You know, as I write these letters, I always have the same image of you in my head: I see you reading by moonlight, sitting in that attic room you had while you were apprenticed to Master Žiga, chewing on an empty pipe and laughing at the silly things that pass through my mind. This is how I want to remember you, always—young, and handsome, and happy. And this is why I will stop writing to you after this letter. I have a feeling, irrational as it may be, that, if I continue, you will grow old with me, and fade away, and I do not want you to. Not if we can’t do it together. I will go on, because I have to. But you can stay forever the dashing apprentice printer who first captivated my heart. That manner of eternal youth, no matter how painful for me, is infinitely better than the other kind. I would not take that from you, so I shall leave you here.
Yet, I owe you the end of the story that we have started together. It would be unfair to make you wait until I am dead too. I am trying, right now, not to imagine you standing behind St. Peter’s back, hopping from foot to foot in that impatient way of yours as I approach the Pearly Gates. And you would, I know you would, so instead, here is the rest of the story.
I told you, didn’t I, that Bartol Povšić is trying to force me to sell our house? He has the support of Father Toth, whom Povšić has convinced they would both become rich. Unlike Povšić, though, Father Toth is cunning. His threats are always couched in language ambiguous enough to be explained away should I try to turn the tables on him, yet clear enough that I cannot mistake his meaning. In his latest missive, he invited me to discuss the situation, and added some apparently unrelated sentences that made it clear he wanted to meet with me at night, at the small bend of the brook where I sometimes go to gather plants. You know the place I mean.
My first instinct was to ignore the invitation. There was nothing any one of us could say that would change the situation: these two want me to sell them the house, preferably at a low price; I do not intend to do so. That should be the end of story, although of course it isn’t.
Thinking about it, it occurred to me that the place was close to where we’d fought with that vampire who killed you. I know that this is horribly bad of me, and a very non-witchy thing to do, but please, please, try to understand. I am now alone. Mother Bara is dead. You are dead. Yes, some of the women in the villages support me—but only when their husbands and fathers cannot hear them. If Povšić or Toth were to carry out their threat, there would be no one who would speak for me. I could, perhaps, just pick up and leave, but where would I go? This world is not welcoming to a woman alone. Here, at least, I have my house, and the sound of water that puts me to sleep every night, and the fields and woods I’ve grown up with. Here I have the memory of you, and can re-live it in every blade of grass where we once walked together. This is my home.
So I decided I would try and solve two problems at once. You are already guessing, I think, as to the how. I knew the vampire we’d fought was still around here, somewhere. We had used enough silver and garlic and rosemary to kill all but the sturdiest of the creatures, but even so, I would have sensed the relief in the atmosphere had the monster breathed his last.
I also knew, no matter how strong, it would be at half its powers at best.
Povšić and Toth, on the other hand, no matter how pious a face the former makes at Mass, or how ostentatiously the latter carries his Malleus, do not really believe in witches, or any other supernatural creature. They would come expecting to meet merely a stubborn but helpless human woman. All I needed to do was get them to walk into the swamp a little way: vampire senses would do the rest. And while the monster is feeding—it would be half-crazed with hunger, by now, and would lose what little self-control it has—I would have enough time to take careful aim and hit it full in the chest with the stake, then proceed to decapitate it properly.
My two tormentors would die, and I must say, my heart was not easy with that decision. If I believed any kind of persuasion, logic or reasoning could reach them, I would have adopted that course instead. I didn’t. Maybe this is not something you wanted to know about me; I’m sorry if I disappoint you. Ruthlessness is a trait that any good witch must possess, at least in some measure, you know. It helps make the hard decisions. Witches’ lives are full of them. I hope you’d understand—no, I know you would. Or if you wouldn’t, don’t tell me. After you’ve gone and got killed like that, the least you can give me are a few comforting lies. You would not care.
There, that’s settled, and I can go on with the story. Now, my plan was far from perfect, as well I knew, so I made careful preparations. I went to the bend early, and planted stakes in the reeds, where they would be invisible unless you knew what you were looking for. I then returned home, and carefully prepared a whole bag of vampire-hurting stones. I took the Silbergroschen that we prepared the last time—I didn’t want to touch them even when Toth demanded money—and wrapped every single one of them carefully in herbs, then soaked them in holy water. I also took a bag of ordinary stones, in case I had to defend myself from human attackers. Lastly, I checked my sling, made sure it was undamaged and ready for use, and tucked it in my pocket.
I felt like a knight preparing for a fight. If I still had the armour that wandering soldier had paid with when I treated his boil, I believe I would have donned it at that moment. Not for protection, you understand, but to gird myself; I was ready to do battle with all my enemies, be they human or not. In the end, I settled for my black widow’s scarf, wrapping my hair and tying it back as if I were going to do the washing. Thus equipped, I stepped into the night.
