As Vital as Blood (Victorian Vampires Book 1)

by Amanda DeWees

  “No? You are certain?”

  With a jolt she realized she could not give him the reassurance he desired. She heard again the baron’s voice, smooth and implacable: Do not wander about the castle or grounds alone. There were so many places in this warren of corridors and chambers and outbuildings where a person might hide…or be kept prisoner. And Michael, forbidden to explore, would remain in complete ignorance.

  Her silence seemed to inflame the visitors. The two men accompanying the mayor broke into excited speech. The mayor raised one hand, and they quieted, though they regarded Dumitru and Ana with suspicion.

  “We would very much like to speak with the baron,” said Mayor Petran, although his voice did not indicate enthusiasm. “His servants refuse to summon him, however. What are we to think except that he has something to hide?”

  On this point, at least, she could reassure them.

  “You may not be aware that the baron suffers from a rare skin disorder,” she said. “It makes exposure to sunlight extremely harmful for him. If you wish to wait for him until sunset, I may be able to persuade Dumitru to permit it. But I believe you will have a few hours yet to wait,” she added, since the afternoon light was only beginning to slant toward evening.

  The mayor translated this for his companions, and an awkward silence descended. The mayor moistened his lips with his tongue and surveyed the level of the sun before meeting Michael’s eyes.

  “I think not,” he said. “We have others to speak to, and none of us came prepared to stay after dark—a night ride without a firearm would be a foolish risk if wolves are about.”

  “I saw one on the castle grounds just last night,” Michael said.

  “Oh?” The mayor’s voice was sharp. “Just one?”

  “Just one. Even so, it probably is wisest not to go about unarmed at night.”

  The mayor translated this for his comrades, and one of them clutched his arm and expostulated, making Dumitru take a threatening step forward. The mayor put up his hands placatingly.

  “We shall be on our way. Thank you for speaking with us, Madmoazelă Cargrave. If you should happen to learn anything about Maria, please send word to me.”

  “At once,” she promised. “What does she look like?”

  “She is just seventeen, with fair hair.”

  The more emotional of the other men spoke rapidly in Romanian, and the mayor patted his shoulder before explaining to Michael, “Constantin says she is as beautiful as the wildflowers of the mountains. He is her betrothed.”

  “Oh. Oh dear, I am so sorry. I do hope she is found,” she said to the agitated Constantin, who smiled sadly when the mayor had given him the substance of her words. Then Constantin added suddenly in halting English, “Go away from here.”

  “I?” She wasn’t certain she was understanding him correctly. But when she pointed to herself, he nodded vigorously.

  “Be careful, Madmoazelă Cargrave,” the mayor said, glancing at Dumitru out of the corner of his eye. “If the legends are true, there is great danger here—especially for a young lady alone.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? What legends?”

  He hesitated, then edged forward. When he spoke, it was in such a low voice that she had to strain to hear him.

  “For a long time, since my grandfather’s day and even before, there have been stories about Castle Dalca and the baron. Some say he is a kind of demon—a demon who never grows old.”

  She drew away, staring at the man with such disbelieving scorn that he clutched at her arm to keep her from turning away.

  “Do not ignore the rumors, madmoazelă! God knows he seems charming, but you may be in danger. Keep your Bible and crucifix close, and depart from this place as soon as you can—not just for the sake of your life, but for your soul as well!”

  Dumitru evidently understood enough of that peculiar warning to take offense. He advanced on the mayor, rumbling what was evidently a command to leave, and the members of the little deputation retreated in haste to their horses. In less than a minute they were gone, and Dumitru slammed the door and dropped the massive timber bar into place as if it had weighed no more than a deck of cards.

  The manservant’s strength was so astonishing as to be almost supernatural. In her mind’s eye she saw again the ease with which he had hoisted her trunk to the top of the coach. A reluctant realization forced its way into her mind: how easy it would be for a man of such size and strength to kill, even without meaning to. Looking at those mighty hands, it was all too easy to envision a young woman’s neck breaking in their grasp.

  Dumitru, noting her stare, grunted out an interrogative. With a nervous smile, she shook her head and started back to the library, her rapid steps echoing in the passageway. Perhaps the mayor and his cohorts were mistaken about the real source of danger in Castle Dalca.

  After she returned to her work in the library she found her mind wandering. She drifted among the shelves without seeing them, her thoughts returning to the baron no matter how hard she tried to banish him from her mind.

  Why would some old rumor make those men think that Maria would be here, or that the baron would know anything of her whereabouts? He certainly didn’t seem to be the kind of man who would abduct a young woman. Yet the mayor had seemed completely sincere when he warned Michael that she was in potential danger.

  She had known the baron for less than two full days. She was in no position to state with authority what kind of man he was. He was mysterious and eccentric, yes, and a bit secretive. But he had been kind to her, even when she had made a fool of herself, and something about that bespoke a strong sense of honor.

  Of course, she wanted to believe that of him. She didn’t want to think that her judgment was so wide of the mark. Or was it more than her vanity that felt so wrenching a pang at the idea that this man might be a villain and a deceiver?

