“Thank you.” Alba smiled.
“Of course.” Her friend stopped before she left the room. “I’ve thought of one more thing, Alba. If you staged your own death, do you suppose Dimitri thought you were dead all this time too?”
Edith’s suggestion made Alba’s blood run cold. Trying to chase away the idea, she thrust the amulet and the poppy inside the jewelry box and slipped into bed. Did she really care what Dimitri thought or felt after all these years? Determined to prevent him from alerting her stepmother about her whereabouts or revealing her new identity to everyone here in London, she finally slipped into a fitful dream—a dream that brought her back to her childhood.
Alba studied the needlepoint she held in her quivering hand. A moment ago, Ileana had strutted before her, criticizing her pattern. “Who on earth taught you needlepoint, child?” her stepmother had said. With her head held at a haughty angle, Ileana possessed a cruel beauty accentuated by cool, blond hair, sharply arched eyebrows, and commanding eyes the color of steel.
“My mother,” Alba had replied in a small voice.
“Your mother, was it? Well, she did a pathetic job.”
“Please don’t talk about my mother that way,” Alba had implored.
“Silence, you insolent girl!” Ileana had raised her hand to strike her.
Alba compressed her lips as she hurried to the front door. Letting out a shiver, she brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes. At fourteen she was neither a child nor a woman, but many claimed that she had an unflappable confidence to be admired at any age. Well, she was confident enough to refuse to go back to her needlepoint lesson. No doubt the servants were looking for her after she fled the parlor, but she didn’t care. She was a human being and she had every right to avoid a beating.
Her breathing slowed as she emerged from Stelian Hall. Sinking onto a carved marble bench, she gazed across the lawn. That was when she noticed a boy spying on her through the estate’s palatial gates.
With black hair streaked with brown waves and a dirty, yet tremendously handsome face, the boy was crouched on his knees. His dazzling gold-brown eyes tugged at Alba, but she had been raised to avoid strangers. Especially Gypsies.
Alba folded her arms across her chest. “What are you doing here?” she called out.
Now that he’d been discovered, the boy squared his shoulders and stood. Embarrassment reddened his cheeks.
“I won’t speak to you,” she said. “My father, Ambassador Mihail Zpda, has instructed me not to consort with your kind. Gypsies are beggars and misfits and they mean nothing but trouble.”
He made no reply. Was he ignoring her?
“My father, myself, and my stepmother will be here in this wretched countryside for five more weeks before we go back to Bucharest,” she continued. “That is certainly not enough time to make friends.”
“Who said I wanted to be your friend?” the boy asked as he wiped his smudged cheeks with a frayed shirtsleeve. “I only wanted to see who was living in Stelian Hall. And now that I see it’s a snobbish, knock-kneed girl, I’ll be on my way.”
Alba sprang to her feet, her needlepoint ring tumbling from her lap. “Wait, boy! How dare you speak to me in that manner?” With impeccable posture that spoke of her upbringing, she moved to the gate. The boy bravely stood his ground.
“You have a lot of nerve, Gypsy, but you are rather handsome. You may tell me your name.” She clasped her hands behind her back the way she’d seen her father do when he talked to the servants.
“I’m Dimitri. Dimitri Grigorescu, and I am sixteen years old, so don’t call me ‘boy’ again.”
She nodded in compliance.
“And you, girl. What is your name?” he asked.
“I am Alba. Alba Zpda, and I’m fourteen, so don’t call me ‘girl’ again.”
The boy sputtered with laughter at the way she’d echoed his inflection. Alba joined in—reluctantly at first and then wholeheartedly.
Once their laughter subsided, the boy’s tone became pensive. “Snow White. What a beautiful name.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a smile. “It was my mother’s idea.”
Over the next four weeks, admiration and infatuation came to pass between Alba and Dimitri. Seizing every opportunity to escape her stepmother’s temper, Alba converged with her Gypsy boy beneath the bridge near the river and in the house’s toolshed. They stole long looks in the high, swaying willows and relayed their deepest secrets in the tree-dotted forest. . . all the while falling completely and madly in love.
