This started pestering me on Monday, when I needed to be working on other things. I think it will end up becoming part of a novella I’ve been threatening to write, the one that will take the premise of the movie Bram Stoker’s Dracula and eliminate the massive theological mess invoked to explain why Vlad III becomes Dracula. So this is dark, and strange, and not what I needed to be working on. Y’all are warned. The year is 1529.
The glow on the south-western horizon brought no warmth. She fancied she could still smell the roasting and boiling mutton, the stench of perfumes gone stale, the fug of an advancing army four months in the field. Her hands ached to draw a bow, to grip a dagger or heavy staff or scythe or anything to use against the Turkish horde below the hills. Her half-clenched hands throbbed, warning of the coming north wind and storm. She should seek shelter. Instead she glowered south and snarled silently. She’d done what she could, while she could. One more weapon remained to her, perhaps.
The wind went calm. The night fell still and grew darker, aside from the glow of thousands of fires. The air was too soundless, a terrified stillness. She turned with slow steps.
A half-heard flapping sound, and darkness intensified. A blot, soot on the night, shrank and grew solid. The faint flapping and whistling faded into silence. Red eyes looked out on the night from a gaunt, angular face. Silver now streaked his coal black hair and touched his tidy black beard. He walked with slow, heavy steps toward her. He wore a cloak a hundred years out of fashion. The flowing black and green suited him. That green had once graced a Turkish banner. She smiled again at the sight and memory. Then she bowed and backed clear of his path.
“Our old enemy.” His voice both chilled and warmed her. He did not bother to conceal the faint echo, the icy hardness in his voice.
“No, my lord. They choose not to learn. The sultan swears that this time their god will grant victory.”
A derisive snort greeted her words. “Over confident, as always. And late. The land and waters conspire against them.”
She smiled, a wild cat’s smile. “Indeed, my lord.”
He folded his arms as he regarded the distant—not far enough for her!—fires. “They take advantage of division and chaos.” He paused and looked to her. “Again.”
She nodded. “Again. Age weakens my voice and it no longer reaches the halls of power.” Once it had. Now? She belonged to the old, dead past, or so the so-called overlords claimed.
“And sex.”
She inclined her head toward him in agreement. “And sex, my lord.” No longer could she play the male as once she had. Those days had passed with youth and marriage.
Long fingernails like claws, or an eagle’s talons, lifted her chin, forcing her to meet half-human, crimson eyes. “Do you regret, my little Kat?”
His touch woke all the fear, desire, wild emotions as heady as distilled spirits. “No. Not the years in your court and not the years after.” She’d disguised herself as a male to stand in for brothers her mother could not risk. Her skill with bow and scouting had drawn his eye. He’d seen through her garb but said nothing, not until later. She’d given him her maidenhead, even knowing what he was, what bargain he’d made. Three sweet, hard years they’d shared before parting. “My husband asked for no more than more sons and a well-kept household. Both I gave to him.” Three sons yet lived, and a daughter. For now.
“Ah.” The hand moved, ran down shoulder and arm to take her hand. He drew her close and embraced her, monster and man and lover and liege. “I too do not regret.”
He released her. “What know you?” His gesture took in the army below them.
“I scouted, as best I now can, my lord.” The Turks respected neither sex nor age nor anything save force. And him, perhaps. “A single row of sentries, few to guard the pickets, and no heavy guns. A rumor says that the high rivers keep them from bringing the largest cannon up yet, rivers and mud together.”
He chuckled, a cold, inhuman sound, and the hell-fire in his eyes flared. “They will regret their ease with the night.” He reached, and took her chin in his hands once more. “If you will keep your word.”
“I will, my lord.” She dared to put a hint of chiding into her tone. “That is why I asked for your presence, why I am here.” Death held no fear. She’d seen hell and heaven, both at his side. The village priest had denied her absolution when she’d told him of her intention to scout the Turks, saying that she committed self-murder by venturing to test the Turkish defenses. If it damned her, so be it. What he’d say now she could well guess. She smiled and said, “I keep my vows, my lord.”
