Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  “How many times?”

  Maruschka shrugged. “Until they feel right in your hands.”

  Jander mentally rolled his eyes and began to shuffle the cards with his long, golden hands. The reading was a waste of time, but perhaps he could get the girl talking about Strahd. Instinctively he knew Maruschka knew much more about the land and its lord than happy-go-lucky Petya. He also suspected that it would be harder to pry answers from her. Maruschka seated herself on a pillow opposite the vampire, gently pushing the crystal ball to one side. Her black eyes were fastened on his face.

  Suddenly, he knew what she meant. The cards “felt” right. It was as if they had sent him a message, That’s enough, put us down now. It surprised him. He’d always thought of gypsies as tricksters and performers, with little or no real magical knowledge. The Vistani, however, were clearly different.

  He placed the cards down on the table. “Spread them out,” said Maruschka. Her voice was different, deeper, more mature. Her face, too, seemed older. Jander did as he was told. “Now select six cards.”

  She took the ones he gave her and carefully set the others aside. She turned over the first card. It depicted a beautiful shooting star, a rainbow of colors, carried by a woman equally as lovely. Jander was surprised that the apparently frivolous Petya had such a delicate sense of beauty. “This card is your distant past.” She smiled. “It is the best card in the deck, full of gentleness, hope, and promise. What a beautiful soul you were then, Jander Sunstar.”

  The elf could not meet her eyes. Maruschka turned over the second card, and her expression grew sad. Jander was confused. It seemed like a good card. It depicted a pair of lovers walking through a green wood, hands clasped, the man looking suspiciously like Petya. “That doesn’t look so bad,” he ventured.

  Maruschka shook her head. “It isn’t, usually. This is the Lovers’ card. But you see, it’s upside down. That means that there was a parting. This is the recent past—you loved, and you lost her.”

  Jander began to seriously consider the idea that the woman could indeed predict the future.

  Maruschka flipped the third card. It showed a blind woman carrying a set of scales. “You seek Justice.” She frowned and touched the card gently. Her eyes grew distant. “You seek revenge,” she amended softly.

  When she turned over the next card, Maruschka was a bit startled. A scythe-wielding skeleton grinned up at her. She glanced up at Jander and noticed to her shock that the elf had a slight, sarcastic smile on his lips. “That’s you,” she blurted out. “I mean, this is your present. The card really means change, not death.”

  Jander’s smile stayed. “My dear, I think in this case, it means exactly what it looks like.”

  Something was not right with Jander, Maruschka thought. “Are you a warrior, then?”

  “I was, yes. Once. A long time ago. In a way, I still am. Please, go on. You’ve caught my interest.”

  Maruschka hated the smile on the elf’s face. It was bitter, self-mocking, and yet dangerous. She liked Jander better when he had been wrapped in melancholy, his strange, silver eyes full of a deep sorrow. Maruschka became aware that there was a menacing edge to the polished giorgio. He was slight, though, and she was sure that she could handle him in a fight. Nonetheless, her right hand crept slowly to the knife in her belt. Maruschka turned the next card over with her left hand, closing her eyes as she saw what it was.

  The Death card alarmed most people, but this was the card that every fortune teller hated to see turn up in a reading. It was the Tower. Petya in his whimsy had fashioned the building to look like Castle Ravenloft. It was in the process of shattering violently, hurling people to their deaths.

  “This one is bad,” she murmured. “Very bad …” Her hand closed around the hilt of the dagger.

  “All the more reason for me to believe in the truth of your reading,” Jander replied mildly. “And Maruschka,” his voice was gentle, “take your hand off your dagger. I have no intention of harming you.”

  Startled, she looked up and met silver eyes that were full of a gentle sorrow once more. The Vistani Seer felt ashamed of herself. She opened her mouth to apologize, and he waved a slender hand. “What does the ill-boding Tower card have to say to me?”

  “The Tower is chaos, destruction. That will be the situation in the future for you.”

  “Lovely.”

