in order to get him off my case, but to bring him closer. It never worked, for some reason. He must enjoy just meddling with my life from a distance, never involving himself physically, it must be some kind of fetish for him. But I want to have a real relationship, so I grew tired of his games. Now tell me, Dalton, how could this be related to Dracula?”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. I wait for an answer, eyes fixed on his without blinking. He glances at the book and points shyly to it.
“May I?” he whispers gutturally.
“Please.”
Slowly, he turns a chunk of pages, then again a few of them one by one until he reaches chapter 31st of October 1460. He waits again as if he expects me to feel enlightened only by looking at it.
“I must remind you, Dalton, I don’t understand German, much less the medieval version.”
“Sorry,” he says quietly, overwhelmed by my intensity. “This chapter talks about one thing that always puzzled historians—how did Vlad the Impaler win battles with an Ottoman army that outnumbered his by thousands?” He taps the page with his finger. “This account says that Ottoman turned on Ottoman as if some demon possessed them to turn on their own—just like the first guy who punched the bully in the face, and the next one who stepped in right before the kiss.”
“I understand where you’re going. The same demon, the one that Lady Ruxandra pledged herself to, probably in exchange for the demon helping her husband in battle, must have influenced my protectors as well. But I never had anything to do with demons, and I don’t take soul pledging very seriously.”
“For a woman with the word ‘curse’ attached to her you sure are very skeptical.”
“I’m just realistic, Dalton,” I conclude, hands on the table as I decide I’ve heard enough, and make to stand up. “There are no such things as stalking demons, vampire princes, or reincarnations for that matter.”
“No? Then how do you explain this?”
He moves on to the last page. My brain freezes.
I’ll be damned.... I drop back into the chair.
CHAPTER II
Rux
ONE WEEK LATER, AFTER my leave got approved, Dalton and I land in Romania. There was no stopping me when I saw that last page in Dalton’s book, namely a handmade picture of Lady Ruxandra Basarab. I still haven’t recovered from the shock—I’m her spitting image.
This country is unlike any other I ever visited, backwards and rustic, but it feels strangely familiar to me. The train now swaying on the rusty tracks smells of piss, the seats imbued with the stench of old tobacco smoke but, to me, it feels unexpectedly comfortable.
Rain trickles down the windowpane, the people hopping on and off loud, poorly dressed and often dirty, but still there’s something special about them. Like they understand life much better than the highborn young man sitting across from me, clutching his brown briefcase to his chest, looking terrified at the family of gypsies that just joined us in our compartment.
I lean forward with my elbows on my knees.
“It’s not gonna help, looking at them like that. They could take offense and attack you. A genius with a history PhD like yourself should know that.”
“And how can a classic literature graduate like yourself be so relaxed? Aren’t you afraid of these savages?”
I smile, the feeling of familiarity inside my chest now transforming into something close to pleasure. “No.”
I lean back in my seat by the window, aware that a curvy girl dressed in a pink knitted sweatshirt and sweatpants seems a firefly among the gypsies, and a firefly always draws attention. But the large gypsy woman beside Dalton, who’s been fixing me with a stare meant to intimidate ever since they got on the train, backs off when my eyes rest on hers. She looks down, and I grin. Firefly or not, the ink-black eyes on the backdrop of snow-white skin can drive ice into anyone’s veins, simply because the contrast is so unnatural.
“You sure came prepared with a lot of knowledge about Vlad Dracula,” I tell Dalton, relaxing, and making it clear to the gypsies I’m not impressed by their aggressive attitude, nor afraid. “You know everything about his history and his legend, but what about this place we’re going to? About Bran?”
“It’s one of the best known tourist attractions in Romania,” Dalton says in a trembling voice. “The village at the foot of Dracula’s castle. I could only secure us lodging at the old bookstore which—”
One of the beer-guzzling gypsy lads at the door turns to us and leans against the frame, making it clear we have his attention. He’s dark-eyed and dark-skinned, wearing a floral shirt and a messy mop of hair on his head.
“Keep talking,” I encourage Dalton.
“Which isn’t the best lodging to say the least,” he continues with difficulty, hyper-aware of the lad. “The bookstore hasn’t been used in years, it’s under castle administration. They’ll prepare two rooms for us, but still. Nothing else was free because of the upcoming medieval festival, the place is s
warming with tourists.”