He smiled as well, baring fangs the color of his ivory chess men. “You do. And I will keep mine, my little wild Kat.”
She reached up, eyes still on his, and undid her headscarf and veil, baring her head and throat. “Send them to hell, my night treasure, so that they may meet the god they worship.”
He laughed and pulled her close once again. She tipped her head back, baring her throat. Pain swept over her as his jaws closed, fangs piercing the skin and crushing her windpipe. She could not breathe. Her body tried to fight, but she held it still. Numbness replaced pain. Her children would live.
#
Vlad held her as her legs buckled, then lowered her gently to the dew-damp ground, still feeding, still drawing her life into himself, life willingly and freely given. Her blood, so hot and sweet, rich with age and memory, filled him as she died. So long, so long since he’d tasted a life willingly—no, gladly, joyfully—given! The monster howled with delight. Its strength grew as Ekaterina’s heart stopped and the last morsel of her blood graced his tongue.
When he finished, only a shell remained of his little Kat. She’d been wild, brave, had laughed when others fled in fear. She’d accepted him as he was, the only woman to do so since he’d made his bargain. That the others had assumed her to be a man had amused both of them and had become a game for two of their three years together. He laid her out on the grass and stones and folded her hands. He caressed her face, still strong and lovely, and her war and work-scarred fingers. “Your absence I will regret, little Kat.” He covered her face with her veil, as was proper, then stood. He would mourn and pray for her later.
“Come,” he called to the men waiting in the trees. The soldiers emerged, wary of him but eager for a fight. The Dragon’s Son found her memories in his and studied them. “The Turks grow lazy and careless. They need a reminder about Wallachian nights. I will deal with the sentries closest to us now, then pay a visit to their commander.” He smiled.
“Yes, my lord!” Petru gave orders. Vlad drew the monster to the surface, faced the enemy army, and changed. The demon howled with delight, full fed and eager for war.
Two nights later, after Father Johann finished saying the evening prayers in the small village church, Prince Vlad approached the altar. The priest turned and gasped, then grabbed the crucifix off the altar and held it out. “Be gone in the name of the Lord!”
Vlad crossed himself and kissed the base of the proffered crucifix. “Blessed be the name of the Lord our God,” he replied. He straightened. “Why did you deny Ekaterina Ceaucescu burial in holy ground?” He did not snarl. Yet.
The priests pale eyes went wide and he backed away, still clutching the cross. “Be- because she died unshriven, died of self-murder, an unrepentant sinner.” The man gulped, then blurted, “Like you.”
Vlad removed the cross from the man’s hand before he dropped it and did insult to the image of Christ. Then he lifted the cowering figure by his shoulders, claws sunk into wool and unwashed flesh. “I see. And you denied her absolution when she sought it, before carrying out my orders. She died so that others, including you, might live.” He set the man down as the priest soiled himself. “Perhaps your understanding of God’s will is different from mine.”
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” Fr. Johann squeaked. “Even you can quote scripture, father of Lies! I banish thee in the name of God.”
Vlad lifted his lips in a sneer, baring his teeth as he did. The priest scrambled back toward the sacristy door, face white with terror. “I was banished a century and more ago, Father. Perhaps.” He backed away from the altar, genuflected and crossed himself once more, then departed.
Petru and two others waited outside, with the horses. Vlad mounted with easy grace. The stallion sidled, but settled quickly. His current form did not disturb horses, only men. “Fr. Johann refuses to change his mind. We will continue as planned. Have the Turks moved?” He nudged the stallion into a quick walk.
Petru nodded and caught up, riding at his left hand. “Yes, my lord. They broke camp just after dawn today and flee to the south and east. It seems they fear another night of pestilence.” He grinned and patted the Turkish dagger now gracing his belt. “The climate of Wallachia does not agree with them, especially the night air.”
Vlad grinned in turn. “Good.” The grin faded as they rode back to his castle. Ekaterina would lie beside Maria, his wife, and his sons. Father Radu had been far more understanding than the young village priest was. Perhaps, God willing, one day the Turks and Magyars would leave his lands and he could join them in death.
(C) 2022 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved