Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  Jander noted with a slight hint of smugness that he had caught Strahd completely off guard. Shock registered for an instant in those deep black eyes. Strahd recovered quickly, but Jander knew he had scored another point with the debonair master of Castle Ravenloft. “My home is yours, with one exception. That room, there”—he extended a long, thin finger and pointed to a wooden door across the room—“is not to be entered. What I keep there is my business. Should you try to disobey me, you will find the door magically locked. I ask you to respect my wishes.”

  Jander was curious, but he certainly had no right to pry. If the count wanted a secret room, he was welcome to his privacy. “Certainly.”

  “Then I bid you good night—and good hunting.”

  JANDER MOVED SLOWLY THROUGH THE FOREST, SILENT as a wolf along the deer trail he had found. His infravision and the leaf-filtered moonlight turned the forest into a moving tapestry of shadow and wisps of curling ground-fog, and all around him were the soft sounds and movements of life, the subtle scent of warm blood. A squirrel skittered along a tree limb above his head, leaping with daring grace into a neighboring tree. A gray fox, her coat brindled in shadow-shades, froze in a puddle of moonlight a yard down the trail, wide eyes locked on the terrifying, unexpected shape of the elven vampire. For a moment the two hunters stared at each other. Then the vixen melted back into the forest, ceding Jander her prey.

  There, Jander thought, his infravision finding the soft heat of a brown hare crouched among the roots and low hanging branches of a great yew tree. Softly, with the same exertion of will that had brought the wolves answering his call, Jander set calm upon the beast. The fox is gone, and all is safe.

  Silence hung in the woods. Only the breeze traveled along the forest floor, moving gently in the litter of years, stirring the dried brown leaves, rattling the fallen needles of the pines. The hare barely twitched when the long, strong hands closed over its ears and hindquarters. The fangs that tore open its throat were sharper than the teeth of the fox.

  Jander gulped eagerly, hunger overcoming the strange taste of the blood. He tossed the drained corpse at the spot where the vixen had disappeared and frowned as he wiped his mouth. There was a strange tang to the hare’s blood, a kind of smoky sweetness.

  Suddenly Jander’s stomach roiled, and he felt dizzy. His knees buckled, and he dropped to all fours, vomiting up the blood he had just consumed until there was nothing left. He sat back, shaking. The hare had been ill, that was all, and he would simply have to feed again.

  He called a deer this time, a healthy doe who fixed him with mournful brown eyes as he drained her of her lifeblood. Again the taste was unpleasant, and again the blood would not stay in his stomach. Jander couldn’t understand it. While he occasionally needed human blood, in Waterdeep he had existed for years at a time on the animal population. He had sensed something not quite right about the place from the moment he had arrived. Perhaps the mist had somehow altered him so that beast blood was no longer drinkable. It was the only reason he could think of, illogical though it seemed.

  Strahd had known that and made a halfhearted attempt to warn Jander. The master of Ravenloft, while granting the elf victory with the wolves, probably enjoyed knowing that he would be vomiting helplessly after sampling the unpalatable blood. The score with Strahd was now even.

  Much as he loathed the idea, here in Barovia Jander would have to find human blood if he were to survive. The golden vampire spent the next four hours in a fruitless quest for unwary humans. He changed into his wolf form and covered many miles, senses alert for the presence of prey. A few times he ran into some of Strahd’s slaves: pale, sharp-featured vampiresses, who frowned and hissed at him before changing into bat form. Jander toyed with the idea of attacking the gypsy encampment, but dismissed the impulse at once. The Vistani were more canny than the villagers, and, although Jander fed delicately, the sharp-eyed gypsies would notice the small marks. Besides, Jander was Strahd’s “guest” for the moment, and a violation of the pact would be sure to anger the count. No other humans could be scented in the woods, and a quick prowl through the village only proved that the Barovians were safely ensconced within their homes. Ravenous, tired, and frustrated, Jander exchanged his lupine form for that of a bat and flew toward the castle.

  Unpleasant though the prospect was, the vampire would have to accept Strahd’s invitation to dinner.

  He landed on a walkway that stretched most of the way around the castle. Transforming from bat to mist to elf, Jander made his way to Strahd’s study. He found he liked the place, although he had always been one for the open woods rather than enclosed spaces. The study, however, seemed just a little less lonely than the other parts of the castle, and at that moment Jander had no desire to be reminded of his loneliness. As he entered the room, he caught a sweet, teasing fragrance.

  Human blood.

  His hunger was knife-sharp, and the vampire followed the scent through the double doors. Next to the study was a formal bedchamber, large and lavish. The single window was covered by thick red velvet drapes, open to let in the liquid moonlight. It silvered the room, catching the dull glint of beautiful but tarnished candelabras and revealing finely crafted tables and other furniture. The bed itself had no doubt once been a dream of luxury, but the rich linens had rotted and the canopies had been eaten away by moths.

  Jander did not particularly notice the decor. He was staring sadly at the figure the moonlight had turned into a slender young ghost.

  She stood by the window, looking with longing out across the dark landscape. A tear trickled down her face, glinting in the moonlight like a pearl on alabaster. She seemed frightened, but resigned. Jander’s approach was silent, and the young woman didn’t sense his presence at once. He watched as she turned away from the window and sat on the bed. The maiden was an alluring combination of girl and woman. That she was an adult was evident by the swell of her hips and breasts. Her pale, round face, however, was practically still a child’s, with large, terror-filled eyes fringed with long, sooty lashes. The ruddiness in her cheeks and the cherry hue of her sweet-looking mouth caused Jander to stir with blood thirst.

  “My lady,” he began.

  She gasped and drew back. Instinctively she tried to cover herself, then with an effort lowered the bedclothes. She was clad only in a thin chemise. Taking a deep breath, she summoned her courage.

  “His Excellency Count Strahd von Zarovich has sent me for your pleasure,” she said in a young, sweet voice. “I am to tell you that I am untouched here—” she placed a finger to her throat “—and here.” She cupped her hands about the mound between her legs. Blood filled her cheeks, and she dropped her eyes, long black hair obscuring her features. “Such is my master’s gift to his new friend.” The sweet voice trembled.

  Jander’s hunger soured, but did not vanish altogether. He knew that many vampires sated a variety of appetites on their quiescent victims. Clearly Strahd enjoyed sporting with his prey, but Jander loathed the practice. Was it not enough to drain innocents of their lifeblood without violating their souls and bodies? He wanted desperately to be able to send the young woman home safely to her family, but his upper jaw was throbbing, and his fangs were already lengthening in response to the sweet fragrance of blood. Hunger tore at him, and his conscience, as always, unraveled before that implacable need to feed upon the red life fluid.

  He eased himself down on the bed and patted the spot beside him. “What is your name, little one?” He kept his voice soft.

  “Natasha,” she replied, her eyes still not meeting his.

  “Come here, Natasha,” he bade her gently. She crept toward him, and over the fragrance of blood he could smell the metallic scent of her fear. He brushed her dark hair away from her forehead gently, with great sorrow. She closed her eyes, shaking. “How did Strahd get you to come here?”

  Natasha licked her lips. “He sent his carriage to the village,” she replied. “He knew me and asked my father to send me. We must obey our lord in
all things.”

  “Did you know why he wanted you to come?”

  She shook her dark head. “No,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. All at once her control shattered. “Yes! Oh, gods, please, please don’t hurt me! Let me go home! I’ll do whatever you want, only don’t make me like you, please, please …”

  “Poor child,” he murmured. “Look at me, Natasha.” His calm command penetrated her hysteria, and she met his hypnotic silver gaze. “You’re not afraid of me anymore, are you?”

  “N-no,” she said, beginning to lose herself in his gaze.

  “Good. Do you trust me, Natasha? Do you trust me not to hurt you any more than I must?”

  Her brown eyes locked with his, Natasha nodded slowly. Gently Jander placed his golden hands on her white face and tilted her head to one side. The jugular was exposed, and it throbbed rhythmically in the silver light flooding the room. Quickly he bared his fangs and embedded them in the inviting flesh of her throat.