This is what I mean when I say “home.” I should have been frightened. I had been frightened, at least a little bit, while I was doing all those things that had to be done before I could be on my way. Then I closed the door behind me, and my fears vanished. It was dark outside—it’s still early enough in the year, so the night comes swiftly, and the Moon had not yet risen. Heavy black clouds rolled over the skies, bringing with them the threat of a storm. And I was about to face two men who wanted nothing more than to see me broken, and at least one true monster with good reason to hate me specifically, more than he hates the rest of humankind. And possibly another, if what I had sensed was correct. Yet, as I walked through the darkness, my fears dissolved. This was my night, my darkness. I knew its every sound. The air was cool, but to me it felt as comfortable as our marriage bed. I felt as if nothing and no one could defeat me.
That feeling carried me all the way to the brook, and allowed me to touch the crimson heads of the flowers there with calm, unshaking fingers. I stopped and looked at the skies. It was still relatively early. Toth’s convoluted writing couldn’t convey an exact time, but his mention of the full Moon made me suppose he would wait at least until it was clearly visible. It suited me fine. I could hear the nightlife stirring in the woods behind me. In the distance, I could even hear some of the bumblers from the “Bird Appreciation Association” imagining themselves silent enough not to frighten away their quarry. I found a rock far enough from the water to serve as an acceptable chair, and settled to wait.
I kept all my senses open to any trace of a monster. All the self-assurance in the world will not save you, and vampires are murderous foes, as you well know. I heard and sensed nothing other than the general unease that signified the beast was not yet dead. And then, somewhere in the woods, I heard—sniffing.
At night, there is usually a lot of sniffing going on: it is, after all, a matter of life and death for most forest-dwellers. Small noses, close to the ground, search for safe passages; larger ones, higher up, look for food. But this was different. Louder, and more excited than anything else. This nose did not sniff out of life and death. It sniffed… deliberately. Professionally. And fairly quickly, moving through the woods towards me.
A few heartbeats later, I could also hear steps: human steps, trotting with the same easy pace as the sniffer. I closed my eyes, trying to discern how many there were. I was sure about one, two; maybe three. The “maybe” wo
rried me: humans do not have that lightness of gait.
But vampires do. Even when they’re wounded and still recovering.
As I concentrated on what was coming through the woods, I forgot to look around me. It was only when a thin hand grabbed me from the darkness that I realised it was a mistake.
The monster’s fingers closed over my forearm like a manacle. I screamed, pushing my free hand into my pocket. No time to take out the sling, but holy water and herbs and silver would burn it a little and—wrong pocket! Those were the ordinary stones. I grabbed them all, and threw them at the monster all the same.
The creature was no longer quite sane, and that was my salvation. As the sling-stones dropped, it let go of me and grabbed them with filthy hands. I heard sounds coming from its lips as it collected them, one by one. I did not recognise the language, but the motions and my poor Latin suggested a meaning. “Unu, doi, trei, patru...”
He was counting.
I didn’t know what kind of a miracle it was, but I wasn’t going to waste it. Slipping from the creature’s suddenly slack grip, I stepped backed and grabbed another handful of stones; just ordinary pebbles from the banks of the brook. But they worked, too. I threw them at the creature. As soon as he heard the rattling, he let go of the stones he’d already counted, and started anew.
I moved toward the banks of the brook. If I could reach one of the stakes I’d planted there, I thought, I could kill the monster. I no longer cared about my plan. I just wanted to stay alive.
Steps rattled behind me. I turned and saw a group coming from the woods. At their head, a large black hound was running with its nose almost touching the ground. Three shadows came after the master-sniffer. One was short but stocky—I learned later that his name was Ilan. He kept up with the hound in long easy steps. The other one, Bordchamp, was thin, and ran as if his legs were about to buckle under him. Behind them, a third shadow was almost impossible to discern in the darkness. As soon as I saw it, I knew. The other vampire.
The hound raised its head and let out a satisfied bark. The two men following it slowed down, the thin one breathing so heavily I thought he must be very old, or very sick. The tall shadow didn’t even slow down; it passed over the men and the dog, or maybe through them. Or just too quickly for the eye to follow, I don’t know. All I do know is, in the next instant, the two vampires were facing each other.
The wounded one had been kneeling, frantically collecting the stones to his chest. Now he let them trickle from his fingers, and looked up. His lips formed a new word, not a number—at least, not one that I recognised.
“Vlad.”
The other one kept silent for a moment. Then he answered.
“Radu.”
As if this was a magic word, the wounded vampire jumped up and slammed into the other with full force. Both fell. The hound barked. The two vampires rolled on the ground, pebbles faintly clicking under them. The short stocky man grabbed the dog and jumped backwards.
“Master!” screamed Bordchamp.
I didn’t even know vampires could have servants. Not the kind of observation to have under the circumstances, but in my defence, my head was full of confused thoughts and unanswered questions. First and foremost among them, however, was how to get out of there alive.
The two vampires separated, and the tall one, Vlad, lifted a hand. The wounded one stopped. There followed a flurry of words in that language: Muntenian? So frustrating! It sounded as if I should be able to understand it—almost Latin, but not quite—yet I couldn’t, or not enough to make head or tails of it. The two men with the hound apparently could, following the exchange with tense faces. At last, the wounded vampire, Radu, stood up. He was not sure on his feet. As he swayed, Vlad offered a hand, but Radu pushed it aside. He looked towards us.