There’s a long silence, only the sound of the train’s movement, iron on iron, filling the compartment, silence I use to study Dalton.
“You’re hoping to find real vampires here, aren’t you?”
Dalton’s eyes snap to me. “That’s preposterous! I’m here to discover the truth behind Lady Ruxandra’s curse—and yours. The truth behind the legend of Dracula.”
I look at the lad by the door, whose eyes are fixed on Dalton.
“Maybe we should ask this young man for secret tips about the legend and the castle. He seems interested in our conversation, and since we’re almost in Bran, and he’s on this train, maybe he’s actually from these parts. I wonder if he’d care to help us.”
The lad doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look at me while I speak, which must be what gives Dalton the courage to puff in contempt.
“These prehistoric monkeys can surely barely understand their own language, let alone ours.”
That’s when the lad grins, but it’s the grin of someone who’s about to throw a punch.
“I understand my own language,” he says in a thick accent. “And I understand yours.”
Dalton freezes, pushing himself into his seat, eyes big behind his glasses. Sweat breaks on his bald head.
“People in this country,” I explain to Dalton, “including the gypsies, can speak English. They’ve been watching American movies with subtitling for generations, so English is almost like a second official language, only that it’s not official.” I smile wider at the lad when he looks at me. He’s surprised, I can tell. I’m sure he didn’t expect words of praise. I’m so glad I did my homework on the country before I flew here.
He assesses me up and down, then walks down the small aisle between the two rows of seats in our compartment. He stops between Dalton and me, leaning with one hand against the train wall by the window, beer in his other hand, looking out.
“A beautiful country we have, all visitors say.” He speaks slowly, handling our language with care. I follow his gaze, indeed realizing how fascinating the landscape is. The rolling hills I’d seen when I’d last looked out the window have transformed into thick forests, bathing in the hypnotic twilight, the tree-trunks thick, truly ancient. We’re traveling deep into the heart of the mountains.
“But they enjoy little more than our landscapes,” the gypsy continues as the train advances into this magical land as if taking us into another world. “They think we people are primitive. That our legends are mere fairy tales that we foolishly believe in.” He turns his head to me, his dark eyes full of warning. “But beware. There’s deadly truth behind the legend.”
“What truth?” I keep my eyes steady on his. He stands there, looking at me, until he pushes off the window and hunkers down in front of me. The sudden movement makes Dalton start in his seat, long white fingers clawing into the briefcase, but I don’t even blink. I keep my eyes on the lad, ready to feel about him a certain way if he crosses the line. If I simply decide he makes me uncomfortable, the curse will kick in.
But, by the way he looks at me, I think he’s beginning to understand that.
“You are a courageous woman, I see,” he says. “Even a dangerous one. May I ask, what is the purpose of your visit to Dracula’s legendary village?”
I give him a grin to match his. “Apparently, everybody feels entitled to ask this question in Romania—the purpose of our visit. Isn’t that a matter for customs or police?”
“Madam, neither customs nor police are going to interfere with what’s going to happen to you in Bran. Because I do believe you are the kind of woman that could stir the legend.”
“And what kind of a woman is that?”
He just keeps staring at me.
“What’s your name?”
“Ruxandra.”
“Ah.” He leans his head back, smiling with hidden wisdom. He looks carefully at my face, then he stands and walks back to the door. There, he turns to look at me again.
“I like you, Ruxandra. I’ll be staying with my cousin in the village during the festival. If you get in trouble, ask around the fair for Sedan’s stall.”
“Excuse me, whose stall?”
His grin turns to laughter. “We gypsies like to name our children after brands, celebrities, even movies. My father was very much into cars.”
He nods at the family, which is enough for them all to stand and follow him down the aisle outside our compartment. The woman gives me one last glance before she follows Sedan, only this time it’s a curious, but respectful look. Only ten minutes later, the train stops at the railway station in Bran.
Rux
THE OLD BOOKSTORE IS indeed fascinating. Among the quaint mountain houses in this resort, this one is even quainter, an old cottage from the last century, near the forest on the side of a hill. All wooden beams and creaky stairs, the smell of wood and old books has stayed within these walls, protected by the closed air and dust.
