Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  The day wound down as usual. Kolya was late returning to the bakery and received a brief, floury spanking from his master. Sasha Petrovich had skipped his lessons, and his mother confronted him when he tried to sneak back into the mansion. She was sitting on the stair landing, waiting for him. Her face was worn and sad. She gazed down at him for a moment before speaking.

  “Why do you do this, Alexei Petrovich?”

  Sasha shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you like learning things? Being smart?”

  “Not in the summertime.” He peered up at her with jet-black eyes. Anastasia had to laugh.

  “Come sit beside me,” she invited. Sasha obediently climbed the stairs to where she sat. Her arm went around him, and he leaned against her. “Sasha, I’ve told you about your father, and why it’s so important to me that you behave well. It doesn’t matter to us that you’re half-gypsy, but there are some narrow-minded people in town to whom it does matter. Your learning will make sure you have a place here when I’m gone.”

  Sasha fidgeted. He hated it when his mother got serious. Whenever Mama talked about leaving him, Sasha always got a lump in his throat. “Are you still going to let me go to Kolya’s tonight?”

  Anastasia ran her fingers through his silky hair and glanced out the window. “I’m not sure. It’s already starting to get dark. Hurry and pack, and we’ll see.”

  With a speed his mother wouldn’t have thought possible, Sasha dashed up the stairs and prepared his things for the “overnight trip.” He had his own room, small but private. There was a cot, a small window, and a chest for his clothes and toys. The ten-year-old rummaged through it, looking for his sack. His aunt Ludmilla, a willowy, attractive young woman who had just turned twenty, stuck her head in and almost caught him with a handful of the rosy wooden disks.

  “Better hop along, little bunny,” she teased him, grinning.

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “It’s getting late, little bunny,” Ludmilla continued, ignoring him. “Wolves come out when it’s late. Grrr!” He stuck his tongue out at her, and she continued down the hall to the room she shared with Anastasia, laughing.

  When Sasha scurried back down, he found his mother standing by the open door, searching the sky anxiously.

  It was a magnificent summer’s twilight. Purple and orange struggled for domination in the cloudless sky, and the moon was already visible as a ghostly orb near the horizon. The birds twittered to one another as they prepared for their sleep.

  In any other place, lovers would sit on grassy hills and watch the spectacle with awe and anticipation. The harried inhabitants of Barovia, however, could spare no time to appreciate the beauty of sunset. For them, it symbolized a handful of safe minutes before the arrival of the dreaded night and all that lurked within it.

  “Perhaps you’d better not go stay with Kolya’s family tonight,” Anastasia murmured.

  “Mama, you promised!”

  “I know, but the Kalinovs live all the way on the other side of the town, and it’s almost dark.”

  “I’ll be fast!” Sasha assured his mother. “There’s plenty of time if I leave right now!”

  Anastasia hesitated, grimly aware that time was ticking away relentlessly. “Oh, very well. Take this.” She removed a pendant that hung about her neck and slipped it over Sasha’s dark head. The boy rolled his eyes at what he regarded as his mother’s over-protectiveness.

  He had never seen anything resembling a vampire or a werewolf in his entire life, not even the one that had rescued his parents. Sasha was rather hoping that that night he and Kolya might meet the mysterious, golden elfvampire. The boy did not even bother to examine the pendant. He knew what it was—a simple disk of silver with protective signs etched in it.

  “Hurry.” Anastasia planted a quick kiss on his wide forehead and sent him off with a gentle smack on the bottom. Sasha took off running, delighted with his freedom. Anastasia watched him go with a sad smile on her careworn face.

  “Oh, Petya, he’s so much like you,” she whispered to herself. The burgomaster’s daughter said a quick prayer for her headstrong child as she closed the heavy wooden door and bolted it.

  Kolya was waiting for him as he had promised, a doleful expression on his pudgy face. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show,” Sasha greeted him. Kolya merely glared, falling in step with the burgomaster’s grandson as they trudged down the overgrown path that wound through the forest to the ring of stones on the hill. Kolya tripped on roots several times, and at one point Sasha stopped and lit a lantern so they could see better.

  The circle was the same place where Sasha’s parents had stolen a few moments together, which made it special for the boy. Also, it was rumored that it had once been a place where powerful, good magic had been worked, centuries before.

