Hunting Prince Dracula

by Kerri Maniscalco

  I needed to know how the girl on Percy’s dissection table had perished, if not solely from the bats’ depredations. But I needed to sort out the mystery of both Ileana’s and Anastasia’s whereabouts as well. Thomas watched me over his shoulder every few moments, lips pressed in concern.

  Percy’s next words pierced my racing thoughts. “Clearly Miss Anastasia Nádasdy succumbed to the wounds she sustained.”

  All thoughts were tossed from my head as if a washbasin had been thrown out. I stared at Percy, blinking disbelief away. He couldn’t mean—My gaze traveled from my teacher to the corpse laid out before him. He tugged the shroud from her face. Little gears clicked and turned, hissing as this new information fitted into place. The young woman who’d been attacked in the tunnel chamber by vampire bats was Anastasia?

  The earth seemed to rumble beneath my seat. Flames rose from my core, then turned icy. I blinked tears away, unable to prevent a few from sliding down my cheeks. I didn’t actually care if anyone in the class mocked my show of emotion. I stared unseeing at the body, trying to force the image to make sense. Anastasia. It couldn’t be. I sat there, heart thudding dully, looking at the lifeless form. I took in the blond hair but couldn’t bear to inspect her decaying face too closely.

  My friend was dead. This could not be happening again. My chest felt as if it were caving in from the weight now pressing on it. How could I have thought her guilty of the murders? When did I become so untrusting? I longed to run from the room and never study another body for as long as I lived. Thomas wasn’t the cursed one, I was. Every person I grew close to died. Nicolae had said as much in the alleyway. He was correct.

  Through tears, I glanced at our classmates. All were stricken. Gone were the fiercely competitive students, thirsting for knowledge and battling for those two precious spots in the academy. Science needed coldness for exploratory advancements, but we were still human. Our minds might be made of steel when needed, but our hearts beat with compassion. We still cared deeply for people and mourned.

  Thomas swiveled in his seat, attention landing on Nicolae and then on me. My friend appeared rattled but was focused enough to seek out suspicious behavior. I’d almost forgotten about the prince’s illustrations and what part they might have played in all this. Andrei clamped his jaws together, tossing a murderous glare at his friend, though his throat bobbed with tears he was obviously holding back. How very peculiar.

  “The bite marks are consistent with those of small mammals,” Percy said quietly. “Does anyone want to hazard a guess as to what might have attacked this young woman?”

  I held my breath along with the rest of the surgical theater. Neither Thomas nor I dared to respond—or even glance at each other—though we had seen exactly how Anastasia had died. The question was, who else in this classroom would know? If anyone else was collaborating with Ileana, they’d be privy to the source of death.

  Percy trailed his gaze over each student, waiting for someone to break the heavy silence.

  “Snakes?” Vincenzo and Giovanni finally asked in unison.

  “Venomous spiders?” Cian added.

  “Good guesses, but no,” Percy said, his expression becoming less hopeful. “Does anyone else wish to share an idea?”

  Nicolae barely glanced at the body, attention fixed on the carbolic steam spray still in his hands. He rolled it from side to side, then pressed the release button, startling us all with a burst of antiseptic spray. Its mist was as foreboding as the tone he used.

  “Bats,” he mumbled. “Those wounds are characteristic of a type of bat rumored to infest this castle.”

  Percy clapped once, the sound jolting us all in our seats. “Excellent, Prince Nicolae! Notice the spaces between the teeth marks. These indicate rather large specimens, too. I imagine they must have fed on her for quite some time, though she likely lost consciousness at some point.”

  I swallowed hard, stomach churning with the image. If I didn’t keep my emotions locked away tightly, I’d break apart piece by piece. I focused on breathing. If I thought about my friend, how vibrant she was in life, I’d be of no use to her in death. Still, even with having had some practice in controlling my feelings, bits of my heart shattered. I was through with loss. So very tired of constantly saying good-bye to those I wished to adventure with through life. I swiped at the wetness on my cheeks and sniffled.

