Child of the Night

 

Author: NA27

Fandom: Dracula

Pairing(s): Dracula/Nicole

Warnings: NC-17, death of major character, some brutal scenes, abuse, incest, consent issues

Spoilers: Err...Slash retelling of Dracula

Summary: In fifteenth century Transylvania (Wallachia), Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea rules with a bloody, iron fist. His method of dealing with enemies, both personal and political, has earned him the name of The Impaler. Though he has bedded many, Draculea's heart has never been touched, until he seeks a bride.

 

He chooses a young noblewoman, but it is not she who captures his heart. Instead, he falls in love with her bastard half-brother, Nicolae. After winning the boy over, he is happy, for a time. Then tragedy strikes. Draculea willingly takes on the curse of vampirism to await the rebirth of his lover.

 

Centuries later, Draculea meets Jonathan Harker, a naive young Englishman who bears a striking resemblance to his lost love. Convinced that he is his beloved Nicu's reincarnation, Draculea sets out to take him, no matter what... or who stands in his way...

 

Nominated Category:

Best Romance: Books - Multi

&

Best First time: Books - Slash (for ch22)

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Chapter 27: Mourning Chapter 28: Balances Chapter 29: Frustration Chapter 30: Confrontation Chapter 31: Poison, and Passing Time Chapter 32: Reunion Chapter 33: Preparations Chapter 34: Forbidden Fruit Chapter 35: Bad Judgement Chapter 36: Calamity Chapter 37: Forboding Chapter 38: Tragedy Chapter 40: Re-awakening Chapter 40: Revenge Begins Chapter 41: Torture Chapter 42: Looking Forward Chapter 43: Routine Chapter 44: Horizons Chapter 45: Trysting Chapter 46: Meeting Chapter 47: Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought Chapter 48: Connecting

Chapter 27: Mourning

Child of the Night, Part Twenty-seven

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Castle Dracula, Wallachia

Mourning

 

Draculea saw that the body was placed in the room, then ordered that it be washed and prepared as well as was possible. The servants were already arguing over who would have the distasteful task when he left. It was not so much the fact of death that bothered them. No, in this age death was nothing rare. It was simply that after its time in the open, Ernestu's body was particularly offensive. Finally, two of the lowest scullies were assigned to do the actual work, while a more senior servant supervised.

 

The two women assigned to preparing the body protested bitterly that it was unseemly for them to handle a man, even when he was dead. The senior footman supervising them told them tartly that it was hardly an issue, since some scavenger had made off with the unfortunate man's sex long before his body was found.

 

The wastes Ernestu had evacuated added their pungency to the ripe smell of flesh that was beginning to rot. The cleaning had to be done with cold water, lest they contribute to the destruction of the tissues with the heat. The two cleaners could not scrub for the same reason. The skin would slough away if they were too rough, though that might have been a good thing. The flies had found him quickly, and the maggots were beginning to make their appearance. The tiny, wriggling blobs would have to be removed.

 

The women worked as quickly as they could while still doing a thorough job. More than once one of them had to leave the room for a moment. It was close in the little room, and the stench was almost overwhelming. The footman had a handkerchief steeped in vinegar and herbs which he held to his nose to make it more bearable.

 

Once the initial bathing was done the body was drenched with the strongest brandy the castle had. The footman had been dubious about this, but Simion himself had brought the bottles. When his subordinate had looked at him questioningly, the older man had shrugged. "It is his bride's father, after all. It would be good if the lady could sit with him without fainting."

 

Most of the maggots writhed to the surface at the burn of the alcohol, and were easily wiped away. The women removed the rest with tiny picks, muttering to themselves. It would have been easier to shave the corpse's head, but what little humanity remained had to be kept, so they washed his gore-clotted hair, combing gently with the finest toothed comb they had to remove the insects and larvae that had nested there. When they were done at last, Ernestu was, perhaps, cleaner than he had ever been in life.

 

Spices were sprinkled liberally on his naked, ravaged body. When the women finally refused to do it, the footman himself stuffed the mouth and anus with herbs and spice to control the worst of the smell. While the cleaning was taking place one of the finest sheets had been carefully torn into strips. The footman bound the naked body, carefully cinching the legs together at ankles, knees, and thighs. Then he crossed the arms on the chest. The women were forced to handle the body once again, holding it up so that the footman could wind the strips that would bind the arms securely in place.

 

Finally satisfied that the limbs would stay properly in place, he sprinkled the body with more herbs and wrapped it in a fine linen sheet, then wrapped another sheet around that. The castle seamstresses were summoned, and the shroud was neatly stitched closed. Laid out carefully on a plain wooden plank, the body was now ready to lie in state for as long as the prince deemed proper. Privately the servants all hoped that the late noble would be given only the bare minimum of time required by tradition before being interred.