  Sasha laid one of the pink wooden disks at the foot of each stone, then placed everything else on the large, flat rock in the center. Kolya lit the lamps and candles, then the two boys curled up in the blankets they had brought.

  Gathering his blanket up to his neck, Kolya glanced at the shadows that loomed just beyond the flickering of their smoky oil lamps. The strong smell of the chain of garlic cloves around his neck was starting to make him feel nauseous.

  “I want to go home, Sasha,” he moaned.

  Sasha threw him a withering glance. “Look, we’re perfectly safe. This place is enchanted, and we’ve got all kinds of things to protect ourselves with.”

  There came a sudden, sharp sound. Kolya shrieked and dived for the pile of charms, brandishing the mirror in the direction of the sound.

  “Idiot,” Sasha said disgustedly, “You’ve just thwarted the attack of an undead rabbit. Congratulations.” Indeed, Kolya could see the rabbit’s white tail disappearing into the dark. He blushed hotly.

  Sasha ignored Kolya’s distress, instead picking up the book he had brought and flipping through it. “Here we are,” he said triumphantly. He lay down on his right side, the book stretched out in front of him, and carefully positioned the lamp. An owl hooted ominously. Sasha listened and grinned. Then, making his voice as deep and ominous as a ten-year-old can make it, he began to read.

  “Once upon a time, many moons ago, in the town of Vallaki, there lived a boy named Pavel Ivanovich. He was not just any boy. He was the son of the Sun, and his purpose was to hold back the Darkness. His father had given him a piece of the sun, but it was stolen from Pavel’s cradle. The Darkness hid it far, far away, but when Pavel grew to become a man, he realized that he had to recover the piece of the sun. To do that, he entered the lands of the Dark.

  “So he walked, alone, to the black pasture where the Nightmares graze and the river of Forgetfulness flows, and he met the first Guardian of the Darkness. He was a tall, pale man, with sharp teeth and claws. ‘Stop!’ said Nosferatu, for so Pavel knew the guardian to be. ‘Stop, that I may drink your blood and live upon your death.’ But Pavel said to Nosferatu, ‘You cannot stop me, for I am the son of the Sun, and I will show you the evil that you are.’ Pavel held up a mirror. When Nosferatu saw how evil he truly was, he roared in pain and dissolved like the mists in the morning sunlight …”

  Kolya hugged his knees and tried not to listen to the ghost story. He was certain he would not sleep a wink that night. It was his imagination, probably, but Kolya just couldn’t shake the idea that someone was watching them.

  Outside the circle of stones, Count Strahd von Zarovich laughed and drew back into the shadows. “It would almost be worth it to attack, just to see their faces,” he told Jander. “Still, the little ones are so small they would scarcely be an appetizer for us.”

  Jander thought the statement held just a touch of bravado. Surely Strahd sensed the powerful magic of the place. The huge gray stones protected the two foolish children as surely as any physical wall. Then again, the realm belonged to the count. The elf glanced back uneasily at the three slaves. They stood quietly behind their master, three vampiresses who had clearly be
en attractive in their lives and were now coldly obedient.

  These three were typical of the kind of woman Strahd found attractive. They were all taller than average, with dark, red-brown hair and dark eyes. Their figures were slim, unlike those of most Barovian women, who tended to be rather stocky. They resembled Anna closely enough to cause Jander to think about his beloved every time one of the slaves appeared. It was torturous.

  Strahd glanced at Jander. “You are pleased?”

  Jander shrugged. “As you say, their blood could hardly feed us all. And,” he added, “I’m sure you can sense the amount of protection they have at their fingertips. I don’t think these puppies are worth the trouble.”

  Strahd’s eyes searched Jander’s, then the lord of Barovia nodded once. “Come,” he said, “I know a place where a banquet awaits us.” Casually he reached out a sharp-nailed hand and stroked the cheek of the nearest slave. “Are you hungry, my love?”

  The slave bared long fangs, her eyes blazing as she nodded. Jander, too, was ravenous. The cursed thirst burned inside him like a fever, demanding to be slaked. The very scent of these children was enough to cause him to salivate in anticipation. He wondered where Strahd was taking them. Was there an adventuring party or an army of sorts nearby?

