Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

A cold, sluggish anger began to creep through Strahd’s veins. He had almost decided against sealing the bargain he’d struck with the mysterious dark entity. Sergei’s obvious love for him and delight at his presence had strengthened that resolve. Now, though, as Sergei beamed with joy for his upcoming marriage, the dark monster of jealousy began to stir inside the count.

  He reached a slender finger to touch Sergei’s medallion. The piece glittered, the crystal in its center flashing as it swung gently. “You’ll have to give that up, you know.”

  Sergei’s hand reached up to clasp the medallion. “Yes, I know. Can’t be married and be a priest, can I? Although I never did think that was quite fair. You can do your duty to your gods and your family. Love for one doesn’t eclipse the other.”

  “Sacrilege!” Strahd exclaimed in mock horror. “You’ll have to start your own religion, Sergei.”

  The young man laughed at that, releasing his hold on the platinum pendant. “Maybe I will, if I can still keep this. It’s been a source of comfort on some long, dark nights, I can tell you.”

  The red tint of anger mixed with the green of jealousy on the palette of the older man’s soul. What could this child possibly know of long, dark nights? What kind of hell had the spoiled youth clawed his way through? Sergei had never had to fight for anything in his brief life! Raised in the lap of luxury, he fought for pleasure and exercise, not for life, not for lands. Women flocked around him, and he, the idiot, always turned them down with some polite excuse. He was an excellent and courageous young fighter, but damn him, he ought to have been a priest. What had he done to deserve Tatyana? And what had he, Strahd, done to be denied her?

  “You could have had any woman in the world,” Strahd said suddenly. “Why her?”

  Sergei’s eyes widened in surprise, then grew soft with pity. “Oh, Strahd,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion, “don’t you know?”

  In his heart of hearts, Strahd did know, and he knew what Sergei meant by the question. It was merely the rhetorical question of a lover so in love that he thought the whole world must see his betrothed as he did.

  Strahd’s jealousy and bitterness chose to warp the sweet words. Don’t you know? The simple question became a taunt in the count’s poisoned mind. Curse him! Sergei knew Strahd loved Tatyana, and he was marrying the girl himself to spite his older brother!

  Somehow Strahd reined in his anger and realized that Sergei was speaking.

  “My joy is complete save for one thing. I wish you had someone like Tatyana.”

  “For the groom, I have a gift,” Strahd said, ignoring the comment and handing Sergei a carefully wrapped bundle of embroidered fabric. “It’s magical and quite old. Well suited to the day.”

  Smiling, Sergei unwrapped the present. It was a small dagger, its hilt decorated with red, black, and gold. The sheath was an odd kind of leather, of a peculiar color. Sergei glanced up at Strahd, confused.

  “I see you recognize it,” Strahd said, “the time-honored weapon of the Ba’al Verzi assassin. The sheath is made of human skin, usually from the weapon’s first victim. The carvings on the hilt are runes of power.”

  Sergei’s face registered shock. Calmly the count took the weapon and pretended to examine it. He drew it gingerly; the blade was bright and flashed candlelight. “Legend has it that it is bad luck to draw the dagger unless you can give it blood. I’m generally not superstitious, but I think this time it’s better to not tempt fate. Don’t you agree?”

  Before Sergei could react, Strahd plunged the blade into his brother’s heart. Crimson fountained onto the murderer’s hand. He met Sergei’s final, questioning gaze with a savage joy. Confused to the last, the young man died without a sound. He collapsed limply into Strahd’s arms.

  Working quickly, the count laid the body out on the floor. Just as the entity had demanded, Strahd withdrew the knife. He gazed at the shiny crimson on the long blade and took a deep breath. Bringing the bloody knife to his mouth, he licked it clean, fighting the nausea that welled up inside him. He grimaced, then tore open his brother’s uniform and white cotton shirt, exposing the small wound that still pumped bright blood.

  Drink of the blood, first from the instrument and then the chalice, the entity had told him. Strahd knelt beside the still-warm corpse of his favorite brother, placed his lips on the wound and drank.

