Night's Gift: Book One of the Night's Vampire Trilogy

by Mary M. Cushnie-mansour

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Just what I said. I overheard some of what you and he were talking about. He enjoys baiting people, although I think you had your moments and stood up to him quite admirably a couple of times. Just heed my warning ... you are only temporary. Now, if there is nothing you need, I will just lock your door and be about my business.”

  I stepped through the doorway. “I don’t need anything, Max. Thank you, just the same.” As I lay down on my bed, I heard the lock click into place. I closed my eyes and surrendered to sleep. And to dreams ...

  Of men, women, and children impaled upon poles ... Of a crazy man drinking their blood ... Of the count and Teresa jeering at me ... Of Teresa walking toward me with a wooden stake, a sadistic smile on her lips ... Of Max shaking his head and wagging his finger as he said: “I told you so; you should have listened to me!”

  Revelations

  Chapter Thirteen

  For the next few days I holed up in my room. I was not feeling well. I asked Max to bring my meals up to me and to send my regrets to the count and Teresa. I have no idea why, but I thought that maybe the count would come to me—but he did not. I continued to read the account of Vlad Tepes and began to get more of an understanding of the times and of what he was all about. Still, it did not take away from the fact that he was an atrocious individual. I made a few notes of things I wanted to discuss with the count the next time we got together.

  On the fourth evening, there was a light knock on my door. I knew it would not be Max because he had already retrieved my supper dishes. I heard the key turn in the lock, and the count entered. He closed the door and leaned up against it. His eyes surveyed the room, finally resting on me where I was sitting by the window. “I have missed your company,” he began.

  I did not reply.

  “Are you still not well?” I thought I detected concern in his voice.

  “Just tired, I guess,” I finally replied. “Part of the condition.”

  “Condition?”

  “Yes, my condition.”

  “Ah, yes—your condition.” He laughed. “Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?”

  What I wanted to say was that he could let me go home— what I did was shake my head, no. Something told me that asking to leave would not bode well. Then I thought of something I would like: “Would it be too much trouble for me to be able to take a walk in the gardens with you, or with Teresa? I miss the fresh air.”

  “I see.” The count came over and sat down in the chair opposite me. “I shall think on it,” he said. He picked up the book that was lying on the table and turned it over. “I see you are still reading my uncle’s biography; care to discuss it further?”

  I really was not in the mood for another heavy dialogue. In fact, part of the reason I had been avoiding going downstairs for my meals was to avoid just that.

  “You hesitate,” the count prodded. “Maybe I misunderstood your feelings the other night. It seemed as though you were enjoying our chat—perhaps I was wrong, although I seldom am.”

  I realized that I was going to have to stay in the game. If the count enjoyed debating with me, then maybe that was one way I could reach him and eventually convince him to let me go. “No, I enjoyed our time together very much; it is just as I said, I have been exhausted.”

  “Good.” The count reached his hands over and took mine in his. He lifted them to his lips and kissed the backs of them, lingeringly. “I think I know what you need right now,” he said as he stood up, still holding on to my hands.

  He drew me to him, lifted me in his arms, and then carried me to the bed. “We will discuss my uncle later,” he uttered as he began to undo the buttons on my gown.

  ~

  The next evening I went downstairs for supper. I could not help but notice the pleased look on the count’s face when I entered the room. I could not help notice the disappointed look on Teresa’s. I smiled as I sat down. I looked directly at the count. “I feel much better now. Last night was wonderful.” I turned my eyes to Teresa, hoping she would understand what I meant. She did. I noticed the muscles in her face tighten, and her eyes clouded with anger.

  The count did not appear to notice what was going on between Teresa and me. He motioned for Max to serve the meal and then said, “I shall meet you in the study after supper, Virginia?”

  “As you wish.” It was at that point that I decided there was no use alienating Teresa completely. If my plan to win over the count did not work, it might bode better for me if I had Teresa on my side. “Would you like to join us, Teresa?” I asked. “Another woman’s opinion might be of considerable value—” I did not get a chance to finish my statement.

  “I don’t think so,” Teresa retorted. “The count knows exactly where I stand. You go on, dear; have your fun for now— it will all be over before you know it!” Her smile was not warm.

  I began to protest, “I did not mean anything—”

  “I know exactly what your meaning is; I know exactly what you are doing, Virginia. I am no fool. And, just for your information, neither is my husband!”

  Her statement took a bit of the wind out of my sails, but I recovered rapidly. “As you wish, Teresa.”

  The rest of the supper hour was conducted in silence. Teresa finished her meal quickly and excused herself from the table. The count waited patiently for me to finish my dish and then came over to me and pulled my chair out. “Shall we?” he motioned toward the doorway. “I have an appointment with some friends later, but I am anxious to have you reveal what you think of my uncle now that you have read more of the book—if you have changed your opinion of him.”

  I decided to take a chance and ask again if we could walk outside in the garden. It had been a warm December, and there was no snow yet. “Might we walk outside?” I proposed.