  Erik and Cian cursed. I knew they weren’t capable of being the Impaler or working with Ileana. There was kindness and compassion fusing their cells together. I’d watched Erik help Nicolae when he’d tossed him an apron, willing to help someone out when they needed a friend.

  But the prince and his obsession with bats, well, that seemed too much of a coincidence to ignore.

  “All right,” Percy said, “who would like to make the next incision?”

  Cian and Noah eyed each other and slowly raised their hands. I admired their ability to push beyond the horror, but I couldn’t bring myself to use my blade on my friend’s body. I didn’t care if it cost me my place in the academy; even thinking of the stupid competition felt horribly cold, though I knew Anastasia would chide me for feeling defeated. She’d expect me to push forward.

  With that thought fortifying me, I sat straight as an arrow in the first row of Percy’s surgical theater, knowing there was absolutely nothing I could offer Anastasia, aside from my will to avenge her death. Thomas leaned forward in his seat but did not raise his hand.

  “Mr. Hale,” Percy said. “Please come take your place.”

  Noah adjusted his apron and took the scalpel from Percy, doing a fine job of rinsing it with carbolic acid before placing it against unmoving flesh. Uncle would have been proud. I forced myself to watch the Y incision he made on Anastasia’s lifeless chest. I kept my breathing steady, not allowing my pulse to spike. We needed to find out for certain if the bats were truly her cause of death, or if something more sinister had ended her life first.

  My gaze trailed down to her hands. There weren’t many defensive wounds. I found it hard to believe someone as feisty as Anastasia would simply lie back and give in to Death without battling it with everything she had. She fought to be treated equally, fought to prove her worth to her uncle. A fighter like her wouldn’t give up during the ultimate battle. The thought bolstered my own spirits, encouraging me to carry on.

  “Note the way in which Mr. Hale is separating the ribs. Very clean cuts.”

  Professor Percy handed our classmate the rib cutters and took the scalpel again. I cringed a bit at the exposed viscera but reminded myself this was no longer Anastasia—this was a victim who needed us. A slight garlic scent wafted through the theater as Percy paced around the operating floor. I narrowed my eyes. Before I could call out my question, Noah pried the jaws open. Nothing unusual was there. Thomas chanced a look in my direction, his expression hard to read.

  Noah moved down the cadaver, inspecting the abdominal cavity. He drew close enough to smell the organs and stifled a small gag. “A garlic odor is present in body tissues and mouth, sir, though there are no signs of the substance on her. Inspecting the contents of her stomach might reveal more.”

  Percy stopped pacing and bent to examine the body himself. He inhaled in small intervals as he moved from the mouth to the stomach. He shook his head and addressed the class.

  “In the case of ingesting toxic substances, you’ll note a stronger scent in stomach tissues. Which is precisely what I’ve noticed here. The garlic odor is overwhelming near the victim’s stomach. Does anyone know any other signs associated with intentional or accidental poisoning?”

  Vincenzo raised his hand so violently he nearly knocked himself over the railing. His brother latched on to his arm, steadying him.

  “Yes, Mr. Bianchi?”

  “More… er… mucus will be evident,” he said, Italian accent strong as he searched for the English words. “As the body’s natural defense against… a… foreign attack.”

  “Excellent,” Percy said, gathering up toothed
forceps and passing them to Noah. “Where else might one find indications of poison?”

  Cian cleared his throat. “The liver is another good place to check.”

  “Indeed.” Percy motioned for Noah to remove the organ in question and handed him a specimen tray. I knew what it felt like, sticking one’s hands deep within the abdominal cavity and coming away with a liver that squished ever so slightly between one’s fingers. The weight of it was difficult to manage with only forceps. Noah showed no emotion, though his hands weren’t as controlled. The liver slid onto the tray, smearing it with rusty liquid. I swallowed revulsion down.

  Percy held the tray up, then walked slowly down the line of students, allowing each of us an opportunity to inspect the organ from our first-row seats. “Note the color. Yellow is commonly found after exposure to…”

  My heart sped up with my thoughts. “Arsenic.”