Those days were the happiest of Alba’s life. She loved everything about Dimitri, from his intelligence to his quick wit. And when he’d kissed her for the first time at the end of that magical summer, he had fastened a white poppy in her hair . . .
Alba awoke for a moment, then fell back to sleep. Another dream took hold of her. In this one she was all grown up . . .
A mysterious stranger emerged from a wall of fog. Staring at Alba provocatively, he pressed a hand to the small of her back and led her into the inky shadows of Stelian Hall. He pinned her to the wall of the foyer while he lavished her with fiery kisses. Hot and hungry, his tongue twined with hers. Reaching beneath her white, flowing gown, he stroked her breast and the contact unleashed Alba’s repressed desires. Heaving forward with a moan, she allowed the stranger to tease her nipple to a high peak while desire flushed through her with the force of a typhoon.
“You will be mine tonight.” He hadn’t spoken the words, but oddly, Alba could read his thoughts.
As she slithered her hands around his neck, she stared into his mesmerizing features. A strong brow topped his straight nose and his rich topaz eyes. Pulse accelerating, she watched his pupils transform to an unearthly red. He bent at the knees and whisked Alba to a plush divan—the only piece of furniture in the country manor. While he bore her down, a pair of gleaming fangs descended. She stared into his red eyes, knowing full well she was being hypnotized. She willingly opened to him as he feathered his fingertips along her exposed thigh—higher and higher until her folds were wet with arousal.
“I want to be yours,” Alba said, her breath catching.
Nodding, the dark figure seared her lips with a kiss. Then he stroked her curls and edged his fingers inside her damp petals and smiled.
It was strange that the vampire seemed to be compelled not by evil but by genuine feeling. And because his eyes spoke of his admiration for her, she was eager to succumb to him.
Bunching up the material of her nightgown, the elegant vampire held the garment against her hips with one hand. Lowering his trousers with the other, his stone-hard erection brushed against her leg, and when he guided it inside her wet channel, Alba’s eyes fluttered open.
“I’ve loved you since we were children,” he said suddenly.
She let out a gasp. Now that he’d spoken, she realized the vampire was Dimitri.
Chapter Four
While London slept, a dark figure stepped from a wall of shadows like a ghostly apparition. Wearing a silk top hat and a swirling cloak, the elegant phantom seemed out of place in the filth and stench of Whitechapel. A cesspool plaguing London’s East End, the district was home to an assortment of drunkards, gamblers, criminals, and garishly painted prossers, or prostitutes. It was a place few sophisticated gentlemen frequented.
Ducking in and out of the inky shadows, the killer strode toward the end of the main thoroughfare and then turned onto Berner Street. With cold, unfeeling eyes, he spied a likely victim in a tart who was parading at a gate that led to Dutfield’s Yard. He watched as the middle-aged whore shouted out suggestions to several gentlemen as they exited the International Workingmen’s Educational Club.
“Lookin’ for a bit o’ sport, are ya, guv’na?” The prosser’s voice sounded dry and weathered as she spoke to a man who rushed by her. “Do ya like what ya see, eh, Cock?”
Once she’d been passed over by several men, the woman finally noticed the stranger. Her face broadened into a sedu
ctive smile and she peeled up her bottom petticoat. After the man in the top hat emerged from his shadowy hiding spot, he laced a hand through the crook of her arm.
They walked silently through the wooden gate while the public din off Whitechapel’s main thoroughfare faded behind them. The gentleman directed the prosser to an edge of the large yard, where she laughed merrily.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Elizabeth. But you can call me Liz,” she teased.
He nodded.
“I see yer carryin’ a doctor’s bag,” she said. “Are ya gonna examine me?” The smell of liquor rolled off her tongue.
The man said nothing.
Up one side of the illuminated yard sat a row of small, dirty-looking houses. By the glow filtering through their windows, the houses appeared to be fully tenanted. The International Workingmen’s Educational Club, founded by immigrant Jewish socialists, flanked the yard’s other side. The killer boldly stepped in and nuzzled Liz’s neck beneath the amber lights.
