Jander glanced down at his tunic to examine just how bad the stains were and received another shock on this night laden with surprises. His clothing was completely clean. Whoever or whatever had brought him here had seen to it that he would be free to mingle with the place’s population.
The elf smiled grimly. He had the most curious feeling that he was under surveillance. Then I’ll let whoever is watching know that I will not be intimidated, he decided. Jander tugged the hood of his cape from his head and shook his hair free. He had vowed to go on a mission of revenge, and if he had to conduct it here, so be it.
His mind filled with memories of Anna, he strode surely down the road to the fog-encircled village.
IT SEEMED TO TAKE AN ETERNITY FOR THE HOUSE TO FALL quiet. Anastasia pulled the embroidered coverlets up to her chin, feigning sleep, and tried to still her hammering heart.
Moonlight managed to find its way into the spacious, well-furnished room through the cracks in the shutters, laying fingers of milky light across the features of Anastasia’s slumbering sister. Ludmilla’s impish face was serene in sleep, and her dark hair was spread across the white pillow. The child was only ten, and having her share Anastasia’s room made it difficult for the seventeen-year-old to do what she had been doing for the last few weeks.
Anastasia shifted, the rustling of the fine sheets sounding deafeningly loud in the silent room, and continued to wait. When at last she could hear no stirring, neither from her parents’ chamber nor the servants’ quarters downstairs, the girl slipped out of bed, fully dressed in her simplest clothes: a linen blouse and plain skirt. She reached for a ribbon that lay on the table by her bed and tied her hair back, then tugged on a pair of boots.
Her palms were damp as she rummaged beneath the mattress for a length of rope she had hidden there. At one point, Ludmilla moaned in her sleep. Anastasia froze, but the girl did not awaken. The older girl closed her eyes in relief. Knotting one end securely around the heavy bedpost, Anastasia opened the shutters and window as quietly as she could and let the rope fall to the ground, paying out its length. She took a breath and said a quick prayer, then gathered all her courage and began to descend.
She had hoped Petya would be waiting for her, but to her disappointment his slender form did not materialize from the shadows. Anastasia cursed under her breath as she paced back and forth, her pale face drawn and nervous. Waiting so close to the house was dangerous. Her father might take it into his head to get some air, and he’d flay her alive if he caught her out here. She could just see him, his bald pate gleaming with sweat, his heavy jowls trembling: “Remember who you are! You are the burgomaster’s daughter, not a common prostitute!”
No, staying here would be courting disaster. Anastasia decided not to wait any longer. She scurried along the dark streets of the village, wrapping the black cloak around her to conceal her identity should she encounter anyone, although it was unlikely. Hardly anyone ventured outside at night anymore. The burgomaster’s daughter made haste, knowing the moonlight made her vulnerable, but grateful that at least she could see where she was going. She left the road and followed the overgrown path, stumbling a little, to the ring of stones on the hill where she had met Petya before.
Everything loomed larger at night. Every tree was a scowling giant, every rock a misshapen threat. The old people of the town used to speak of a time when Barovia was almost as safe during the night as at midday. Goodwife Yelena, for instance, used to tell Anastasia, “The most dangerous thing about the night then was the dung pile you couldn’t see in the dark.”
Anastasia grinned through her apprehension as she reached the circle and sank down in the shadow of a stone. She recalled how her mother had scowled at Yelena and bustled Anastasia away, but the goodwife had made Anastasia laugh. The girl’s nostalgic smile began to fade. The good things of which Yelena had spoken had disappeared even before the old woman was born. The night sheltered things that Anastasia didn’t want to think about. Folk had been found ripped to pieces by wolf packs. Others spoke of corpses empty of blood. People even muttered against Count Strahd.
Count Strahd. The wind seemed to sigh the name, tossing it back and forth in the tops of the trees. A shower of apple blossom petals fluttered, ghostlike, to the earth. Anastasia shivered and drew her cloak about her more tightly. She leaned back against the large rock, somehow comforted by its solid presence. The spot was rumored to have been a sacred place once, but now it was just a ring of stones.