  Perhaps her emotions were in such disorder because she had had nothing to eat since breakfast. Sometimes a factor as humble as the body’s need for sustenance could wield a great influence over one’s state of mind.

  When she found that it was almost time for the evening meal, she went to her room to tidy her appearance. As she retrieved her one lace collar from the clothes press, she noted that the magnificent brocade dress was now stored away there.

  The sight of it made her smile. Such a considerate gesture, really, despite her having misinterpreted it. The baron could certainly be charming when he put his mind to it…

  Suddenly she pictured it clearly. A pretty young woman out walking too late, hurrying to get home. A handsome figure on horseback appears, offering to take her home, for it isn’t safe to be alone in these woods after nightfall. She hesitates; her mother has taught her caution.

  But it is not a stranger, after all, but the distinguished baron. And he is so appealing in his persuasion that she agrees, permits him to lift her onto his horse and take her away, riding off into the night, never to be seen again.

  For a man with the baron’s charm could persuade any unworldly girl to go with him—and many a worldly one too, no doubt.

  So troubling was this train of thought that she was almost late for dinner. And since that was her best opportunity of learning more about her employer, it behooved her to make the most of it.

  As soon as she saw him waiting for her, however, and especially when he smiled as if pleased to see her, her heart lifted and her doubts subsided. This courtly, reserved gentleman who held her chair and attended her every word with such kind attention could never be the kind of man the mayor called a demon. Above all, no man with such sorrow in his eyes could be a monster.

  Over the following days, as she came to learn more of her employer, she continued to grow more comfortable in his presence and more convinced that he could not be the monster the mayor had warned her about. A large part of her increasing ease was the library. The more time she spent there and the more familiar she became with his tastes and interests, the more she realized that this
was a man she could trust, respect, even feel a kinship with.

  The large assortment of books on philosophy told her that he thought deeply about life, the world, and the human condition. His was not, to paraphrase Socrates, an unexamined life; he had evidently pondered much about the uses to which men put their time on earth.

  His study of folklore was initially surprising, since superstition seemed to be at odds with the pursuit of knowledge represented by so much of his collection. But alongside the works on myths and legends were studies of ancient religions, and in that context they made more sense. These were all fields of study aimed at a greater understanding of what it meant to be human, and of what forces might be at work in the world that were not yet entirely understood. Attempts to find order, reason, and meaning in life.

  Further exploring these questions were novels from a variety of authors, everything from the whimsy of Laurence Sterne and the comedy of Henry Fielding to the astute social dramas of George Eliot and Anthony Trollope. This told her that the baron had not only intelligence, as the other books attested, but sensitivity and a sense of humor as well.

  Sometimes when she first entered the library in the morning she would find on an armchair the book he had been reading before he retired, and if it was unfamiliar to her she would take a few minutes to acquaint herself with it. She found that his reading was always to her taste. Indeed, sometimes she became so engrossed in a book that an hour might slip past before she was aware of it.

  On one such day she told the baron at dinner that she was planning to return to the library to work for a time before she retired.

  “I’ll accompany you, if I won’t be in your way,” he said. “I’ve reached an engrossing part of The Way We Live Now, and the light is better in the library than anywhere else.”

  “The only question is whether I shall disturb you,” she answered, startled.

  Her initial self-consciousness vanished as the baron sat quietly with his book. He seemed to have no desire to direct her work. At length, though, she heard a sigh, and when she glanced over at him she saw that he had placed a hand over his eyes.

  “Is the light too much for you?” she asked.

  “It is only that after so many years of reading my eyes are not as strong as they once were.”

  “Would you like me to read for you?”

  “That would not be fair to ask of you.”

  “Nonsense. I enjoy it, and besides, I know how agonizing it is to reach a good part and have to leave off. Show me where to start.”

  He did so wordlessly, and she took a seat near him and began reading the Trollope volume. He listened with his whole body, it seemed to her, so still that he seemed not even to breathe, and his brown eyes were fixed on her with so steady a gaze that when she glanced up and met them she might have blushed except that she knew it was not her person but the words she was reading that warranted such concentration.

  Even in silence, without motion, he commanded the room. She could imagine the empty space filled with courtiers and supplicants, all bowing before him, and it would have seemed simply just and proper, his birthright, to be respected by the most powerful in the land.

  How did such a man come to be in exile, feared by the local authorities, in a deserted estate with only two servants to look after him? Once the question had arisen in her mind it would not be dislodged. A man—especially a titled one—with so many attractions of mind and body, who was kind and well-spoken and keenly intelligent, must have pressing reasons to bury himself alone in the wilderness instead of moving to a city where he could enjoy the stimulating company of others like himself…or as much like him as possible, since Baron Dalca was unlike any man she had ever met.

  And in the back of her mind, almost too secret to be put into words, came the whisper of thought that if she had known a man even half as attractive in England, she would never have left.

  Reading aloud became a nightly habit, a pleasant ritual to end her day and start his. Occasionally when the baron’s eyes were not too strained he would read to her, and even as plebeian a text as shipping news took on new intrigue when spoken in his magnificent voice.