“Yer an elegant one, aren’t ya, guv’na?” the prostitute said with a glint in her eye. “From the looks of your clothin’ maybe I should be chargin’ ya double!”
Her hearty laughter rang out into the night while the killer remained solemn. In a low voice, he suggested she lift up her skirt. Stinking of other men, Liz took a step back and did as her client asked. The killer pulled a red scarf from his waistcoat pocket and stroked it with his hands.
“Wrap this pretty scarf around your neck,” he commanded.
Liz shrugged. She took the scarf from him and did as she’d been told. “Are ya dressin’ me up?”
The killer dipped his chin. “Now unbutton your jacket and show me your corset.”
As one hand worked at further exposing her breasts and the other clasped a bag of breath sweets, the prosser’s hands were occupied. The madman pulled a knife from his bag and rushed to grab her from behind. Grasping the ends of the scarf, he yanked her head back until the length of her neck was exposed.
With tears of fear pooling in her gray eyes, the forty-four-year-old woman was in no position to cry out. The man remained silent as he sliced her throat from her carotid artery across her windpipe. Proud of his deed, he watched his victim slip to the ground, stripped of all her dignity.
The murderer knelt down and whispered into her ear, “Now there’s one less woman in the world.”
Dimitri awoke inside the narrow shipping crate that doubled as his coffin. He rubbed his aching temple, then touched the warm trickle of blood at his mouth. A familiar, musty smell permeated his nostrils. How the hell did I get to my basement after I struck my head on the gate paling?
And the blood at my mouth. Did I feed?
Someone must have helped him inside the house and into the crate. He wanted to think it was Alba, but her fainting spell proved otherwise. Perhaps he should have sent her a letter instead of stunning her like that. Or called upon her alone. He would have done things differently in retrospect, but it was too late now.
Dimitri exhaled as he pushed himself out of the crate. Alba knew he was here—and he needed to start protecting her.
While he climbed upstairs to shave and dress, his thoughts flashed to the chilling events that led him to London.
“Alba and I are in love,” Dimitri informed his friend, Simona Popovici. They were headed to the small village of Braov nestled below the snow-tipped Carpathian Mountains. Both of them had turned sixteen last month, but they’d known one another since they were five years old.
“Alba caught you spying on her four weeks ago and you’re already in love?” feisty Simona asked with disdain. The raven-haired girl was prone to trouble, but she was the only member of the Szgamy tribe close to Dimitri’s age.
“I do love her,” he replied, his breath vaporizing in the crisp, mountain air. “And someday I plan to marry her. For now, I’m going to give her this.” He withdrew a ring made from alderwood from his pocket. “I carved it myself.”
“How sweet!” Simona taunted him with a laugh.
He glowered at her.
“Your handiwork is horribly rustic,” she went on. “Do you really think it will impress a sophisticated girl like Alba Zpda?”
Dimitri stuffed the ring back in his pocket. “It’s all I have to give her.”
“Maybe not.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
From beneath her vest, Simona produced a stunning lapis amulet attached to a silver chain. The markings on the stone were Egyptian and bore intricate inlays of gleaming coral and onyx.
Dimitri gasped and took a step back. “You stole that necklace from Rosa Spera! If you’re found out, Rosa will use her dark powers to punish you.”
“Calm down,” Simona said. “She won’t find out. Rosa Spera may be the leader of our tribe, but she’s dim-witted.”
“Why did you steal it?” Dimitri prodded.
“To give it to you, silly. And I didn’t hear a thank-you.”
“The amulet is cursed.”
“It is?” Simona feigned ignorance.
“Stop it, Simona. I’m sure you remember the story the elders told us when we were children.”
“The story about the Egyptian princess who killed her lover before she stabbed herself to death?”
“Yes,” Dimitri growled. “That one.”
Simona’s eyes narrowed. “The story is rubbish.”
Dimitri shook his head. “Rosa’s grandmother, Marga Yavidovich, found the amulet when our people were in England. She stored it away—to protect the world from its dark powers. Now it’s Rosa’s job to guard it.”