  Maruschka hurried on. She turned the final card and smiled in relief. It was the Sun, her personal favorite in the deck. A small child, about three years old, reached chubby arms up to a glowing orb that hung just beyond its grasp.

  “The Sun represents success and victory. It also has much to do with children. If you are to get your justice, it will be through the Sun and through children.” She glanced from the card to Jander, confident that she had brought some measure of happiness with the last card. Instead, his face was sadder than ever, his features weary and resigned. “The Sun is a very good card,” she repeated.

  “For most people, perhaps. Not for me. I thank you for taking the time, Maruschka. It was … enlightening. I must go, now.” He rose gracefully. “You mentioned a cave?”

  Maruschka could not bear to see him leave like that, so devoid of hope. After all, she’d been the one to insist on a fortune telling, not he, and it was because of the dark nature of the reading that Jander seemed so downcast.

  “Stay with us a little more and watch the dancing. It is very seldom that we permit giorgios to see it, and though your lifespan be long, perhaps you will never see it again.”

  Jander had to laugh at her choice of words. “Lifespan” indeed. Still, it would not do for him to be discourteous. These people had a freedom that few others in Barovia appeared to have, and who knew but when he might have to use their knowledge and skills again. “As you will, my lady. It has been long since I watched something so graceful as dancing.”

  He permitted her to lead him out, past the still-spooked piebald pony, back to the ring of the blazing firelight. Sharp sounds of violins filled the air, and he could hear the cheerful jangle of tambourines and the underlying, heartbeat sound of a bodhran. Lithe shapes were silhouetted against the blaze. Laughter and clapping, and occasionally pure, sweet singing in a foreign tongue, spiraled up with the smoke into the inky black sky that arched above it all.

  Jander drank in the scene with hunger and envy. The elf wanted so much to be a part of it. Jander liked Petya. He liked the idle prattle combined with sharp insight that the boy spouted, sprinkled with lewd, lusty, living commentary about females and good wine and the vagabond lifestyle of his kind. The vampire liked the beautiful Seer and the keening yet joyous strains of the music that stroked his ears at the campfire.

  Sadly Jander realized that he fed upon the living, spirited nature of these people as though it were another kind of blood. He started when he felt Maruschka’s feather-light hand on his arm and tried to smile. Her eyes went dark, seductive, and he realized she had unbraided her long, black hair. It tumbled down her dusky shoulders like an ebony wave, and with a teasing smile, she joined the others by the fire. They parted to admit her, and she merged effortlessly with their dance.

  When Jander permitted himself to really watch what was happening, he knew a sharp pain at the wildness and beauty of the gypsy dancing. The young women were clad simply, in light cotton blouses of either white or cream and full, brightly colored skirts. As they moved in time with the music, their skirts billowed about them, revealing long, shapely legs. Long hair flowed down their backs. Laughter rippled from them, as natural and unforced as the sound of a tumbling stream.

  Jander’s silver eyes closed in a mixture of pain and joy. He had seen nothing like this for nearly seven hundred years, not since he had last watched the dancing in his native, magic-soaked groves of Evermeet. Unwillingly, his mind went back to those days of impossible innocence, when there was nothing ugly in any particle of his limited, sweet universe, and vampirism was only a little-cited legend told to tease children.


  Maruschka stepped in front of him, her dusky hand taking his golden one. She tugged gently, urging him to rise and follow her to the fire as her partner. For a moment Jander hesitated, then, as if drawn by the orange flames, he joined her in the dance.

  Undead for five centuries, his body still remembered how to respond to music. The vampire and the gypsy Seer whirled together, black eyes locked to silver, golden frame pressed to dusky brown. Jander surrendered to the moment, and suddenly it wasn’t Maruschka he was dancing with, it was Anna. Anna, sane and smiling up at him with love in her eyes.

  He could bear no more. The beauty of the music, the intoxication of being among people again, and the memory of the dead girl he had loved overwhelmed the vampire. To his horror, he felt tears sting his eyes. With a mumbled apology, he strode from the fire to the protective shadows of the nearest vardo. Maruschka followed.