  He choked, coughing and gagging, and lost some of the precious fluid. Anger at his weakness flooded him. Exerting the discipline that had made him a veteran warrior, he ordered his body to continue. Strahd sucked at the lips of the wound, pulling more coppery-tasting blood down his throat, until, imperceptibly, the action became easier. After a moment, he began to relish the taste.

  Energy filled him. Suddenly he became aware of the texture of Sergei’s fine clothing beneath newly sensitive fingers. He could smell the blood and sweat on his brother’s body. He heard the voices of the other guests, even though they were many rooms away. On a whim, Strahd picked up Sergei’s body with one hand, simply because he could. This was glorious! He laughed aloud and dropped the corpse carelessly. It sprawled, and abruptly Strahd realized what had happened.

  The count began to tremble, and he knelt by his brother’s body, touching the pale, still face gently. He gathered the corpse in his arms, and when he cried out loudly, his grief was unfeigned.

  “Damn you, Sergei, damn you. This is your own fault! You weren’t supposed to marry! You were the youngest son, you were supposed to have been a priest … Why didn’t you just do what you’d been born to do?”

  Strahd’s powerful hands were knotted in Sergei’s thick, curly hair, his flushed cheek pressed against his brother’s pale one. Quick footsteps were heard in the corridor, and Anton, Sergei’s personal servant, threw open the door. He stared, horrified, at the bloody scene. He dragged his shocked gaze from Sergei to Strahd, imploring the count to do something.

  Strahd held out the Ba’al Verzi knife. Anton recognized it, and his eyes, already wide, grew even larger. “Sergei is dead,” the count said brokenly. “It must have happened just a moment ago. Tell the guards to seal off the castle at once. We must find my brother’s murderer!”

  The servant nodded, still in shock, staring at Sergei’s limp, blood-soaked form. Anton’s eyes filled; like all in Castle Ravenloft, he had loved the young master. Then he was gone.

  Strahd was astounded. It had been so easy. He had never lied before; as the unquestioned master of first his troops and then his land, he had never had to. He had doubted that he could brazen his way out of the murder of his own brother, yet he had, and with so little a lie. He wondered if the easy way with falsehood was yet another part of his dark gift.

  Suddenly he went cold. He had drunk Sergei’s blood. Had his mouth been stained with the fluid when Anton was present? Quickly Strahd got to his feet and went to inspect his face in the mirror. When he peered into the glass, he received a profound shock.

  His reflection was starting to become transparent.

  Strahd clutched at his chest, relieved to find it solid to the touch. It took an effort to conquer the sudden rush of fear that welled up inside him, but then, Strahd had never been weak-willed. Stubbornly he forced the fear back and bathed his face and hands. The water in the basin turned red.

  From the chapel he heard a high-pitched wail of despair, followed by shouts and weeping and other sounds of lamentation. The door to Sergei’s room again burst open, and four of the castle guards entered. Their swords were drawn.

  “Your Excellency,” said their captain, “we have sealed off all exits to the castle, as you requested. We have no idea who might have done the deed, but no one shall leave until you are satisfied as to the identity of the killer.”

  Strahd, calm again, nodded. “Excellent. Confine everyone to either the chapel or the dining room, whichever one they happen to be nearest.”

  “Aye, Your Excellency.” The guards turned to leave.

  “A moment.” Strahd had paid the bloody price. It was time
to collect his promised reward. “Where is Tatyana?”

  “Out behind the chapel, in the garden. She refuses to let anyone near her.”

  “She’ll let me near her,” Strahd said. He smiled thinly. “She has to.”

  He made his way to the chapel, ignoring the tears and questions of the devastated guests. Dozens of candles provided illumination in the chapel, enough to cause the stained glass windows to cast colored shadows on the statue-still figure of the angelic young girl who huddled, shattered, in the dewy grass of the garden.

  The bride’s face was white with shock, her dark eyes enormous. Tatyana seemed to have no care of the dirt and grass on her beautiful, painstakingly sewn wedding gown. She did not look up as Strahd approached. Gently he eased down beside her.