  Once his body tasted the blood, it took over quickly. Jander fed deeply, forgetting how innocent the young woman was and knowing only the rush of heat and renewal of strength her blood was imparting. It took a great deal of control to stop feeding before he had drained her dry, but he did. The vampire licked the sticky fluid off his lips, placing the girl down on the pillows as he did so. Her breathing was shallow, and she was dreadfully pale, but life was still hers.

  He rose and went to the window. The moon, waning but still mostly full, provided an eerie white backdrop for a sudden flurry of bats. Jander gazed out over the landscape of dark greens and purples, then closed the shutters, checking to make sure they were securely fastened.

  He sat back down on the bed, thinking. Back in Waterdeep, a hare had been enough to get him by each evening. Now, he had almost killed a young woman with his hunger. Jander had spent centuries away from the very nature of his curse—to hunt and feed upon the blood of humans. He had, in his own way, denied that nature, pretending that if he fed upon animals, or only took what he needed from humans, he would somehow not be as evil as other vampires. He was unable to run from himself anymore, and he was filled with self-loathing. Yet even that terrible emotion could not assuage his hunger.

  That knowledge lay heavy in his heart, and he buried his face in his hands with a heavy, very mortal sigh. “Anna,” he moaned softly, “Anna, I miss you so much.”

  “Do you really?”

  The sun reigned in the sky, and Jander lay sprawled on the bed. He glanced up to see who had spoken and found Anna gazing down on him affectionately. She had planted her sun-browned hands on her hips, and her auburn hair, made red by the sun, tumbled down her back. Her eyes were full of warm laughter.

  “Do you really miss me?” she asked again. Jander, aware of his pseudodream state, still could not help but answer, “More than life, my dearest.”

  She came to him then, folded him in the warmth of her embrace, and he smelled the perfume of soap and sunlight upon her skin and nothing more. Anna went to the window and opened the shutters with a broad gesture; the glorious sunlight spilled in, washing over Jander like a river of light.

  So real, he thought, so sweetly real.

  He noticed that somehow the neglected rooms were bright and cheerful, the furnishings polished, and the decorations well-kept. Hand in hand, the two lovers descended the stairs, pausing to peer into rooms that spoke eloquently of loving care.

  Outside, two milk-white steeds awaited them. As he drew near one of the horses, it nuzzled him affectionately. He discovered he had an apple in his hand. The elf fed it to the beast, who crunched it gratefully. Jander and Anna mounted and galloped off through the beautiful, late spring afternoon. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Castle Ravenloft as a beautiful home, the seat of a great and noble family.

  A few blissful hours later, they watered their thirsty mounts at Tser Pool. While the beasts drank, Jander and Anna lay together beneath a large tree, smelling the fresh earth and enjoying the leaf-filtered sun. A playful breeze stirred the leaves. Jander listened to the music of the water and the twittering birds, then spoke. “Why do you come to me like this?”

  She was lying with her head on his chest and craned her neck to look at him. Her brown eyes searched his thoughtfully. “Do you wish me to stop?”

  “No, only, it isn’t real.”

  “Who’s to say what is real and what is an illusion? We are together. Isn’t that enough? Besides”—her voice became teasing—“I don’t want you to forget about me.”

  He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the tip of each finger. “Never.”

  “But you have. You know where to begin your search, but you have not done so. Jander, my love, avenge me.” She had changed; her wondrous eyes had filled with tears. “For all that we lost because of my madness … Avenge me!”

  Jander bolted out of the dream, utterly disoriented. He felt uncomfortably hot and slightly nauseous. He had fallen asleep in the bedchamber after he had fed upon Natasha. The shutters were closed tightly against the deadly sunlight, but enough light filtered in to cause him discomfort. Jander’s senses were again heightened, and he closed his eyes in pain at being brought back to his dark reality.

  After checking to see that Natasha was sleeping peacefully, the elf returned to the study to peruse Strahd’s voluminous library. For a moment the sheer number of books available slightly daunted him. For years Jander had been cloistered in a cave with no company save that of the insane he fed upon. The elf felt a bit awkward in a place so crowded with history and literature. These volumes were beautiful things. Jander took a moment to admire the tooling of the leather covers. Some bore what the elf assumed to be the count’s crest—a large black raven. Others had different symbols. A strikingly beautiful one which recurred now and then was a large sunburst.

