Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  Suddenly he smiled. He could begin here, in the garden, to bring a little bit of beauty back into his world. All the place needed was a little bit of care and effort. Still holding the flower, Jander rose and cast a critical eye on the plants. Though straggly and neglected, all the rosebushes appeared to be alive. It wouldn’t take much work at all to bring the garden back to life, maybe only a night or two.

  Jander walked to the low stone wall that encircled the courtyard and peered down. A few hundred feet below, a thick mist swirled, preventing the elf from seeing all the way to the bottom of the crevice. He could, however, see the fog-encircled village to the southeast of the castle.

  He would go to the village tomorrow night and see if he could pry some information from the tight-lipped townsfolk. Or else to Vallaki, a little farther away. After all, he didn’t know for certain that Anna had come from the village.

  The sky was lightening in the east, the blackness fading to a dark gray. Melancholy settled over Jander like something tangible, and the brief joy the garden had afforded him slipped away. It was time for the elf to seek shelter away from the beloved sun.

  A few miles away, the burgomaster’s daughter also watched the dawn come in. She leaned against the window sill and gazed up at the menacing shadow of Castle Ravenloft. Anastasia sighed, and her eyes fell to the cobblestoned courtyard beneath her. It had been three months since Petya had risked his life to warn her about the vampire; three months since Anastasia had stood up to her father and shamed him with his own fear. Life had become much better for all the women in the Kartov family since that night.

  Still, Anastasia thought grimly as she stared unseeing into the bleak Barovian dawn, she didn’t think anyone in the household would react well to the news that she was pregnant with a gypsy’s child.

  Jander’s efforts to win the Barovians’ trust failed miserably. Several times a week for many months he appeared at the Wolf’s Den with a purse full of gold, but he was always regarded with suspicion. He chose the darkest corners and kept to himself, hoping that the tactic would garner more information than trying to directly engage one of the suspicious townspeople in conversation.

  The vampire did indeed overhear much, but not what he wanted to hear. Vlad So-and-so’s daughter had mysteriously disappeared. Mikhail Thus-and-such had heard a wolf howling and awakened to find the corpse of a half-human, half-animal creature on his doorstep. Irina on the other side of town had given birth to something, nobody was sure what; when they burned the tiny body it turned into a sticky goo and emitted a terrible stench. Irina went mad, they said, and they raised their glasses to her poor husband Igor.…

  Jander listened and grew ill at the things they described. No wonder no one trusted him. He left a handful of coins on the table and rose, noting that the room fell silent and everyone had turned to look at him. The elf drew his gray cape tighter about his slender frame and hurried out the door.

  “They said you came here now and then,” came a female voice. “I was wondering if I’d be able to catch you.”

  Jander turned, raising a gold eyebrow when he saw a young woman standing by the door. A black cape did not quite disguise the full swell of her belly, and the light from the tavern door illuminated her upturned face. Dead leaves swirled at her feet, scudding along with a dry, scraping sound. A polite distance away, two servants, a man and a woman, waited patiently. Quickly Jander reached and pulled the door closed so that the patrons of the inn wouldn’t see them talking. “Anastasia, is it not?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” She saw him looking at her servants. “Don’t mind them. It’s only my maid and my father’s valet. I wanted to tell you about … well …” The burgomaster’s daughter looked down at her curving stomach and smiled awkwardly. “It’s Petya’s. I’m keeping it. I haven’t … He doesn’t know.”

  Jander said nothing, only waited for her to continue.

  “Papa isn’t quite the terror he used to be. Your wolves saw to that.” She laughed, and the elf smiled as well. “I thought about giving the baby to the gypsies, but I know they wouldn’t take it. Besides, it’s something that will always remind me of Petya. Does that make sense? I’m babbling, I know, but …” She faltered and looked up at him, her dark-circled eyes very serious.

  “You did a lot for me and Petya, more than you really know. This baby—” she rubbed her belly with one protective, loving hand “—is a kind of symbol of that for me. I’m going to tell it all about you, and you will have my child’s friendship, as well as mine and Petya’s.” Her eyes searched his for a reaction.