  “Come, my dear,” he said tenderly, folding her in his embrace. She remained immobile for a moment, then he felt her relax, come back to life, and begin to weep. Her slim body shook violently with each sob, and she clung to him as if she were drowning. Strahd tightened his grip, his newly heightened senses drinking in the feel of the smooth white silk, the scent of her skin and hair, the warmth of her young body. He murmured soft words, soothing, and comforting. At last her sobs quieted, and she spoke brokenly.

  “Wh-why? I don’t unders-stand. Who would—who could do something like this? Oh, Strahd!” Her sobs began afresh, and her hands clung to him desperately.

  “Shh. I know it is hard for you now, my darling, but soon all will be well. Out of great pain comes greater joy, and, in time, you will deem yourself the most fortunate of all women.”

  She froze, then suddenly wrenched herself away from him, slapping his face. Her eyes were wild, filled with agony.

  “Old One,” she whispered, “he’s dead! How can you say such things to me?”

  “Because you are free. You are free to marry me now. He stood in the way of our happiness, but no more, my dear, no more! Tatyana, beloved, I can give you—”

  “No!” Her agony turning to revulsion, Tatyana struggled to escape the murderer of her fiance. Strahd’s grip was unbreakable.

  He was filled with a sudden anger at her ingratitude. If she would just stop struggling, just let him explain what wonders had been wrought, and all for her, all for her. He clamped his hands on either side of her face and kissed her. Her mouth was sweet, but there was a new hunger growing inside him, and he wanted more from her than just a kiss.

  He bellowed in pain, and his grip slackened. One hand went to his mouth and came away red. Pain throbbed in his lower lip where she had bitten him.

  From a few inches away, Tatyana stared at Strahd for an instant. Her eyes widened with a new horror, then she was up, hiking the long, trailing skirt of the dress up to her knees and running as though her very soul depended upon it.

  And perhaps she was not so wrong.

  Strahd cried his anger, and the sound echoed through the castle. Then he, too, was on his feet and in pursuit of the terrified girl, running with unnatural speed and silence.

  Tatyana fled, her heart pounding, sweat pouring down her face, stinging her eyes and blurring her vision as she raced through the garden. Rose thorns tore at her dress, and she wondered with a new burst of panic if even the plants were under Strahd’s command.

  There was nowhere for her to run, really. In her mad flight she didn’t realize that, neither would she have cared. The only direction was away from Strahd, away from the lonely old warrior who had somehow become a monster and murdered Sergei.

  Tatyana could hear him behind her, crying her name, demanding that she wait. She had seen what a hideous, bloody-fanged creature he had become, and she would never let him touch her again. When the low, stony walls appeared before her, Tatyana did not even slow down. Strahd seized the hem of her dress, but with a strength that startled him, the girl tugged it loose from his iron grip.

  The mists roiled below as Tatyana threw herself over the garden wall, embracing the sky as if she were reaching for Sergei. Her cry as she hurtled downward hundreds of feet toward the jagged rocks was not so much a wail of anguish as one of sharp, pure joy at having escaped Strahd’s grasp.

  The count’s flailing hands clutched at empty air, and he almost lost his balance. He could see her white form falling like a dying swan until the mists and the darkness far below engulfed her, mercifully sparing him the sight of her body being shattered on the rocks.

  Pounding impotently on the wall, the vampire arched his back in agony and screamed. His cry echoed back to him mockingly from the mist-shrouded depths that yawned open a few feet ahead.

  An arrow whizzed past his right ear. Strahd whipped around, staring with fury at the castle. The identity of Sergei’s murderer was now clear, and the guards knew their duty. The archers had assumed their posts and directed their arrows through the slits in the wall.

  The air was suddenly filled with angry, singing sounds as dozens of arrows found their mark in the body of the castle’s lord.

  Yet Strahd did not die.

  He looked down at the arrows protruding from his chest and abdomen. A slow smile spread across his features, and, enjoying the terror he knew the sight would cause, he slowly and deliberately plucked out the feathered shafts one by one. He held the huge bundle they made in one hand and with the other snapped them easily. Then, with a terrible purpose, he walked back to the castle.

  Strahd von Zarovich had been denied the only thing he had ever really wanted in his life, and he would exact payment for that loss from everyone within the walls of Castle Ravenloft, perhaps even everyone who dwelt within the borders of Barovia.