That, my dearest, was when I became truly afraid. When he’d first attacked me, I had no time to think; and things went from strange to stranger with such speed I could barely keep up. But now I was standing still, and staring at me was the vampire we had jointly wounded, the vampire who had killed you. And who, without a shadow of doubt, wanted to kill me.
I reached into my pocket for the witched stones. From the corner of my eye, I saw the two men step away from me, understanding that the vampire was selecting me for his victim. I took my sling in a slow movement. My hands didn’t even shake, you know. I could feel myself tremble inside, but on the outside, I was as calm as the night.
The Moon had risen in the meantime, and fought its way through the clouds for long enough to light the scene. I could see that the damage you and I had done had almost healed, but another wound, fresher, spread over Radu’s chest. Black spots of dried blood covered the tattered front of his shirt. His face was distorted with hunger, animal instincts taking over again. That is what happens with vampires: it is not easy to keep the inner beast in check, even in a single lifetime. Through an eternity, it becomes nearly impossible.
The other vampire was still in full control, though. He spoke in a soft, almost sad voice. “Radu, nu.” That, I understood: No.
Radu shook his head and took a step towards me. I put a stone into the sling. Lifted it. Took aim.
“Lord our saviour, deliver us from evil!”
The shout in German made us all look towards the woods. The wounded vampire let out a long hiss, like a giant cat, and leaped towards the source of the cry.
It was Father Toth, of course, leading his would-be business partner and two other men whose faces I couldn’t discern in the dark. The wounded vampire jumped at the priest, who took out a large silver cross from his robes and started banging the vampire over the head with it. It would have been ridiculous if it weren’t so deadly. Povšić turned to run, but tripped over something and fell, pushing the third man along. The last one—I recognised predialis Katych—raised a musket.
This prompted Vlad to react. He rushed at the newcomers. Bordchamp also took a step.
“Stay here!” commanded Ilan, pushing the by-now frantic hound into Bordchamp’s hands. He then took out a flintlock pistol and raised it towards the group.
Vlad grabbed at Radu, and their hands locked on each other’s throats. The priest dropped to the ground, and the unknown man freed himself from the panicking Povšić, reached into his shirt and took out a smaller cross on a chain. Radu screamed; even Vlad let out a furious hiss. He pushed the man aside. Father Toth scrambled to his feet, his cross forgotten, reached into his robes and came out with a small flask. He unstoppered it and started sprinkling it over the two fighting vampires. They both roared, whether in pain or in anger I could not tell. Clouds coalesced about them, and the air became a whirlwind of darkness, human and non-human screams mixing with the cries of the newly-disturbed birds to create a cacophony beyond understanding.
A shot tore through the chaos. For a moment, it seemed as if everything had turned to stone. Then a lone osprey call echoed somewhere far up in the sky, and as if the piercing cry had freed us from some spell, we all started talking and moving at once.
In patches of moonlight, I could see Father Toth lying on his back, his throat and chest torn, his mouth gaping. Povšić was curled on the ground, his left hand cradling his right, moaning. A dark stain spread over his coat. Next to him, on his knees, the unknown man was taking off his coat and folding it neatly; it would have seemed absurd had I not recognised the calm competence of a physician with a patient. My suspicion was confirmed when he asked, without turning his gaze away from Povšić, “Could someone provide me with a knife?” He lifted his hand, fully expecting the world to meet his demand somehow. Only surgeons have that kind of calm in a crisis.
And witches, of course. I stepped forward and took out the knife I always carry strapped to my thigh. The man accepted it with a short nod—politer than some surgeons I’ve known, let alone some witches—and started cutting away Povšić’s coat.
I later learned he was indeed a medical doctor, from Vienna. Quite a change from the operating rooms he was used to!
Bordchamp was still holding the black dog in his arms, both shaking wildly. The man had his eyes closed; the hound hid his in the crook of the man’s arm. Shock, I thought distantly. They would need warmth and peace to recover. I could provide them with both back at the house. But first…
But first, the vampires. The wounded one lay on the ground. In an echo of the two men not ten paces from them, the other knelt by his side. It was obvious that Radu was at the end of his strength: even for a vampire, his skin looked sickly, and his body was twitching spasmodically. The other vampire lifted his hand, curled in a claw, the way vampires do when they’re about to strike. The clouds parted again, lighting his face. A glittering trail of tears streaked his cheeks. He swallowed. Closed his eyes. Then tore at his own neck.
I let out a small cry of surprise. Vlad leaned closer, lifting Radu’s head and directing his lips to the flow of blood. After only a few sips, he grew visibly stronger. He swallowed and blinked, much as Vlad had done before. Lifted a hand to Vlad’s neck, as if to stop the flow.
“Nu...” he muttered through swollen lips. The rest I couldn’t understand. I turned to Bordchamp.
“What is he saying?”
He wasn’t very good at the language yet, but my frustration at least penetrated the fog of shock. He frowned, concentrating.
Dracula: Rise of the Beast Page 16