  Jander was moved. “My dear,” he said, his voice soft and filled with a hint of surprised wonder, “you do me an honor in telling me this. I truly hope all goes well for you and your child.”

  Anastasia smiled up at him, relieved. “Here.” she said on impulse, “it’s kicking away like mad. Would you like to feel it?”

  The vampire almost declined, but the thought of touching such a new little life was more than he could bear. Cautiously he reached a hand to the girl’s stomach. She took the hand and moved it about on her belly. “There!” Anastasia exclaimed triumphantly, looking to see the elf’s reaction. Jander’s eyes widened as he felt the tiny being moving. Quickly he pulled his hand away, balling it into a fist and holding it close to his heart.

  “I must go,” he said hurriedly, not meeting Anastasia’s eyes. “Excuse me.” Pulling his cape closed, he strode swiftly across the square and down the path that led to Castle Ravenloft.

  Anastasia watched him depart. The moon cleared a cloud, and its milky light flooded the square. She gasped a little, then shook her head, amazed at her temerity. Petya had told the truth about the elf—Jander cast no shadow. Instinctively she folded her hands about her unborn baby.

  “Little one,” she said softly, “you may be the only child in Barovia who has been sworn a friend of a vampire.”

  Once Jander was out of sight, his body shimmered into mist and then into the shape of a gold-coated, silver-eyed wolf. He ran through the cool comfort of the Svalich Woods, concentrating on his movements and the play of taut muscles beneath shaggy fur. In the physical exertion, he tried to forget how much he longed to be a living being once again.

  IN THE TIME FOLLOWING THE UNSETTLING ENCOUNTER with Anastasia, the garden became Jander’s comfort. On one particular night, almost ten years after his meeting with the pregnant woman, he worked at preparing the rose bushes for their winter’s sleep by trimming them back. The other plants had already gone dormant, but he could feel their life beneath the sheltering soil. Come spring, the place would be filled with fragrant blossoms. Jander straightened and dusted off his dirty hands. He glanced at the sky. It was almost dawn.

  The elf had been reading a book on furniture restoration and had left it in the study. When he went to retrieve it, Jander nearly collided with Strahd as the other vampire stepped out of the secret room.

  “Jander! I thought you were in the village this evening,” Strahd said, recovering his composure at once. He was carrying a large book in his left arm and holding a torch in his right. Quickly, tucking the book under his right arm, he pulled the door shut behind him with his left, blocking Jander’s view into the room.

  “I was. It’s nearly dawn. You lost track of the time.”

  “So it seems. Well, I must go to my coffin before the sun rises.” He turned, placed the torch in its sconce, and began to murmur an incantation to seal the door magically.

  “Are there books in that room?” Jander asked. “I’d like to see if there are any records that might—”

  Strahd stiffened and turned around slowly. “You are never,” he said quietly, “never to ask me that again. Do you understand? This castle is mine, and what I choose to keep hidden from view is my own business. I have my reasons, and you are never to question them!” He clutched the book to his chest. “Leave me!”

  In all their many sparring conversations, Jander had never before been the focus of the count’s red-hot anger, and he
was properly chastened. He nodded courteously and left for his quarters. Strahd spoke a harsh, guttural word, and the study door slammed shut behind the elf.

  Jander went to his chamber, the room in which Natasha had died. He had since boarded up the window and sealed the cracks with pitch, so that he might sleep there comfortably during the day. He was tired and longed to lie down on the new down mattress he had asked Strahd to bring up from the village. Yet hunger nagged at his stomach. Reluctantly he left the comfortable room to descend into the prison that was Strahd’s larder.

  “Do you know who I am yet, Jander Sunstar?” came Anna’s teasing voice. In his dream, Jander pretended to still be asleep, and when Anna bent over him he grabbed her and tumbled her onto the bed with him. She laughed, pushing him away halfheartedly, then hugged him tightly. The elf covered her sweet face with kisses.