  “It is not too cold for you?”

  “I am sure the fresh air will do more good than harm. And you must have a coat or something around that you could throw over my shoulders,” I added.

  The count turned and asked Max to fetch one of Teresa’s capes. I had won. I was going to be stepping outside into my world. Hopefully, I would have an opportunity to slip from his grasp—but I knew that was a highly unlikely possibility!

  We walked around the inside perimeter of the trees. I observed the thickness of the tangled roots and bushes. There was no easy or quick way through them. The night was very still, with not even the sound of a car passing on the street beyond. I caught a glimpse of a couple of street lights, but no people were out walking, that I could see, anyway. I was alone, with him.

  “So,” the count opened the conversation, “you think my uncle was a serial killer?”

  “What I said was that history has recorded him as such. And what I think is that the atrocities he committed confirm such.”

  “It does not matter to you why he did what he did?”

  “If you are going to tell me that he did those things because he was tortured in the Turkish court, I don’t buy that theory. He did not seem to discriminate with his maltreatment— he brutalized his own people, not just the Turks!”

  “War is war, even if it is from within your own ranks. Traitors deserve the same punishment as the enemy. There were far too many traitors who had lived off the fat of the land for far too long!”

  “Who set Dracula up as judge and executioner?” I dared to ask.

  “He was the rightful heir to the throne. Over the years, many of the boyars had repeatedly undermined the princes of the land, and they could not be trusted. My uncle wished to secure his throne, so, in order to do that, he promoted men from amongst the free peasantry and the middle class.”

  “So you agree with what they say in the book, then, that he was trying to strengthen and modernize the government?”

  “I do. The nobility had to be taught a lesson—and what better lesson than to take away their power?”

  “He did not have to kill them,” I stated. “He could ha
ve put them in prison.”

  “What other way was there during those times? Remember, there was a war going on—a costly war that just never seemed to end. The Turks were persistent in their endeavour to conquer, and Dracula was a great thorn in their sides. As you know from my father’s diary, my uncle was changed when he returned from the Turkish courts. He refused to bow down to the likes of them, again.

  “But back to the reason for not putting the boyars in prison—prisons cost money. To incarcerate all the traitors would have been impossible, and my uncle needed to keep close to him the men who were trustworthy to his cause.” The count’s voice had a sharp edge to it. “You did not live in the 1400s, my dear. The best way to make an example was to set one. Did you read the part in the book that described how a person could set a bag of gold overnight in the town square and return for the gold the next day?”

  I nodded.

  “Can you do that today, or would someone steal it?”

  “As in your day, I am sure some would steal it, others would not. But to impale someone or to mutilate his body—bit overboard, if you ask me.”

  The count stopped walking, put his hands on my shoulders, and turned me to face him. “Do you believe everything you read, my dear?”

  “No. Most history books are written from someone’s point of view, and it all depends on whose point of view it is and what that person’s perspective was when he formed his opinion,” I responded.

  “I am sure you have heard of propaganda?” The count’s eyebrows rose questioningly.

  “Of course. Propaganda is used on a daily basis to influence people as to what the governments want us to be convinced of.”

  “My point exactly.” The count took my hand, and we commenced walking. “Do you really think that Dracula impaled thousands of people at a time? Did you read the section in the book where it stated he impaled 10,000 people in the Transylvanian city of Sibiu and that he impaled 30,000 merchants and officials in the Transylvanian city of Brasov? Do you believe that he would do all that and then sit down amongst the staked corpses and eat their flesh and drink their blood? Or might you consider that the atrociousness of the massacres was inflamed by lies fabricated by his enemies, in order to put fear into the hearts of ordinary men so that they would turn upon their leader?”

  “Are you saying that Dracula did none of these things?” I questioned.

  “No, I am saying that he was not as horrible as many would have him be.” The count began heading back to the house. “It is getting cold for you, I think,” he said. “Shall we continue this conversation inside?”

  I nodded.

  The count did not take me to the study as I had expected. He led me up to my room, instead. I caught a glimpse of Teresa in the hallway as we ascended the stairs. She definitely did not look pleased.

  It appeared the count had forgotten that he had an appointment, for we spent the next hour discussing the fact that Vlad Tepes was, and still is, a national hero in the country of his birth. The count even pointed out that some research indicating that Vlad was not the true inspiration for the novel written by Bram Stoker.

  “Then who was the muse?” I asked.

  “Have you ever heard of Elizabeth Bathory?”

  “No.”

  “She was referred to as the ‘Blood Countess.’”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “I do remember coming across her name, now, when I was going through one of your books. She killed hundreds of girls, and she bathed in their blood to try to make herself look younger.”

  “Yes, that is the one. One of her ancestors, Stephen Bathory, actually fought against the Turks alongside my Uncle Vlad. The Bathory family was one of the richest and noblest in Hungary at the time. Elizabeth was born in 1560, just over a hundred years after the curse was cast on our family. Some of us had worked hard to assimilate into society, but actions like hers damaged our efforts and kept us forever watching our backs. Our family became quite concerned about the rumours of her lust for blood. Even Dracula was disturbed, for he realized that even though she was not one of us, she might have been a rogue vampire. There were many of them, a problem that had arisen during the early years of the curse, when we were trying to adjust. It is a problem we are still dealing with.”

  “So you think it is Elizabeth’s atrocities, not Dracula’s that Stoker used as his main source of material for his vampire story, even though he used your uncle’s name?”

  “Yes. The book would not have been a good seller if he had used a woman as his main character. Women just did not do those kinds of things. The story, as it stood, was unbelievable.”

  Much like my own, at the moment, I thought. “Why was she so evil?” I asked out loud.

  “I believe she was actually insane, and from a very young age. She suffered extreme mood swings and violent rages. Some accredited this to inbreeding, which was common amongst the nobility at that time. But it is also my understanding that she was never disciplined properly. She was married off, at the age of fourteen, to a man who was known as a sadist—although even he was disgusted with Elizabeth’s actions when he found out what she was doing. While her husband was away at war, she became involved in the occult and took up with some very depraved individuals who educated her in the fine arts of torture and witchery.”

  “Much as Dracula had been educated by the Turks,” I intervened.

  “Possibly. But my uncle did what he did to protect his country and his crown. He was at war. She was not. She did what she did to try to maintain the beauty that was slipping away from her.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes. You don’t see one?”

  “A fine line of one, I guess,” I admitted. “What happened to her?” I asked.

  “What really happened? Or what do the history books say?”

  “What really happened?”

  “Because of her noble standing in society, she was not put to death as her accomplices had been. She was sealed up in a room and fed through a hole just big enough to slip a plate through. History says that is where she died. I know better, though.” The count smiled.

  “How so?”

  “The authorities did not want to tell the people she had escaped. It was better to say she had died.”

  “She escaped?”

  “Yes—with help, of course.”

  “From whom?”

  “Let us just say that if Elizabeth was not already a rogue when she was slaughtering those girls, she is now!”

  “She still lives?”

  “Yes.” The count leaned back in his chair.

  This story was getting more bizarre by the minute. I’d had enough for one night. I stood up from my chair and walked over to the window. Slivers of light were beginning to creep through the branches of the trees. My time with the count would soon come to an end. I walked over to him and put my arms around his neck. No reason for him always to be the one to instigate our lovemaking.

  “So, we are finished our discussion for tonight, are we, Virginia?” He stood and faced me. I smiled, took his hand, and led him to my bed.

  ~

  Time was passing much quicker for me now that I had my nightly discussions with the count. Teresa continued to be surly toward me when the count was not present. Max continued to drop little warnings that I was playing a dangerous game. I continued reading, and I also started a diary of my own, describing the everyday events in my new life. It was my way to maintain my sanity as well as to keep a record of all that had happened to me, should I ever manage to escape or be released. Max graciously supplied me with paper and pen, and he never questioned me about what I was writing. I found that a bit strange, but I guess there was no fear that I would throw a message through an open window because all the windows were sealed shut. Besides, I still had not seen anyone passing by close enough to respond to my plea for help. If perchance I came across an opening to throw a note from, and I was lucky enough that the wind picked up my scrap of paper and placed it in someone’s hands, w
ho would believe such a story as I had to tell?

  I would most likely be labelled insane, pumped full of drugs by some well-meaning doctors, and then be thrown into a sanatorium to rot away what life I had left. On the other hand, maybe I had already lost my mind. No, that was not possible. Everything around me was as real as the baby who grew inside my womb. That is why I was compelled to write all the particulars down—every minute detail I could remember. Doing so would be proof enough, at least to me, of my sanity!

  ~

  Christmas came and went. I knew because I had seen Christmas lights in the distance when I stared out my bedroom window. But the season was different for me this year—there were no Christian celebrations within the walls of the home I was in. I did notice that the count and Teresa went out more in the evenings, probably for Christmas parties. Sometimes they did not have their meals before leaving, and I had to eat alone. On those nights, I asked Max if I could eat in my room. I used that extra time to catch up on my diary notes.

  January burst through with a big snowstorm. I watched the flakes as they fell and covered the grounds with a thick, white blanket. The tree branches bent from the heavy burden of snow that covered them. It would be senseless for me to attempt an escape in this weather, even though the thought had crossed my mind that it might be more difficult for Max to catch me. The first week of the new year was quiet. I was beginning to wonder if the count had tired of our conversations. But then he began coming to me again—for conversation, and more!

  I was in the study, looking through his books and trying to decide which one I was going to read next, when he entered.

  “Ah, Virginia, here you are. What is it you are reading now?” His voice sent a shiver up my spine. It had been a little more than two weeks since we had last met alone.

  I turned to him. “I have finished your uncle’s biography, and also one on Elizabeth. She really was crazy. I made some notes of the similarities between her and your uncle, and also the dissimilarities.”

  “You are thinking of writing a profile on them?” he asked.