  Percy beamed, tray of liver proudly displayed before him as if he were serving us tea in fine china. “Very good, Miss Wadsworth! Both the garlic odor and presence of yellow liver tissues are indicative of potential arsenic poisoning. Now, before anyone jumps to conclusions, it would behoove you to note the following: arsenic is found in most everyday items. Our drinking water contains trace amounts. Ladies used to mix it with their powders to remain youthful in appearance.”

  I gripped my hands together, mind churning with this new information as I thought back to the first victim we’d encountered in Romania—the man on the train. His mouth had been stuffed with garlic, but the smell was too overwhelming to have resulted from such a small amount of the organic substance. I should have investigated that further. The murderer clearly used real garlic to mask the telltale scent of arsenic.

  I focused on breathing correctly. Inhale. Exhale. The steady flow of oxygen fed my brain. I thought of Wilhelm’s symptoms. How quickly he’d gone from a healthy seventeen-year-old to a cadaver lying beneath my blade in the laboratory. Highly unnatural.

  No cause of death had been noted in Wilhelm’s case. The missing blood served as a distraction. And it was a good one, too. I’d been so preoccupied by the thought of scientifically proving vampires impossible, I’d never checked his liver. Percy, too, had let the obvious drag his attention away from inspecting other organs.

  I thought of other symptoms of arsenic poisoning. Discoloration or rashes on the skin. Vomiting. It had all been there, present and waiting for someone to add up the symptoms. A simple math equation, nothing more.

  Whoever had planned these murders had done so brilliantly. Even Thomas hadn’t found the thread binding it all together. The culprit likely knew Thomas would not be as sharp as he normally was, the fear of his lineage being exposed hindering him in a way he was unused to. My head spun. This murderer was more cunning than Jack the Ripper.

  We hadn’t examined the maid’s body, yet apparently she’d also shown no outward signs of murder, according to the Bianchi twins. It wasn’t hard to deduce that she’d also been poisoned.

  Anastasia. Wilhelm. The man from the train. The maid. All seemingly unrelated because of the outwardly different causes of death—impalement and blood loss. Those were both simply provocative distractions, created either postmortem or close to death to inflame emotions in a highly superstitious community.

  We did not have more than one murderer. We had someone blessed with a knowledge of poison and the opportunity to offer it to each victim. I swallowed hard. Whoever had done this was smart and patient. They’d been waiting a long time to execute their plan. But why now…

  “Miss Wadsworth?”

  I jolted into the present, cheeks burning. “Yes, Professor?”

  Percy studied me closely while threading a large Hagedorn needle. “Your stitches the other day were exemplary. Would you like to assist with closing up the cadaver?”

  The class didn’t so much as breathe. It was a far cry from the sneers and snickers of earlier days. We were now bound together through loss and determination.

  For now.

  I glanced down at the girl who’d been my friend and stood. “Yes, sir.”

  FOLKLORE CLASS

  CURS DE FOLCLOR

  BRAN CASTLE

  17 DECEMBER 1888

  Guards stood outside the classroom, eyes fixed on nothing and yet alert enough to strike at any moment, though Radu paid them no notice. He continued with his folklore lesson as if the castle weren’t being overrun by royal guards and missing or murdered students. Either he was extraordinarily talented at appearing unaffected, or he truly was lost within his own imagination, trapped somewhere between myth and reality.

  Two days had passed since the discovery that Anastasia was the victim from the tunnels, and the headmaster practically had the castle swarming with guards. I couldn’t tell if their presence comforted or frightened me more.

  “In light of recent findings, our next lesson is on Albertus Magnus, philosopher and scientist. Legend says he was the finest alchemist who ever lived. Some believe he possessed magic. Magie.” Radu flipped through pages in the old book he’d taken from the library days earlier, De Mineralibus. “He studied Aristotle’s work. Fine, fine man he was. He’s said to have discovered arsenic.” Noah bravely raised his hand, and Radu hopped in delight. “Yes, Mr. Hale? Do you have anything to offer on the subject and legend of Mr. Magnus?”

