“Where I am from, all know of the Dragon Prince.”
“That is what Serena Black told me,” I interjected. “She was raised in Eastern Europe. She told me no one dares speak openly of him.”
“Indeed, there is great danger in doing so. Information about the Dragon Prince is tightly controlled. But I do know some things about him. I grew up not far from where he is rumored to have lived when alive, for as is true of all vampires, the Dragon Prince was once a man. But this vampire was not just any man. He was a prince of Wallachia, Prince Vlad—known to many by the appellation of Vlad the Impaler.”
At the grotesque name, I swallowed with difficulty.
Uncle Peter continued, “Prince Vlad was a knight of the great Order of the Dragon, as his father had been. This was a holy society committed to defending Christiandom from invading Turks. Thus, his father was known as Vlad Dracule—the Dragon—and he came to power as the Dracula. Son of the Dragon.”
“He was a holy man?” I said with a gasp. This seemed incredible.
“Indeed, he was a hero of his time. He was especially beloved, for he had achieved the throne by showing great prowess and cunning. The old prince pitted his sons in mortal combat against each other, for he wished to see which was the most worthy, the fiercest, the most ruthless, and thus the most fitting ruler of the princedom. The others had no chance, for in all of these things, the young Vlad was unsurpassed. He inflicted the most barbaric of torments on his adversaries, his brothers among them. But he ruled his country well and protected it from the Muslim hordes seeking to invade.”
Peter’s smile was humorless as he paused to give weight to his words. “He was feared by his own people, as well as his enemies. His cruelty, his bloodlust, his absolute absence of mercy or human pity knew no boundaries, nor loyalties. Thus, he was transformed by his wickedness into the undead.”
“Is that simply legend or do you have proof ?”
“What proof can there be? I tell you, I am convinced, as are legions of others, that despite his heroic defense of the Church in life, he searched and found the means for immortality. And so now he rules in secret from the shadows of mystery and fear. It is not wise to speak of him. Many who are familiar with the revenant world know of at least one instance when a loose tongue on the subject of the Dracula cost the speaker his life. And in a most . . .” His features blanched. “It is a horrible punishment.”
I shivered. “Serena said as much,” I said soberly as I recalled my friend’s words. “He makes you over, and sends you back to kill all those you loved.”
Uncle Peter nodded.
Valerian leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees. His eyebrows knit together in concentration. “I have traveled far and wide in this world, to many exotic lands. I have been hunting for a long time, and I have only heard the Dracula spoken of in the vaguest of terms. That was why, when I saw his mark in Avebury, I was not certain what it meant.”
Uncle Peter touched a hand thoughtfully to his lips. “Of course, the legends of the Dracula have not been fully suppressed, at least not among those who know and see his power. That is why, in my country, we know of him.” He laughed. “When I was a boy, we would dare each other to whisper of the Dragon Prince, the Dracula, as a test of manhood. You know how it is among youthful men; foolishness is often a badge of honor. We survived. Yet the fear is there, and very effective.”
I asked, “Is there anyone to whom I can go who would be willing to speak to me of him?”
“Oh, there are fools who profess to know of the Dracula, or at least some part of the tale.”
“But you said those who speak of him are destroyed.”
“Only some. He allows some of self-proclaimed ‘experts’ to tout their theories, for it only advances the great Dracula’s cause. You see, he is most clever. Consider: if he is spoken of only by those already discredited by society, if he remains merely a myth, a legend, a figment. What better way to maintain the anonymity of his true power? You see? What greater protection than the idle and unsubstantiated rumor to cast even the most ironclad proof of his existence into doubt?”
“He manipulates masterfully,” I said, impressed.
Uncle Peter nodded gravely. “It grows worse with the dawn of our modern conceits. The progress of the world is his protection, the vanity of science, of philosophy that moves us away from the wisdom of the simple, basic ways that served humankind for thousands of years.” He spread his hands. “People hardly need God anymore. Why on earth should they require monsters? As if either was their choosing. They put too much faith in intellect, but even the smartest of men does not know everything.”