  JANDER FOUND HE WAS TREMBLING. THERE WERE NO words for the pity and horror that churned inside of him. What a fall from grace. What a slaughter of innocents. He forced himself to read on.

  Tenth Moon, 400: She has come back, come back to me! I have been granted another chance! My beloved Tatyana has been given new life in the body of a villager named Marina. Marina looks exactly as my dear Tatyana did, but there is something subtly different about her. I cannot say what. In truth, does it matter? I have begun to court her. Surely, this time, I shall make her mine …

  Twelfth Moon, 400: There is none so cursed as I. Tatyana, my love, is dead once more, this time by her father’s hand. The fool said he would rather see her dead than my bride. I slew him at once, of course. I slew the whole family, then returned to these prison walls to nurse my grief. Darling Tatyana, will I never hold you in my arms and see you look at me with love?

  Fourth Moon, 475: Again, Tatyana has returned. I believe this terrible land is testing me, trying to make me prove my love. This time she goes by the name of Olya, but I know the truth. She bears my beloved’s face, although she acts not at all as Tatyana did. It is as though a part of Tatyana is missing from this otherwise perfect picture, as though Olya is a not-quite-finished work of art. As before, I care not, and I will bend her love to me …

  Fourth Moon, 475: I cannot bear the torment! To have almost had her and see her slip away from me yet again! A fever claimed Olya, they said. Nothing to be done, they said. But no one came to me, to see if there was anything I could do!

  Something penetrated Jander’s dazed horror. The fourth moon of 475. He had arrived in Barovia around that time! The name Olya was somehow familiar. The elf concentrated, and it came back to him: Olya was the girl who had died of a fever, the very night that he had entered Barovia, the very night Anna, also burning with fever, had died by Jander’s hand.

  Could they have been somehow linked? Were they the same woman? Anna had been traumatized, unable to utter more than a few words. Anna: Tatyana. “Sir,” her name for Jander: Sergei. Somehow, Tatyana had yearned so desperately to be free of Strahd’s enveloping evil that part of her had escaped the night she leaped into the mist, escaped into Waterdeep. She was but a shattered, partial soul, with fragments of memories, deemed a madwoman by all who saw her.

  Hungry for more information, Jander read on and was brought up sharply when he recognized his own n
ame.

  A stranger has entered my dark realm of unhappiness. Undead, as I am; yearning for life, as I do; but unlike me, he will not pursue his dreams and goals. He is as soft as a newborn, with feelings that bruise and a conscience that will not even let him drain his victims dry. How has such a one survived so long as an undead? And further, why does such a one appear so wise? For Jander Sunstar, an elf from another land, harbors much worth knowing inside that golden head.

  I crave his knowledge. Why can I not draw his secrets from him?

  He thinks he is a guest here. He thinks I am his friend. So easily tricked, yet so difficult to plumb. He is the wisest fool I have ever known. I shall keep him here, and learn what l may …

  Third Moon, 500: Another generation has littered, and the children have grown to adulthood. It is time to begin once again looking for Tatyana. I may not find her this year or the next, but I cannot risk losing her. I must search.

  So, that was where Strahd had disappeared for weeks at a time. He wasn’t looking for the killer of his slaves, as Jander had assumed. The master of Barovia was looking for his love, Tatyana, Anna, so that he could continue their eternal dance of mutual torment.

  It had to be stopped. Jander had been brought to Barovia to quench his thirst for revenge, and he was going to do just that. More, he would relish it. The elf began to shake, and he felt the red haze of berserk anger descend over his consciousness like a crimson curtain.

  Sasha was ten years old again, and entering the slaughterhouse.

  Red liquid poured down the staircase, saturating the rug that covered the stone floor. The child climbed, as if drawn against his will, up the stairs that loomed darkly ahead. The boards creaked under even his slight weight.

  At the top of the stairs, his mother stood waiting for him. Her long brown hair was loose and tumbled down her back. Her eyes were full of concern.

  “Where have you been?” the voice boomed, echoing crazily. “I’ve been so worried.” Long arms reached for him, pulling him to her breast, then white teeth flashed and yellow eyes rolled back into her head. Mother! Mother!