  “Let us feed, then. Into wolf form, my beauties, and we shall head into the village.” Obediently the vampiresses shape-changed into sleek, brown wolves. Their master, flamboyant as always, twisted into his own wolf form, that of a monstrous black beast. Jander dropped to all fours, wolfen also. The pack followed the path that Strahd set and, tails up and ears back, trotted down into the unsuspecting village of Barovia.

  As they slipped unnoticed past the Wolf’s Den, Jander saw that a wreath of garlic cloves hung on the door. He had not had much luck in obtaining victims anywhere here in the village, but the inn had been the best of a poor lot. He cursed mentally. He would have to visit Vallaki more often; they were less careful than the villagers.

  The elf followed Strahd and the she-wolves as they cut across the square, silent shadows in the darkness. He saw that they were heading down Burgomaster’s Way, where the better families of the village dwelt. Jander felt a flicker of foreboding. Something was not right here. Strahd’s gait was filled with a carefully reined enthusiasm that the elf instinctively did not like.

  Jander was shocked when the end of their trail placed them at the burgomaster’s mansion. Trepidation filled the elf at the sight; he had promised Anastasia that she would come to no harm through him. The black wolf halted, arched, and shimmered into Strahd’s human form. He gestured for the others to do the same. As soon as he could, Jander demanded in a whisper, “Just what kind of game are you playing?”

  Deliberately ignoring Jander’s disrespectful tone, Strahd answered him smoothly, “Kartov has been cheating me. He has been levying harsh taxes on the peasants in my name, yet I have not received a single copper.”

  Jander’s heart sank at the icy timber of Strahd’s voice. “What is money to you, Your Excellency?” he said, trying to avert what he feared was about to happen.

  “It is not the money itself, but the fact that the arrogant mortal thinks to trick me.” Surrounded by pressing darkness, Jander had no trouble seeing the red fire in Strahd’s eyes. “I plan to teach him a lesson.” He started to move to the door, then paused. “I thought,” he said affably, “that you were hungry.”

  Jander’s mind raced for any excuse. “They won’t let you in at this time of night.”

  Strahd smiled. “I have no need of their permission. Don’t you remember?”

  Jander did remember his first glimpse of the depths of Strahd’s anger, the time he had shouted, I am the land!… Every home is my home.

  Surely Strahd will not kill the burgomaster’s family in their own home, the elf thought desperately. A vampire cannot simply ravage a town for a lark. The continued existence of Strahd and his minions depends on secrecy. The count realizes that. He has to, Jander told himself.

  Strahd began to chant in a musical, barely audible voice. Jander winced, his dislike of magic not fading in the face of his need for blood. The door started to glow, emitting a soft radiance.

  “It’s protected,” Jander said. Strahd glared at him with open contempt.

  “What is a simple ward to the lord of the land?” he replied, his deep voice containing a hint of laughter. He again chanted, and the blue radiance vanished. The count’s body dissolved into a fine mist that seeped under the door. The elf heard a bolt slide back, then the door swung open. “Come in,” Strahd bade them, smiling at the irony. The three slaves rushed into the house. Jander followed more slowly.

  “Now,” Strahd told the vampiresses, “do you remember my instructions?” Expressionless save for the hunger that danced in their blank eyes, they nodded. “Excellent. You may sup wherever you like.”

  Like hounds on the scent they are, Jander thought as he watched the beautiful undead women sniffing the air. The fragrance of so many humans in the house excited him, too. Two of the vampiresses scurried into the servant’s quarters on the first floor. The third ran soundlessly up the wide staircase. Jander and Strahd followed. At the top, the elf ducked into the first bedroom he came to and felt Strahd brush past him in the hall. There was a little cot and a few pieces of furniture in the first small bedroom, but nothing else.

  The next bedroom was large and well-furnished, with two beds and a beautifully carved table between them. In one of the beds a young woman of about twenty summers slept contentedly.