Father Luke came to my mind, for this sentiment seemed to echo his disillusionment. Had he found his answers in Rome?
“Who among the discredited fools is the most informed?” Valerian asked.
Uncle Peter laughed at this cleverness. “I know of only one man who ever dared investigate the legend of the Dracula openly. An Irishman named David Stoker, but he disappeared years ago.”
I let out a pent-up breath. Disappointment weighed on my shoulders. “Then we are at a dead end.”
When I glanced at Valerian, he appeared lost in thought. I wanted to mention the letters my mother had sent, but I did not think either one of the men would have any idea to help me. I had to be the one to find them, and I would read them first before bringing them to the others. They were, after all, written to me.
Valerian asked, “Do you know of the Dracula’s connection to someone named Lliam?” He glanced at me. “Ruthven spoke of kinship to Emma through Lliam.”
Uncle Peter shook his head. “I have not heard the name. But this Ruthven is a bold one indeed if he openly claims kinship with the Dracula. It is not only the living who fear the Dragon Prince. All of the undead are under his rule, across Europe and even into some parts of Asia. He can and indeed has destroyed many of his own kind in his quest for absolute power. I cannot see why this Ruthven would take so great a risk.”
“Nor I,” I admitted. “Perhaps it is simply that he is mad with power, and boasting foolishly because of it.”
“That could be,” Uncle Peter agreed.
“I think I understand how and what he is doing in Blackbriar, what he has been doing for centuries. But what has he to do with the Dragon Prince—or me?”
I did not expect answers, but that did not mean my spirits were immune to the gaping silence in the aftermath of my questions. I felt demoralized as we adjourned.
But the following morning, I rose from bed with a new resolution. I was going to find my mother’s letters. I had not done so yet, because of the difficulty of the task. I was with Alyssa nearly all the time, and even though I’d grown up in the house, it was no longer my home; I could hardly wander about where I would.
It was a big house, however, and progress was slow. Alyssa’s bedroom alone took over an hour. But by that night, I’d not had a hint of the letters’ whereabouts. I lay in my bed and tried to think of more places I could search on the morrow.
By the second day, Valerian noticed my strange behavior—I was ever amazed at his powers of observation—and I told him what I’d overheard between my sister and her husband. He later suggested to Alan that he take his wife on a small outing, to get her out for a little while down to the village for a coffee and a bit of shopping. Alyssa pounced on the idea.
“I shall be happy to look after Roderick,” I rushed to put in when I saw a shadow of doubt cross her features. She really was a devoted mother. “Or rather, look after nurse while she looks after Roderick.”
With Uncle Peter busy at work on his mountain of correspondence, I had the entire day to do a search. In the end, I found nothing. And then, a terrible thought occurred to me, one I refused to allow myself to entertain, for it was too awful . . .
I did not know how I could manage to maintain my spirits if I found Alyssa had destroyed them.
Chapter Nineteen
Judith had many sayings, always self-s
erving ones that drove her point home with the punctuation of ageless wisdoms. The one I remember her telling Alyssa all the time was: “It is always darkest before the dawn,” which was meant to bolster Alyssa when she became dispirited, such as when her cheek sported a “ghastly” spot, or her courses came on just when she was looking forward to a particular outing. Judith’s platitudes for me were of a different nature, designed to admonish me. When she thought I was being selfish, she would tell me that “good deeds bring their own reward.”
It was ironic that I recalled this when I found the letters at last, for I was in the middle of doing a good deed when it happened. One particularly cold day, when Alyssa was fretting that Roderick would catch a chill, I offered to fetch a blanket for her from a trunk in a rarely used bedroom. This was the room where Judith had stashed my mother’s portrait—barely waiting until my father was buried before she had it taken down from the drawing room where it always had hung. In the trunk, I searched through the pile of old quilts and knit blankets to find the softest, thickest one, for only the best would do for young Roddy.