Anastasia tried to redirect her thoughts to her gypsy lover. Their illicit romance was dangerous—and exciting. The Vistani had an air of mystery about them that drew Anastasia to the young, swaggering Petya. His dark eyes were full of magic, and his touch knowing and skillful. He walked with a sense of freedom that Anastasia, cowed by her father and the whipped attitude of the entire village, drank like wine. She wondered if she wasn’t more in love with the gypsy lifestyle than she was with Petya.
A wolf howled, shattering her pleasant thoughts. Her heart began to beat quickly. “Hurry, Petya,” she whispered.
The wolves, it was said, were Strahd’s creatures. Anastasia had met Barovia’s lord only once, just a few nights before, and once would certainly be enough. He had attended the annual spring celebration hosted by her father. Strahd was tall and lean, she remembered, with meticulously styled black hair and deep-set dark eyes. He was immaculately dressed in a beautifully tailored black outfit, highlighted with bright touches of red like drops of blood. The count had smiled oddly when the burgomaster had presented his eldest daughter, and he had regarded Anastasia with a look of appraisal that made her very uncomfortable. When he kissed her hand, she’d mustered all her control not to scream; the touch of his lips had been like ice.
Some said the count dabbled in magic. Others said that the ladies he fancied tended to disappear.
Anastasia gasped quietly at a sound in the night. Clutching the cloak closed with a hand that trembled, she tried to melt into the stone.
The sound came again—footsteps, slow and deliberate. They were coming right toward her. So much for the circle protecting her. Her father’s warnings about corpses empty of blood returned unbidden to her mind.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
Anastasia’s heart leaped. She struggled, kicking and scratching, fear giving her added strength. Abruptly the moon cleared a cloud, and she realized it was only Petya, his grin even larger than normal. His swarthy face appeared white in the moonlight that drained the color from his bright, beaded vest and voluminous red pants.
“You—” Anastasia sobbed for breath as Petya crowed with laughter. She launched herself at him, her small fists pummeling his slender chest, and they fell together on the earth. Anastasia was still struggling, her face hot from embarrassment, when Petya pinned her underneath him.
She glared up at him, but her anger was rapidly fading. “You crazy Vistani devil!” she hissed, teasingly. He waggled his dark eyebrows in a playful imitation of a villain in a mummer’s play and bent to kiss her.
As Anastasia kissed him back, she realized distantly that the night was not nearly so cold anymore.
An hour later, Petya reluctantly bade good night to Anastasia, watching her as she climbed up the rope to her bedroom as nimbly as an over-laden pack horse. He sighed and shook his dark head.
It could not be said that he loved the burgomaster’s daughter. He was certainly attracted to her and would miss her when his tribe moved on, but she fit into his world no better than he fit into hers. The burgomaster would never hear of his daughter wedding a gypsy, and the clannish Vistani would never permit Petya to bring a giorgio into the camp.
Ah, well. Such was life. He sniffed the fragrant air and shook off melancholy like a dog shakes off water. It was spring, and there were many things besides women to be enjoyed. Strong despite his small physique, Petya swung a heavy burlap sack onto his back. With a jaunty stride, he set off for the Wolf’s Den. The inn would be filled with patrons waiting to be entertai
ned by Petya’s cleverness.
The Wolf’s Den was not the cheeriest of places at the best of times. It was a whitewashed, three-story building, its eaves decorated with floral patterns. Its brightness outside, however, merely made for more contrast with the subdued interior. There were always too few lamps, so the taproom appeared to be couched in darkness. The fire that burned sulkily in the hearth did little to illuminate the room and even less to warm it. The inn profited little from the few who still dared to venture out after nightfall and consequently seemed sadly underfrequented. The innkeeper himself was a surly sort, too lean and too tall in a town populated by thick-set, small people. He was pleasant enough with those he knew; newcomers he regarded with suspicion. Still, he would accept the money of strangers, provided he recognized the coin.