  For a moment Jander thought it might be Anastasia. He drew near and gazed down at her, marking her regular breathing and the long, black lashes that lay against sleep-flushed cheeks. No, the girl wasn’t Anastasia, although the resemblance was strong. Jander guessed it was her sister. He sat beside her on the bed. Gently, like a lover, he laid a golden hand on her dark hair. With a bite that was as tender as any mortal kiss, he sliced a nick in her throat. A bead of blood welled up, and he licked it off, savoring the sustaining liquid. He placed his lips to the wound, gathered the girl in his arms, and fed. He took his time despite the hunger in his gut; she would not wake, and there was no hurry. When he had finished, several long minutes later, he laid her back on her pillow.

  It wasn’t until Jander was back in the corridor, closing the door quietly behind him, that he caught the hot stench of spilled blood.

  A CRY OF PAIN AND FEAR RENT THE AIR. SWIFTER THAN a thought, Jander followed the stench to the master bedroom at the far end of the corridor, breaking open the door. “Strahd!”

  One of the vampiresses was leaning over the prone body of an elderly man. It was Burgomaster Kartov. His throat had been sliced apart, as though the vampiress had ripped her fangs like daggers through the flesh. The wound gaped like a ghastly, misplaced grin, and what blood had not gone to feed the feral beauty spattered her face and soaked slowly into the rich blue-and-gold carpet. The burgomaster’s wife, too, was dead, sprawled brokenly on the bed. Her limbs lay at grotesque angles, as though every joint had been tom apart.

  Strahd held a young woman in an unbreakable grip. The count had obviously enjoyed slaking his thirst, for he had taken his time feeding. She was still alive, though ghostly pale and very weak. At the sound of the breaking door, her head lolled in Jander’s direction.

  The elf’s eyes went wide.

  “Anastasia!” he cried.

  “You promised,” she whispered in a trembling voice.

  Jander leaped toward Strahd, his ferocity surprising the other vampire. Jander tore the dying Anastasia from Strahd’s arms, knocking the larger, more powerful man to the floor. Immediately, Strahd’s three slaves tackled Jander, answering their master’s sudden flare of surprise and rage. But the elf was ancient, his will as powerful and better trained than Strahd’s, and his own rage and horror burned hot. He shook the three slaves off like a wolf scattering an attack of foxes, and lifted Anastasia in his arms, his gaze on Strahd, hot and full of hate.

  The coun
t rose slowly, with dignity. One white hand slicked back disheveled hair. His eyes were red.

  “How dare you come between me and my prey?”

  “Prey is one thing. This is a massacre!”

  “Only of humans. What do I care? You are soft, Jander, and that will be your undoing!” Anger turned to malevolent humor. “Of course, unless you wanted her for yourself.” He smiled, his mouth smeared with red and his fangs long and sharp.

  Jander kept his eyes locked with Strahd’s. In his arms, Anastasia trembled and went limp with a horrible finality. Forcing himself to bridle his grief and horror, the elf turned to Strahd, his face showing a mirror of the count’s own cold arrogance.

  “You are courting death, Strahd,” Jander said coldly. “You’ve got these people frightened, yes, but you don’t want to make them angry. We are vulnerable—you even more so than I. I can control how deeply I sleep. You can’t.” The elf laughed, his normally musical voice made savage and ugly with his emotions, and laid Anastasia’s pale corpse at Strahd’s feet.

  “One peasant farmer with a planting stick, Strahd, and you could be no more than this—less than this, for you would not even rise as a slave! Remember that this dawn, as sleep takes you.”

  Strahd’s red eyes narrowed in anger, but he held his tongue. Jander knew he was listening.

  “Have you ever seen a lynch mob?” the elf continued bitterly. “I have, from both sides. It’s a frightening thing. Individuals can be terrorized, but if you have a group of people who have been pushed far enough, they’re going to find you, and you won’t be able to stop them from destroying you.”

  The vampiress next to Strahd snarled and raised a clawed hand. The count stayed her with a twitch of his finger. “Leave him alone.”

  Jander’s eyes never left Strahd’s. “I’ve seen it happen. A group of vampires had the whole town for the taking back in my homeland. They grew prideful and began a wholesale slaughter. The folk rallied and destroyed them. No vampire has ever been able to enter that village again. The people are eternally poisoned against strangers—much like Barovia. For the sake of your own neck, Count, try to exercise a little caution. Not everyone in this forsaken hellhole is a fool.”