And so, that was where I found them, nestled among the woolens scented with sachets of lavender. There were not very many, tied in a packet by a ribbon, but they were as pristine as the day they were delivered; I assumed most of them were unread. I recognized her hand, the one I’d seen only once before, when I’d found those terrible words written on the flap of her portmanteau. Emotion reared up in me, stinging my eyes with unshed tears, and my heart began to thunk heavily in my chest. This was the first real, tangible connection to my mother I’d ever had.
I gently thumbed through the pack. Those on top were addressed to my father. I took one out, opening it with shaking hands. The date was 1842, three years after my birth. The place was Inishmore, Ireland.
Ireland? How curious—my father had known, then, where she was. Why had he not brought her home?
My Beloved Stephen,
How can I express how sorry I am for the pain I caused you? I am wicked, and have no right to contact you, but I am weak. I am so alone, so lost and ashamed for what I’ve done. You cannot imagine how I torment myself with regret. Foolishness, vanity, spite—they are sins that carry their own penance, for in living mine I know the burn of true repentance. Perhaps this is what hell is, after all—the natural consequences of what we ourselves choose.
I skimmed through the entreaties for forgiveness, looking for a particular thing. I at last found it: my name.
How I miss my baby, my darling Emma. I think of her all the time. Tell her, Stephen. Tell her that I love her. Do not let her forget me, and tell her I would be with her if only that were possible.
I closed the letter, too excited to read it all the way through. I gathered the pack, tying it back up into a ribbon, then thought better of taking them with me. I did not have time to get to my room with them without arousing suspicion. I had been gone too long already; Alyssa was impatient and would probably send someone after me if she did not come herself any second. Besides, what if I met someone in the hall? I had no way of hiding them. I decided my impatience notwithstanding, I would have to wait and come back for the letters later that night.
I summoned Valerian and Uncle Peter, arranging a rendezvous in the conservatory, where I told them about the letters.
“It does not surprise me your father did not go to her,” Uncle Peter explained. “He knew there was another man. He did not, of course, imagine a vampire. Nor would he have thought for one moment, despite her paroxysms of conscience, that she was not with her lover willingly. No, dear Emma, remember your father’s pride. He would believe she knew the way home if she had chosen to return.”
“Could she still be there?” I asked.
“I very much doubt it. It was a long time ago,” Uncle Peter replied sadly.
“But there could be traces of her there, or clues to where she traveled next,” Valerian interjected. He leaned forward to address Uncle Peter. “Forgive me, for I know I am coming in late on this. Most assuredly, the two of you have already thoroughly discussed this matter. While I do not mean to make you go through it all again, I have some questions.”
“Go right ahead,” Uncle Peter agreed.
“When Laura began to change, what was different in the house, or even in the area? Can you remember any major alterations in normal life?”
“As I told Emma, there was the business of Astrid, who was a diabolically clever girl who set her sights on Stephen. It was through her manipulations that the seeds of mistrust and betrayal were sown. Stephen’s pride made it worse.”
“I’ve explained most of this to him,” I clarified, to save time.
“Other than the business with Astrid, was there anything else unusual or out of the ordinary?” Valerian asked. “Was there anyone new in the neighborhood, anyone spotted lurking about the house?”
“There was a stranger in Weybourne. You know how it is in these country towns, a new arrival is the talk of the neighborhood. But as far as I know, they never met.” Uncle Peter caught himself, his eyes glowing as realization dawned. “Oh, I see. You think he might have been the one who . . . But I am afraid there is nothing else I can tell you, not about him. I never even saw the man. If he was a man.” His head jerked. “Wait. One more thing. When it first began, when Laura first began to show signs of secretiveness, she and Stephen had a terrible row. It was over a necklace he found her wearing. She refused to say where she had bought it. When Stephen tried to take it, she went wild. I never saw it again after that.”