  “No, you little vixen, I don’t,” he replied to her question. “You don’t seem to have existed here. There are no asylums, neither here nor in Vallaki. The Barovians keep their madmen to themselves or turn them loose to wander. Or else they die,” he added, his eyes melancholy, “which, in this land, is the best thing for them.”

  “Perhaps,” Anna said, one small hand stroking Jander’s chest, “I wasn’t in a madhouse.”

  He gaped at her, feeling very foolish. Of course. “Did you live in the village? Were you married? Anna, who was your family? What—”

  “Jander, my friend, you distress yourself!” came a creamy cold voice that was definitely not Anna’s. Jander opened his eyes to find that he had been clutching the down pillow to his chest. “Perhaps this room does not agree with you if you have such nightmares here.” Strahd added, gazing at the elf.

  The other vampire didn’t even bother to reply, only sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Good evening, Strahd.” he murmured.

  The count pulled up a chair and seated himself with a flourish. “I have a gift for my friend.”

  A sullen slave entered, bearing a mahogany box, one foot by one and one-half, and about four inches deep. Strahd took the box and opened it. Jander’s eyes widened.

  Inside the velvet-lined case were the tools of a craftsman. Tiny bottles of colored powder were ready to be mixed. Three different sizes of styles, all silver-tipped, waited to be used for carving or engraving. There was an assortment of small hammers and chisels, as well.

  “These are merely to whet your appetite. Please let me know what else you may require in your work, and I shall provide it for you.”

  “They are a master’s tools, Strahd.” Jander said sincerely. “Thank you. I’ll begin using them tonight.”

  “I have … something else planned for you this evening. If, of course, you care to join me.”

  “Behold the arrival of the Morninglord!”

  Martyn Pelkar, better known to the impatient Barovians over the last ten years as Brother Martyn the Mad, stood on the wooden podium he himself had made and addressed anyone within earshot. Tall and lanky with fair, curly hair and pale blue eyes, the self-proclaimed priest of a god he called Lathander Morninglord stretched his arms up to the sky. He faced east as the sun crept slowly over the horizon.

  “Every morning,” muttered the baker, Vlad Rastolnikov, as he busied himself with the morning’s final batch of bread. The big man pounded the dough on the long table, venting his irritation on it. “Can’t just shut his mouth, can he? No, he’s got to come around here and bother everybody.” The rest of his mumbling disappeared into his bushy black beard.

  The bakery was a small building, the large oven in the back taking up most of the room. Only a few candles were lit toward the front, as the fire from the oven provided sufficient illumination for work in that area. There was a long table upon which Rastolnikov worked the bread, and a deep cabinet for the bowls and pans. When the loaves were ready, Rastolnikov’s apprentice, Kolya, would hawk them in the market square.

  Kolya, a plump boy who was overly fond of his master’s wares, appeared at Rastolnikov’s shoulder. “Are these ready for the oven yet, sir?” he asked.

  Rastolnikov paused, white flour up to his elbows.

  Thick black brows drew together over equally black eyes. “What do you think I’m doing?” Kolya shrank back, cowed. “Ah, take a few minutes and get some air, Kolya. The heat has gone to your head.”

  “Thank you, master,” Kolya replied, scurrying out into the square. He shivered in the morning and wished he had brought a cloak. The bakery had been sweltering, and he felt the dewy chill.

  “Be back in time for this last batch!” his master roared after him. Kolya headed down Market Street to the old church. Behind him, Martyn still carried on with his dawn prayers, his gold and pink robes a startling contrast to the gray of the sky:

  “We thank thee, O Morninglord, for the beautiful dawn and the glory of your new day.…”

  “It’s about time you got here.”

  Kolya gasped, then closed his eyes in relief when he saw that it was only Sasha Petrovich, the burgomaster’s grandson, leaning against an abandoned building and grinning wickedly. He wore a simple cotton shirt and brown trousers, his cape draped over his shoulders. At his feet was a large empty sack. “I was wondering if you’d ever get away from old Ratty.”

  “Sasha, you know I don’t like it when you call my master that,” Kolya protested halfheartedly. “Here.” He offered the other boy half a fresh-baked loaf.