“I don’t see why she has to guard it. How can something so old still fuel a curse?”
Simona had a point, Dimitri considered.
Smiling slyly, she handed the necklace over. He took a moment to study it. He had to admit it was an impressive piece of jewelry that must be very valuable.
“You’re a Gypsy, Dimitri.” Simona tossed her long hair in the wind. She was a striking girl, but one who was too full of fire and brimstone for his taste. “That means your beginnings are far from respectable. Give Alba the necklace. You’d be smart to use anything you can get your hands on.”
He looked ashamed. “Do you really think I should give it to her?”
“Yes.” Simona smiled. “You do want Alba to like you, right?”
“I want her to do more than that. I want her to marry me.”
Simona put her hands on her hips. “Marry you? Have you thought this out, Dimitri?”
He thought he had.
“Giving Alba the amulet will bring you one step closer to winning her over. But can you convince her—or her family—that you’re worthy of marriage?”
Dimitri frowned. “I don’t have to convince her family of anything. She plans to run away with me.”
Simona’s laughter floated around them. “Are you sure?”
“Alba’s stepmother is cruel and vain,” he said. “All she does is stand in front of a huge mirror her husband built for her, staring at her reflection all day. She pays no attention to Alba—except when she rants at her in a jealous rage. She envies Alba’s youth and beauty so much that she’s considering sending her to boarding school in England.”
“Poor little Alba,” Simona said with manufactured sympathy. “And you want to save her from all that? If she agrees to run away with you, where will you take her, Dimitri? What money will you use? It’s hopeless, you foolish Gypsy boy.”
“Hold your tongue, Simona!”
Her eyes darkened with anger before they twinkled with mischief. “We both agree that you’re not wealthy or sophisticated, but maybe you can win Alba’s father over with your bravery.”
“What are you babbling on about?” He slid a glance her way.
“Suppose you and I do something daring, something . . . unbelievable. Perhaps little Miss Pure As the Fallen Snow will come along as a witness. Afterward she’ll brag to her father that you are the bravest boy
she’s ever met and you’ll be accepted into the family.”
Simona had managed to capture his attention. “What kind of dare are you talking about?”
“I say we steal up to Castle Bran and hunt for vampires!”
A sense of unease skittered across Dimitri’s skin. From high upon a cliff, Castle Bran loomed over the Transylvanian countryside like a terrifying gateway to hell. Once the residence of a sadistic fifteenth-century prince named Vlad Dracul, the infamous castle had been the site of countless atrocities. Known as the first lord of vampires, Dracul ruled as the Prince of Wallachia. During his reign, he commanded upward of a hundred thousand people to be murdered by means of impalement on a sharpened stake. The prince also condemned his citizens to be burned, boiled, or skinned. As his reward, Dracul enjoyed drinking the blood of his victims . . . all at Castle Bran.
The very suggestion that he go anywhere near the castle gripped Dimitri like a vise. Men of the Szgamy Gypsy tribe were prone to curses, and if he awoke a vampire who used to be a member of his tribe, that was precisely what he would become.
“Alba will never agree to come with us,” he told Simona, although he suspected that the girl he loved was braver than he was.
The following night, the trio made their way to Castle Bran. Beneath a full moon, its ominous white bricks and red turrets glowed like beacons on a lonely sea. Entering the graveyard, Dimitri noticed that the ebony shadows and bright margins cast by the moonlight lent it the look of a black-and-white checkerboard. It appeared to be a place still vibrant with the dancing spirits of violence and death . . . a perfect place for a dare.
The three youths hid behind an enormous tomb.
“Is everyone ready to dig up a vampire?” Simona asked.
Dimitri gripped his shovel. “What if we dig up a Szgamy?”
“No Szgamys are buried here,” Simona replied in a sharp whisper. “Only Vlad Dracul’s soldiers—the ones he impaled.”
Alba gulped.
Snow White and the Vampire (The Cursed Princes) Page 3