The old village priest, all hunched under a brown priestly cape, has unlocked the door and let us in, leading Dalton to a room on the ground floor, and me to one in the attic.
“This is where your mother stayed, too,” he says from the door as I take in the authentic vintage feel of the room.
I whip around to look at him, shock in my face. Hope splits my heart.
“My mother was here?”
The old priest nods, small eyes glinting under his hood. His face is well hidden under it, so well that it’s only a shadow, but I feel compelled to wonder how come the eyes of a priest can exude so much evil. The way he stares at me from under that hood makes me shudder.
“Juliet Jochs, am I right?”
I drop my suitcase and walk to him.
“Juliet, yes. But Juliet Len.”
“Married to Radek... Len, I suppose?” The man seems to shrink the more I approach him.
I stop, realizing I’m making him uncomfortable.
“Yes, Radek Len.”
The priest nods, as if he understands something that he’s been suspecting all along.
“Are you acquainted with them?” I push.
Those ill-tempered eyes scan me up and down, and I must wonder if maybe celibacy wasn’t the best choice for this bitter old man. He seems to hate women, probably due to sexual frustration. But, then again, there’s also my ‘demonic’ appearance with the white skin, black eyes and black hair, which don’t help my case with the big boobs and butt. I must be the very incarnation of evil to him.
“I am. They caused a lot of trouble the last time they were here. They, and the old bookseller, Magda. I’m sure you know her, too?”
The shock spreads inside my head like a pool of blood.
“My grandma?” I whisper. I grab the priest’s shoulders, which makes him shrink, and the evil in his eyes turn to fear.
“This place was hers? Is this where my parents really come from? Speak, old man!”
He just stares at me, unblinking and, to some level, fascinated. Must be the ‘demonic black’ in my irises.
“Start talking, or things are going to get nasty.” I allow all the menace into my eyes. This is it, this is my chance to discover everything about my past. Seems I am more connected to Lady Ruxandra Basarab than I thought, and so are my adoptive parents.
“Your father, Radek, comes from this place. He took something that belonged to milord.”
“Your Lord? What are you talking about?”
He looks down at my hands clamped on his arms. I let him go and take a step back, hoping it’ll be a better strategy to loosen his tongue. He looks up at me again with the same glare, as if I have personally wronged him in some way, not just my parents.
“You have arrived at the most fortunate moment. The medieval festival begins tomorrow, and milord will be expecting you at the castle. He will give you all the answers you need related to your parents. And to yourself.”
I narrow my eyes at the small man. “Will I be safe in your Lord’s presence? If my da
d took something from him, he must want revenge.”
“He’ll want to know where your parents are, it’s true. But rest assured that information will buy your freedom.”
I puff. “Freedom. I came here of my own will, and I will leave whenever I fancy.”
“Oh really?” The priest gives me a defiant grin that makes him look even more evil, then his gaze moves to the slanted window. I turn to follow his gaze, and my mouth opens.
I walk over to get a clear look at the landscape, the picturesque village, the roofs already covered in white, the chimneys smoking, the dark mountains in the distance glinting with a magic film of snow.
“What the hell?” I whisper, unable to wrap my head around what’s happening. Not only that it’s only October, the weather has gone wild in the last decade, but the change of weather happened so suddenly. I didn’t even need a jacket on the train.
“It’s not easy to get out of the Carpathians in this weather,” the priest says behind me. “All roads will be blocked, the snow high and dense. Not even the best technology survives the Carpathians in winter.”
He pauses, while I still stare in wonder at the landscape. The warmth inside this room, coming from a terracotta stove, seems familiar, like I’ve been here before, living a winter fairy tale. That’s just in my head, no doubt, but now that I know mum and dad have been here... I turn to the priest again.
“I’m sorry we started out on the wrong foot, Father,” I tell him. “You make it sound like your own experiences with my parents haven’t been pretty. But what you tell me is welcome information. I came here looking for answers about my family’s background, and what you say convinces me I’m on the right path.” I square my shoulders. “I’m looking forward to seeing your Lord tomorrow, and I appreciate the honor. I will provide him with all the answers I can deliver—for I cannot deliver them all. And I hope to get my own answers in return.”