Had Petya been a little more experienced with the ways of the world, he would have sensed the subtle change that came over the inn’s inhabitants when he sauntered in, whistling. If he had been even a few years older than his current seventeen, he would have stayed a polite amount of time and then returned to the safety of his own kind. Petya was young, however, and thoroughly convinced that he knew everything.
The Vistani cut an unusual figure, a bright-eyed, garishly clad fox capering among a pack of dark, brooding hounds. He clapped one man on the back, exchanged greetings with another, and tossed a coin in front of the scowling innkeeper.
“A pint of your best, to celebrate the season, hey?”
Wordlessly the innkeeper plunked a mug down in front of Petya.
“To your good health, gentlemen!” Flushed with his pleasure of the past hour, Petya took a long pull. His bright black eyes darted to the door where a figure seemed to be hesitating on the doorstep.
“Enter, friend!” Petya bade the man, his exuberance embracing even a stranger on this, his night of conquest. “No man should be out of the company of his fellows when there’s good drink to be had!”
“Indeed not, young sir,” said the stranger, entering and sitting beside Petya.
The low chatter of the inn ceased as the patrons gazed, slack-jawed, at the golden-hued stranger. A few of them made the sign of protection against the evil eye and hurried outside. Others merely stared. Still others regarded the interloper with open hostility.
Inwardly Jander winced. His plan to unobtrusively gather information was obviously not going to work. The elf hadn’t encountered this much hostility since he’d left Daggerdale. Fortunately the garrulous little gypsy boy at his side didn’t suffer from the same reticence as the rest of the inn’s customers.
“You have obviously traveled a long way,” Petya said. “May I buy you a drink of tuika? It’s a Barovian delicacy.”
Barovia. Jander was hard put to conceal his elation. So this odd place was the land from which Anna had come. “No, thank you,” he said politely. “I was wondering if the inn might have a room available.”
“Then it’d be me you want to talk with, not this Vistani cur,” the innkeeper growled, darting a decidedly angry look at the oblivious Petya. “Earn your drinks, Petya, or go back to your camp.”
Petya leaned over and whispered in Jander’s ear, “If you change your mind about the drink, the offer stands. I know what it’s like to be an outsider in this town.” With a mock bow to the innkeeper, Petya slipped off the stool and swaggered into a corner. He rummaged about in his sack and emerged beaming. In his dark hands, he held an astonishing variety of balls, clubs, and torches. He ignited his torches from those fastened to the wall, and they flared brightly. With a whoop, he began to deftly juggle the objects.
“The lad has talent,” the elf remarked conversationally, but the innkeeper merely grunted. Jander decided to get straight to the point. “My name is Jander. I was wondering …”
“Sorry. Can’t give you a room tonight.”
“No vacancies?”
“Oh, there are plenty of vacancies, but we never take lodgers after nightfall.”
“An inn that will not accept paying travelers?” Jander raised an eyebrow, and his lip curled with disdainful amusement.
“Come back tomorrow morning, and we’ll discuss it then. We don’t take lodgers after nightfall,” he repeated.
Jander sized up the innkeeper. Beneath his rough speech and hostile demeanor the man emitted the iron tang of fear. Jander could smell it. He had been right about the land. The little village was being terrorized. He went to a shadowy corner of the room and pulled the hood of his cloak over his gleaming blond head. All his senses were alert as he listened unobtrusively to the subdued chatter around him. He heard various snatches of conversation: “Devil … stay inside … Strahd.” That name cropped up in different conversations, and each time Jander heard it, he caught that whiff of fear. After listening in on various discussions, he concentrated on the one going on closest to him.
One man, rather young and with a thick black beard, took a gulp of ale. His companion, gray-haired with a two-day growth of stubble on his face, merely stared blankly at his own untouched mug.
“I shouldn’t have left,” the older man said softly, his voice full of pain. The younger man laid a hand on his arm.
“When it’s fever, it’s best to be safe,” he said gently. “You know that as well as I do, Da. No telling how catching it might be.”
The man nodded, his eyes still haunted. “She was so young, so beautiful,” he whispered brokenly. His sad brown eyes grew shiny. “My little Olya, my poor child.”
The son’s features reflected pain, sympathy, and an anger that seemed oddly out of place to Jander. “Has anyone told him yet?”
The bereaved father wiped his eyes with stubby fingers. “No. No one dares go to the castle with that kind of news.”
“I’d wager he’ll hear soon enough. The count has ways of finding out what he needs to know.”
Abruptly the older man’s expression altered, changing from grief to hatred. “I’m glad she’s dead,” he spat. “I’m glad she’s dead so he can’t get her and touch with those cold hands of his—”
“Da!” the boy hissed, trying to quiet him. The older man began to sob harshly, and two other men from a nearby table helped the son walk the broken father to the door. The rest of the patrons watched silently.
Jander noticed that the gypsy boy Petya had ceased juggling. All his playfulness had vanished, and his dark eyes were alert and observant. The boy isn’t quite the clown he pretends to be, Jander thought. Petya had stepped away from his burlap sack to watch the departing father and son, and as the vampire observed, one of the customers moved past the Vistani and dropped a small pouch into the bag. The mustached man, who had small, piggy eyes and a cruel mouth, ordered another ale and returned to his seat.
Jander was about to say something, then hesitated. It was best not to draw more attention. He would wait until the scene had played itself out. The customers took their seats, and the low murmur of conversation resumed.
Petya relit his torches and began to juggle them again. An instant later the cry of “Thief!” rang out. With speed greater than Jander would have credited them with, several men grabbed the astonished boy, yanking his arms behind his back and landing painful punches to his stomach. Petya’s torches went flying, and other people scurried to put them out before the place caught fire.
The door slammed open. A big, beefy man with fat jowls and a thick, drooping mustache charged in. His clothing was much finer than the shirts and vests of the other patrons, and he had the air of one used to being obeyed.
“Burgomaster Kartov!” exclaimed a greasy little man. “One of the Vistani has been caught picking Andrei’s pocket!”
Andrei, the pig-eyed man with the cruel mouth, nodded vigorously. Kartov turned his angry glare upon the boy, who was clearly terrified. Nonetheless, Petya clenched his jaw and stared the larger man in the face.
“This man lies,” he said coolly, his voice betraying nothing of the terror that filled Jander’s nostrils. “I was only juggling for coins. I have been wrongly
accused. Besides, if I had stolen the purse,” he added with a sneer, “I would have done so without him noticing.”
Kartov’s hand came crashing down. Petya’s head jerked to the side with the force of the blow, and blood trickled from his mouth.
A sharp cry pierced the air, and a girl launched herself at the Burgomaster from the doorway. “Papa, no! Stop it!” Jander noted with clinical detachment that the girl’s face, too, bore signs of a beating. Her father ignored her, shaking her off distractedly. All his white-hot anger was fixed on the Vistani.
“My people will take it ill if you harm me,” Petya warned in a low voice. He was obviously not bluffing. Jander noticed that a few of the men looked uncomfortable. Apparently Vistani vengeance was nothing to be courted.
Clearly, though, Kartov was beyond reason. “We take it ill when honest folk are robbed!” he roared back.
“Hang the bastard!” came a voice from the crowd. Jander could not locate who had uttered it first, but the mob quickly took up the chant.
Kartov bent close to Petya. Only the gypsy and the vampire heard what the enraged parent hissed: “You’ll wish you were in Castle Ravenloft by the time we’re done with you. I know what you did to my daughter!”
Under his naturally dark skin tones, Petya went pale.
Ah, thought Jander with instant comprehension.
“Papa, no!” the girl screamed. “It’s not his fault.”
Kartov spared her a furious glance. “Haven’t you had enough?” he snarled. Jander watched with disgust. The elf despised bullies, and clearly the town was governed by a prime example. He wondered if the hot-tempered man was the mysterious “he” that the bereaved father had feared.
“I’ll deal with you later, Anastasia,” Kartov continued. “Right now, you’re going to watch your lover die.”
Anastasia began to sob. “No! Petya!” One of the men who had accompanied Kartov grabbed her and held her tightly.
Vampire of the Mists Page 4