  “Well, might as well start at the beginning,” he muttered to himself, and, picking a shelf, began to peruse the titles. Coats of Arms of the von Zarovich Line. Skin and Steel: A History of the Ba’al Verzi. Legends from the Circle. Tales of the Night. The Art of Kalimar Kandru. Barovia: Year 15 to the Present.

  Jander was delighted with the variety and pulled down a handful. Laden with books, he set a huge pile down beside one of the chairs and randomly picked a title. Skin and Steel: A History of the Ba’al Verzi. The cover featured a bloody skull. The elf frowned. He doubted he’d find a clue about Anna here. Then again, maybe he would. He opened it, inhaling the musty fragrance of the old book, and began to read.

  In these civilized times, the long-dead author had written in his introduction, it is difficult for us to imagine the kind of society that had assassins as open, thriving members of the community. In our country’s turbulent eighth century, being an assassin, or Ba’al Verzi, was comparable to being a politician or a popular artist. One could name one’s price and did, often receiving huge sums of money from individuals for protection.

  The Ba’al Verzi wore colorful, decorative clothing, with their symbol—the bleeding skull—prominently displayed. Their weapon was a blade of great beauty and frightening significance. The hilt was made of the skin from the Ba’al Verzi’s first victim, and the assassin himself crafted it. The first kill had to be someone the Ba’al Verzi knew. That was demanded by tradition to discourage all but the most hardened to know the secrets and earn the protection of the Ba’al Verzi …

  Jander shuddered and almost threw the book to the carpeted floor. He picked up another book, Words of Wisdom, and dived into it eagerly to shake the image of the Ba’al Verzi knife from his mind. His tactic worked, for this was a collection of sacred poetry for some long-forgotten god.

  For the sun is mine, and moon,

  And all things of love and light;

  For the morn is mine, and noon,

  And all things of day and night.

  Harken to me, sons and daughters:

  Hear the wisdom in the waters.

  Listen to the river’s laughter:

  Joy and peace shall flo
w thereafter.

  The rather simple poems gave the elf no clue as to the fate of his beloved Anna. They did, however, calm him and remind him that there was yet some beauty in the dark land to which the treacherous mists had brought him.

  There were no windows in the enclosed study, so Jander had no idea how much time had passed. When he returned to check on the girl, he was surprised to find that it was well after sunset. Natasha slept like she was already one of the undead. As he bent to examine her, she moaned in her sleep and rolled over. Her throat was bruised, but color was starting to return to her cheeks.

  “They all look so inviting when they sleep,” came a smooth voice at his ear. “I trust she met your standards?” Strahd was at his elbow, smiling thinly.

  “A little young for me, but then again, it is hard to find an appropriate age when one is over seven hundred,” Jander quipped, startled, and determined not to reveal it. He had been alone so long, he had forgotten how silent vampires were.

  Strahd frowned a little. “Seven hundred?” He clearly thought Jander was speaking in jest. “Ah—I see. You are counting your years as a living being.”

  “Well, yes,” Jander admitted, “but that’s only two centuries. I’ve been a vampire for five hundred years.”

  Strahd was silent. “I cannot even conceive of such a thing,” he said at last. “I am barely past my first century. You make me feel like a child again. What a great deal I have to learn from you!”

  Seeing the hunger for knowledge in Strahd’s eyes, Jander was not so sure that being the wise old sage was a good thing in this place. Fortunately Strahd changed the subject. “Are you hungry, my friend?”

  The blood thirst called. “Yes,” Jander replied.

  That night they went hunting together; the first of countless nights they would spend thus. One of the gypsies had noticed a small party of intrepid—or foolish—travelers who had arrived too late to obtain a place at the inn. Jander remembered the sour-faced innkeeper and his refusal to admit patrons after dark. Of course none of the village’s terrified, xenophobic inhabitants would accept the strangers, either. So the little band—three men, two women, and a child—had built a makeshift camp near the bridge across the River Ivlis.