  The boy reached out a brown hand and took the proffered bread eagerly, pausing to smell the yeasty scent appreciatively before taking a bite. “Ratty does make good bread,” he admitted with his mouth full.

  “We’ve got to hurry,” Kolya prodded. “Martyn’s already out in the square.”

  “I know, but he’s as long-winded as my grandpapa. Especially when it’s not raining. We’ve got plenty of time.” They had reached the end of Market Street and stood gazing up at the church.

  The building was old, its wood weathered. It had been falling apart until “Mad Martyn” had taken it for his god, Lathander. The young priest’s labors had worked subtle changes: the door hung straight on its hinges, the windows were free of cobwebs and sparkled with new glass. The walkways were swept, and new roof tiles spotted the sharp, peaked roof with incongruous color, like the red caps of mushrooms dotting the brown litter of the forest floor. The evidence of fresh occupation was a little daunting, even to brash young Sasha. The old church was once again a holy place.

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into stealing from a church,” Kolya moaned.

  “We’re not stealing, we’re just … borrowing.” Sasha, shrugging off his momentary hesitation, tugged on the double entrance doors. They opened outward reluctantly, creaking. The two boys blinked, their eyes adjusting to the dimness within. There was a small center aisle, flanked by rows of pews on either side. Dust swam in the air. The altar at the end, however, was kept scrupulously neat. Sasha and Kolya saw a small pile of pink wooden disks in the center of the altar and a few simple but polished candlesticks with half-burned tapers. Next to the altar stood a large basin on a pedestal. A ray of sun crept in and caught the sparkle of water.

  “Here we are,” grinned Sasha triumphantly. He ran down the aisle, his booted feet making surprisingly little noise. “Well, come on, Kolya!” Reluctantly the other boy followed. Sasha handed him several small bottles. “You fill these up with the holy water, and I’ll take the disks.”

  “Sasha, I know we’re going to get in trouble for this,” Kolya murmured as he dipped a bottle into the basin and bubbles formed on the water’s glinting surface.

  “Kolya, you’re the one who’s scared of the dark.”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too. You’re the one who said, ‘Oh, Sasha, I’m afraid to go out there without anything to protect us!’ Here we are, getting you some protection from the night creatures. So just shut up, all right? Aiee, what a coward! Cowardly Kolya, that’s what I’m going to call you from now on.” Disgusted, Sasha shoveled all th
e rosy disks into his sack. For good measure, he took the candleholders too. “I can get us some lamps and blankets. You’re going to get the mirrors and the garlic, right?” Kolya didn’t answer. “Right?”

  Kolya wasn’t listening. He was staring, horrified, out one of the holes in the stained glass window. “Sasha, he’s coming!”

  With the speed of a rabbit, the dark-haired youth seized his bag in one hand and his friend’s collar in the other. Kolya stumbled and then found his footing, and together the two little thieves charged down the aisle. Sasha hit the heavy wooden doors running, and they swung outward, catching Brother Martyn full in the chest and tumbling the priest backward. Kolya and Sasha fell too, but scrambled to their feet and took off as fast as they could.

  The young priest lay gasping on the stairs until he got his breath back, then rose, wincing. He opened the doors and saw his altar at the far end completely bare. At first, Martyn was horrified. A smile, however, touched his mouth after a moment.

  His god’s actions were never clear to the slightly crazy priest. One thing Martyn knew, however: if those two boys wanted the holy objects badly enough to steal from a church, they were welcome to whatever protection the symbols could afford them. Martyn knew first-hand what lurked in the nightscape of Barovia.

  A safe distance away, Sasha and Kolya collapsed at the foot of a massive oak tree. Sasha began to laugh hysterically, a merry whooping that made even the terrified Kolya grin and finally join in.

  “All right,” Sasha said, wiping the tears from his face and resting a hand on his laugh-weary stomach. “You’ve got to be getting back to Ratty. I’ll meet you near the seamstress’s shop at sundown. This is going to be so much fun!” Kolya wasn’t so sure, but he nodded anyway.