  “I understand discussing arsenic because of the murders, sir, but how, exactly, does this relate to Romanian folklore?”

  Radu blinked several times, mouth opening and shutting. “Well… it’s foundational to understanding certain legends involving the subject of today’s lesson: the Order of the Dragon. During its prime, the Order did quite well in places such as Germany and Italy. Some believe the rise in their nobility ranks was due to the secret practice of using arsenic to slowly poison their targets.”

  I raised a brow, intrigued. Arsenic was known as “inheritance powder” in England, so called for its use by noblemen who wanted to attain a title faster than natural death allowed.

  “Are you suggesting the Order were a group of noble alchemist assassins?” Cian asked. “I thought they were supposed to fight perceived enemies of Christianity.”

  “My, my, my. Someone has been doing some research! I am impressed, Mr. Farrell. Very good.” Radu puffed his chest out and walked up and down the aisles. “After Sigismund of Hungary died, the Order became vastly important in this country and its neighbors. Less so in western regions of Europe. The Ottomans were invading, threatening the boyars… er, yes, Mr. Farrell?”

  “What exactly are the boyars, sir?”

  “Oh! The boyars were the highest-ranking members of the aristocracy under the Wallachian princes. They were feuding over whom to name as the prince, and our ruling system was hopelessly corrupt.”

  “Shouldn’t the title of prince be passed along to the next in the family line?” I asked.

  Andrei snorted, a bit halfheartedly by his usual standards, but I ignored him. He might know the particular rules of his country, but I didn’t and felt no shame in inquiring.

  Radu shook his head. “That wasn’t the way things were done here during medieval times. Those born illegitimately were able to claim the title of prince. In fact, most everyone who’d been born of either Dăneşti or Drăculeşti seed was legitimized when the boyars appointed them to the throne. They did not need to be pure-blooded to rule; they simply needed the might of a fierce army. Much different than what you’re used to in London. It often led to a lot of relatives murdering each other for the right to rule.”

  Not so different from England in that sense, I thought.

  “Those who were opposed to the in-feuding and corruption swelled the ranks of the Order,” Erik said, Russian accent prominent. “I assume they were afraid of losing their culture to invading forces.”

  “Ai dreptate. You’re correct. The Order, though they’ve never called themselves by any name as part of their secrecy, banded together, fighting for their freedom and rights. Legend says they were f
ierce, taking it upon themselves to eradicate threats from both inside the kingdom and out. In fact, there are stories that suggest they wanted to unify the country by eliminating the infighting within the two royal lines.”

  Thomas and I glanced at each other. My senses perked up at this revelation. It was precisely what I had worried about. I raised my hand.

  “Oh! Yes, Miss Wadsworth? What do you have to add to this discussion? I cannot tell you how pleased I am by everyone’s interest in today’s lesson. Much more lively than our lesson on strigoi.”

  “When you say ‘royal family,’ in this instance you’re referring to the House of Basarab, correct? Not the current royal family of the court?”

  “Another fine detail. The current royal family—the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen dynasty—is not related to the House of Basarab in any way. For our purposes, when I say ‘royal family,’ I’m discussing the lineage of Vlad Dracula and his ancestors. I enjoy keeping our lessons focused on legends surrounding our illustrious castle’s medieval history. We mostly deal with the Drăculeşti line. Vlad Dracula’s descendants last ruled in the 1600s. People have been led to believe his direct descendants are all gone.” His focus slid in Thomas’s direction. “There are still those in Romania who recall the truth, however.”

  “Is the Order functioning today?” Cian asked, leaning forward on his elbows. “Are there new members?”

  “There—” Radu paused mid-answer and scratched his head. “Not for quite some time. I believe they died out around the same time the Basarab family lost their seat as prince. Though there is one family who claims to hail from that line—they are actually boyars here today. Now, now. Before we get too far ahead of ourselves, I do have some old poems that show the craft and cunning of the Order. Arsenic wasn’t the only trick they used in disposing of their enemies.”

  He passed two pieces of parchment to each of us. Scribbled on them were poems in Romanian, which he promptly translated into English.