  She took the opportunity while his eyes were on the page to watch him unobserved. His dark brows, lashes, and beard stood out against his pale skin so arrestingly that it was difficult to look away. The heavy waves of his hair, untamed by pomade or Macassar oil, were almost like a coronet—but perhaps there her imagination was simply seizing on his natural air of regal authority. She let his voice lull all thought from her mind, the rich tones falling on her ear like a grave and haunting music.

  Yes, the evenings were the best part of her days at Castle Dalca. Certainly they were preferable to the nights.

  Michael had never been subject to nightmares before. But starting on the night that she saw the wolf, terrible dreams began to disturb her sleep.

  They all began the same way. She was lying in the antique tester bed with the curtains drawn back, gazing at the drapes concealing the window, when they began to stir. To billow. Something was behind them, moving but concealed. And silent.

  Her heart thudded beneath her ribs with a force that almost hurt when she saw something begin to creep from beneath the curtain. A thin white filament, then another, like the ghosts of vines. Mist, but it behaved as nothing in nature did. It thickened until the cloudlike layer of white obscured the floor of the chamber, giving her the sickening fear that if she were to get out of bed and try to run to the door her feet would sink into the soft, clammy carpet of vapor and be held fast.

  The mist moved as if with intention, advancing across the floor to her bed. And then she realized that, in her drowsiness, she had let one arm slip off the mattress to dangle by the side of the bed. Now she tried to raise it out of the way of the approaching silent tide, but she seemed paralyzed. In horror she watched a tentacle of vapor rise up from the thick mist, stretching toward her like a snake, and begin to curl around her arm. With a vile caressing motion it wound ever upward, sliding toward her shoulder, toward her throat. She had a sudden terrifying sense that she was no longer alone in the room, and a tall shadowy form loomed over her…

  She wasn’t certain what happened then. The dream seemed to subside, or perhaps it changed to something else. She only knew that when she awoke, she could recall nothing after the frightening conviction that some uninvited figure was bending over her—nothing except the sharp pain on her throat.

  Chapter VII

  Vasile felt that he was on the edge of a precipice.

  He told himself that it was because he was so accustomed to using a glamour on humans that he felt exposed doing without one. It was so easy to draw a veil over their thoughts and make them see whatever illusion suited his purpose. But in those first moments that he saw her, he had been too astonished to think of it—and later, when he regained his presence of mind, he had the oddest feeling that it would be dishonorable. She was taking a courageous step in staying here; could he not demonstrate a fraction of her courage and rely on nothing more than the human skills of courtesy and consideration, improvising each moment’s interaction, just as she was?

  But the result was that he felt more vulnerable than at any time in the past century and a half. To remember a time when he had felt such a painful combination of awkwardness and yearning he had to go back to when he was a fourteen-year-old mortal boy, dazzled by the pretty chestnut-haired daughter of a neighboring boyar, trying to impress her with his paltry skills at shooting.

  Yearning?

  That was the trouble. As dangerous as it was, as absurd and foolhardy and doomed, he yearned for Michael Cargrave.

  And untenable though that was, his sense of self-preservation was in danger of being overcome by it…and so was his sense of honor.

  He knew that he could send her dreams of him if he wanted to. He could whisper to her sleeping mind so that he would appear to her as clever, witty, dazzling. She would waken marveling at the brilliance he was hiding. Or he could send h
er other dreams, ones that would make her back arch and her hands clutch the bedclothes, so that in waking life she would dart secret glances at him from eyes heavy-lidded with remembered passion, would stare at his hands and lips and recall how deft and tender they had been in her imagination.

  That would have been just as underhanded as using a glamour to impress her, though. Either one was empty; what he wanted was not for her to be susceptible to an illusion but for her to accept him for what he was…or as much of that as he dared show her. And that, too, was an empty illusion. But at least it accorded with his old, rusty ideals of honor, antiquated human standards that he had clung to for lack of any other kind of ideal to strive toward except what he found in his books.

  He did not fully recognize the danger he was in until a night about two weeks after her arrival. They had fallen into a comfortable domestic routine—which was dangerous in itself—of reading together after she ate her dinner. On this night she finished the chapter of Kenilworth and shut the book with a little contented sigh, patting the cover as if giving approval to a comrade or child. With that gesture he realized that this book, or one like it, was dear to her, almost like a friend.

  “You are fond of this book?” he asked.

  “Oh, I grew up with the Waverley novels. We had the same edition of Scott’s collected works. The red leather spines were part of the scenery for me growing up, even before I could read the contents.” Her smile was wistful, and she turned the book to draw a fingertip across the stamped gold lettering. “I took them for granted, I suppose.”

  “Were you forced to sell them?”

  Her eyes dropped, and her nod was almost imperceptible. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and from where he sat he caught the waft of heat of her rising emotion and a briny tinge to the air as tears gathered in her eyes. “I—I wasn’t prepared for how greatly it would distress me to break up Papa’s library and disperse it. It felt like betraying him, but also betraying me. It felt as though I were chopping up my childhood and youth to sell to strangers.” Her voice had dwindled until it was almost too soft to hear. “As if part of me was lost forever with every book I sold.”