My blood went to ice. “Was this necklace a silver dragon with a teardrop pearl?” I asked desperately.
His eyes widened. “My God. How did you . . . ?”
I closed my eyes. My voice trembled. “Did she ever mention anyone by the name of Alistair?”
He frowned, about to deny it, then stopped. His swarthy complexion paled. “That was the name she called out when she was feverish. Well, we thought it was fever then. But she called out to him, begging him . . . You see why your father believed so soundly she had taken a lover. He told me once he feared the guilt was what had driven her mad.”
Fighting back my rising state of emotion, I related the story Eloise Boniface had told me. Peter listened, frowning, nodding, and when I was finished, he gave a great sigh. “Well, then, we can assume at last this is the connection. This Alistair must be the one who made her over.”
Valerian spread his hands. “But does this have any connection to the Cyprian Queen, to Ruthven and what he is doing now?”
“It has to,” I replied. “There cannot be so much coincidence in all the world as this—two vampires in the same remote area, preying in different ways on students at a small girls’ school like Blackbriar.”
“But it did not happen at the same time,” Valerian clarified. “You mother was never part of the Cyprian Queen business. You friend, the Boniface woman, would have told you if she had been acting strangely. What happened to her happened years later.” He puzzled over this. “I agree it has to be related, but I don’t see how.”
“Perhaps when I have had an opportunity to read the rest of the letters, I will know more.”
But I never got to see those letters. Alyssa must have belatedly realized her error in sending me to fetch the blankets. That evening, when I went back to the bedroom chest, I discovered every last one of them was gone.
The scene was ugly. Beyond ugly. I was . . . well, I would like to say I was not myself, but the harsh truth was I was myself.
I spoke truly from my heart—a very bruised heart—for the first time in all my life with my sister, venting my full wrath and hurt when Alyssa told me that she had burned them. Alan was with her, and he stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders, looking stone-faced and unmoved as I shouted at the two of them.
“Those letters belonged to me! How could you have destroyed my property, something you have no right to do? How could you have been so selfish?”
“I was only thinking of
you!” Alyssa insisted tearfully.
“No you most certainly were not,” I countered. “You cannot bear to think of my attachment to my mother. You hate her, and you hate me.”
“But, Emma, that is not true!”
“It is!” I thundered, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Your only use for me is when I dance attendance on you. You are a spoiled child—your mother’s child through and through. You think every part of our relationship should serve your interest, and you are afraid of what makes me different from you. You had to destroy those letters to keep me to yourself.”
“No! You must understand why I did it.”
“I do, you see. You are weak and small. You think only of yourself, and you do not care whom you hurt to get what you want.”
Alan’s face gathered into a glower. “Shut up, Emma. You are upsetting Alyssa.”
“No, we cannot have Alyssa upset!” I shot, incensed at his interference. I was fairly shrieking now, so hysterical was I. “It must not be allowed. My stepmother set that standard, and no matter how much grief it cost me, Alyssa’s fair brow must never be marred by the pucker of a frown. This entitles her, I suppose, to destroy my life, to treat me no better than a servant whose duty it is to bow to her every whim—do not upset Alyssa at any cost! Well, that cost, it seems, is too often mine to pay. This time, what you two took from me was irreplaceable, but it was the last thing I will ever sacrifice to this insipid brat again!”
“You sniping bitch!” Alan shouted, lunging for me. He moved quickly, rounding the chairs. It happened so quickly, I did not even have time to react, but suddenly Valerian was in between us. He had forgotten to move normally and his preternatural speed put him between Alan and me in the blink of an eye. It was an unforgivable lapse, especially for a man who never lowered his guard.
But I doubted Alan would believe the evidence of his eyes; the stupid were ever easy to confound. Valerian stood in front of me, protective and threatening in that quiet, still way of his that so effectively diminished Alan’s bluster.
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