  “Jander, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, just … just leave me for a few moments, please. I’ll be fine.” He kept his face turned away from her. She left, reluctantly. Alone once more, Jander wiped at the tears of blood that had filled his eyes. One had escaped to make a red path down his face. He hoped no one had noticed in the uncertain, ruddy glow of the firelight.

  A damp cloth fell to the earth at his feet.

  “Wipe your face, vampire,” came a brusque voice.

  JANDER LOOKED UP SHARPLY. THERE WAS NO BREAK in the dancing. The elderly woman seemed to be the only one who had noticed his tears. Keeping his eyes on her, he did as he was told.

  “You have the better of me, my lady. What are you going to do about it?” The old woman shrugged weakly, but Jander sensed that she had a will of finely tempered steel.

  “For the moment, nothing. You are our guest, and we would not so disgrace the traditions of our ancestors. Besides, you were betrayed by your tears. That is rare enough in this land, and rarer still for an undead creature. For the sake of what you once were, Jander Sunstar, you may depart safely. You may sleep tomorrow in a cave not far from here, near the Tser Pool. We shall not disturb you. But,” she added, her voice resonant and strong, “henceforth you are our enemy. There is no place for you among the living. Go now, quickly.”

  Jander bowed courteously. “I would ask a favor, Madame Eva, for so I assume you to be. Do not tell Petya or Maruschka of my nature.”

  Eva frowned, and the vampire saw something of Maruschka’s fire in the old woman’s eyes. “I must warn them. They are my grandchildren.”

  Jander looked back at the dancing. Maruschka had rejoined the dancers and whirled gaily, on fire with the music. Petya was in the center of a group of young women, gesticulating wildly, a grin on his face.

  “I have had ample opportunity to harm them had I wished to. They are safe from me.”

  Eva’s small, black eyes searched his silver ones, calculating. Then her withered face lost some of its sternness, and she said softly, “I will tell them only if I feel it necessary. But leave, now.” She hesitated, then said, “Sweet water and light laughter.”

  It was a traditional elven farewell, and Jander bowed deeply. Swiftly he vanished into the night. Eva watched him go, then turned her attention back to her grandchildren. Maruschka had paused at that instant to catch her breath and was watching the vampire leave, disappointment plain on her dark face. At that moment, Petya came scurrying up to his grandmother.

  “Gran! You didn’t send him away, did you?” His voice was full of hurt, and he gazed at her accusingly. Eva sighed.

  “Go fetch your sister,” she told him. He hesitated, glancing after Jander, then went to do her bidding. Eva sank down on the nearest bench. Too old, Eva, she thought with a rueful chuckle. You’re getting too old for this sort of thing.

  “You wanted to see us, Gran?” Eva looked up at her grandchildren. Both of them were handsome young things, a credit to the tribe and to her. She was doing the right thing. She patted the bench on either side of her, and they sat obediently.

  For a moment she didn’t speak. “This is not a happy land,” she began. “We stay here because of the pact I made with the lord of Barovia, a pact that is good for our people.” She paused, searching for the right words. Petya fidgeted, anxious to get back to the adoring young women, and Maruschka merely sat patiently.

  “That does not mean there is not danger for us here,” Eva continued. “Sometimes it is hard to recognize. Sometimes, it is cloaked in beauty.”

  It was Maruschka who understood first, although she didn’t want to. “Jander is dangerous?”

  Eva laid a withered hand on her granddaughter’s. “Aye, my dear. Very.”

  Maruschka frowned. “No,” she snapped, “I cannot believe it. I did a reading for him. He is not evil.”

  “I did not say he wished to be. There are times when men are not given a choice between evil or good.”

  “Gran, he saved my life!” Petya was angry with her too. Eva wished she did not have to tell them, but Petya adored the elf and Maruschka was enraptured by him.

  “Yes, he did, but you are never, ever, to see him again. Or you,” she added to her granddaughter, who glared up at her with sullen dark eyes. Eva unfolded the damp handkerchief. “He wiped his face with this.”

  Petya took the rag and stared at Eva accusingly. “You let him go away injured?”

  “Nay, little grandson,” Eva said gently. “Those were the tears that fell from his eyes.”

  Maruschka gasped, her eyes wide. “No,” she breathed, “he isn’t … he can’t be …”

  “Akara,” Petya finished. He stood up abruptly. “Excuse me, Gran, but I must go back to the village.”

  Eva frowned. “I will not hear of such a foolish thing, not after what happened there to you tonight.”

  Emotions warred on Petya’s face. “But, Gran—”

  “No, and that is my final word.” She rose with disgust. Much as she loved Petya and Maruschka, she shared Maruschka’s views about children, and arguing with them sapped her patience. “I have told you what I needed to. Do as you are told.” She strode off to her vardo.

  “Maruschka, I need your help,” Petya said when Eva was out of hearing distance.

  “Oh, no. I’m not getting involved in—”

  “My … friend in the village. She, too, trusts Jander. We both pledged friendship to him. She must know what he is.” Petya’s face reflected his great anguish.

  Maruschka had never seen him so serious, and was a little surprised.

  “Oh, all right, but I’ll deny everything if you’re caught,” she warned.

  Her brother beamed. “Then may I take your horse?”

  Anastasia lay on her stomach, heedless of the tears trickling down into the pillow. The red welts on her back burned with a steady, ceaseless pain. Her right arm had fallen asleep, but she dared not move it and further provoke the pain.

  Ludmilla had slept through it all, and Anastasia envied her. Ah, gods, she wept, if only Father would allow Mother to apply some healing ointment.

  A handful of pebbles clattered against her window. Anastasia bolted up, her face contorting with torment. She gritted her teeth and somehow, slowly, rose from the bed and hobbled to the window. Reaching her arm up to the shutters to open them nearly caused her to faint, but she blinked hard and held onto consciousness. Gasping, she slowly eased the shutters back.

  Petya was there, an agitated shadow in the moonlight. He didn’t speak, but made motions that she was to come join him. Anastasia wanted to, but she didn’t think her tortured body would let her.

  At that moment, a sharp yell of outrage shattered the quiet of the late hour. As Anastasia watched, horrified, her father’s servants streamed from the house. Two of them seized Petya by the arms while others brandished swords.

  “Anastasia, what—” came Ludmilla’s sleepy voice from behind the girl. Anastasia didn’t have time for her sister. She was moving for the door and stumbling down the stairs as fast as her battered body would permit. By the time she had staggered through the main en
try hall and heaved open the heavy door to the cobblestone courtyard, she was gasping with exhaustion.

  The wind had risen and the temperature had dropped. Cold, moist air buffeted her body.

  Petya was no longer on his feet. He would have sprawled limply on the cobblestones, but his body was being pulled taut by Kartov’s servants, one on each arm. The burgomaster himself was wielding the riding crop he had used earlier on his daughter. He grunted with each blow, and sweat flew from him despite the sudden chill in the air. He had already struck the hapless Vistani several times, and Petya’s back was becoming a red, pulpy mass. The rhythmic crack of whip on flesh was a sharp counterpoint to the low rumble of an approaching storm.

  Anastasia’s throat went absolutely dry, and the scene swam before her for an instant. Then she summoned all her energy.

  “No!” she screamed in a voice that seemed much too loud to have erupted from her.

  Kartov paused and threw her a murderous glance, but Anastasia refused to be cowed. The pain retreated as a slow-boiling rage began to fill her chest.

  “I said no,” she repeated, in a voice as soft and deadly as a wolf’s low growl. “Ivan,” she snapped at her father’s valet, “let him go.”

  Ivan hesitated, glancing from father to daughter. The gray-haired head servant had never disobeyed his master before, but there was something about Anastasia that unnerved him. She stood ramrod straight, her dark hair whipping about her pale face. “My lord?” Ivan queried. The burgomaster didn’t even spare him a glance.

  Anastasia walked boldly to her father, closing the distance between them with a slow, sure step. Kartov raised the crop, ready to strike her upturned, bruised face.

  “Aawoooooo,” Anastasia mockingly howled.