 

The footman notified Simion when the task was finished, and Simion went in search of Draculea. The prince was in his study, at his desk. As Simion watched, Draculea finished scratching a few words on a parchment, then sprinkled sand over the document to help set and dry the ink. Finally he sat back with a sigh, indicating a small pile of folded papers. "I don't know how Nicolae can do it for hours at a time. But then, I suppose he has more interesting subject matter."

 

Simion eyed the papers. "Notices, my lord?"

 

Draculea nodded, ticking off on his fingers. "Both of his sons, his other daughter, his lawyer, the head steward at his castle, and the archbishop." He sighed. "I've probably forgotten someone, but I do not care to worry about it now. Has it been tended to?"

 

"Aye, as well as could be. I would suggest expediency in its disposition, though, my lord." He wrinkled his nose. "It is not pleasant."

 

"Well, I'll have to let it lie in state here a day or two before I send it back to his own castle to await his eldest son's pleasure. I'm sure the heir will be eager to take control of the castle and lands. I only hope he's sensible enough to abide by the agreement we drew up. I'd hate to have to begin my marriage by killing not only my bride's father, but also her brother."

 

Draculea shook off the sand, examining the paper. "Bah, it's good enough. If it smears, let them think it was from tears of grief." He folded the paper, then drew from his pocket a flat, oval stone, half the size of his thumb. There was a dragon embossed on the flat surface, and the letter D. Draculea took a red candle from its holder and tipped it over the paper. Several fat drops of was fell across the seam. When there was a thick puddle, Draculea turned the candle upright, replacing it. He waited until the molten wax had begun to congeal, then pressed the stone firmly to it. When he lifted the stone, the wax bore the imprint of the carving. Draculea tested the wax to see that the seal was firm, and nodded his satisfaction, repeating the process with the next message.

 

Soon he had the small pile finished. He handed them to Simion. "Separate riders. I'd just as soon we had this over with as swiftly as possible. I suppose Nicolae is in the chapel?"

 

Simion bent his head in assent. "Since the body arrived."

 

"Of course." Draculea stood up. "I think I can bring him away. If I do not make him rest he will try to rescue the bastard from purgatory through his prayers alone. Varga has already done Nicu enough harm, and I will not have him making the boy sick again."

 

Draculea went to the chapel. As he expected, Mircea was at the altar just finishing a mass, while Nicolae knelt before the icon of The Virgin, quietly telling his beads. He was a little surprised that Beta was not in evidence, and that several of the castle servants were praying quietly in the back pews.

 

He waited till one of them, a kitchen maid, finished, then tapped her shoulder. The girl blanched at finding herself the center of Draculea's attention. "Girl, what are you doing here?"

 

"Maria Ta, I meant no harm! I only pray for the soul of the Domn who was killed."

 

"Yes, I see that, and do not fear, girl. You are not in trouble. I am not angry, only curious. This man could mean nothing to you. Why do you pray for him?"

 

"Yes, Domn, I did not know him. I only saw him when I served at table during your wedding feast." She frowned. "He pinched my bottom."

 

Draculea repressed a smile. "Then why this solicitude for his eternal soul?"

 

She hesitated, her eyes going to the front of the chapel where Nicolae knelt, whispering, beads slipping between his fingers. "The young librarian seems sad. I thought..." She gestured to the other servants. "we thought it might make him feel better if he were not alone in his prayers. We do not neglect our duties," she said anxiously.

 

Draculea patted her arm approvingly. "Do not worry, child. I am pleased that you have been so thoughtful of his feelings. But he should not have been here alone in any case. Where is the princess?"

 

The little maid blushed. "The princess left a while ago, after the first mass. She said that she was too delicate to face the strain." The maid peeked up at Draculea speculatively. Her next sentence took on a rising tone, making it a question. "She hinted that she was already with child, and that the babe could be marked by such emotional distress?"

 

Draculea bit his lip. Why, the callous, self-serving little minx! Well, Ernestu, there is the loyalty of the child you favored. Compare it to the one you beat and would have raped. Who prays for your foul rag of a soul now? Aloud he said, "Possible, I suppose, but hardly likely. Are you finished?"

 

She curtsied. "Yes, Maria Ta. The noon meal must be prepared, and today we bake bread. Then we must see to the pickling of that swine that was slaughtered this morning..."

 

"Go, then." Draculea watched her bustle out, followed by the other kitchen servants. Their duty done to the dead, they were ready to turn their energy back to supplying the needs of the living. He nodded to himself. Yes, it looked as if Nicolae was winning friends among the staff. Very good, since it seemed that Beta had become too fine to spend time with her family now, even to the point of slighting the memory of her father.

 

Draculea walked to the front of the church. Mircea finished the mass and came down to speak to him. "Prince Draculea. Has Varga been prepared?"

 

"To the best of our ability, though there was little that could be done. He should be... tolerable for a day or two. I fear we cannot allow him to lie in state for long without endangering the health of all who come near."

 

"I know. I told the boy that. He understands."

 

"And the girl?"

 

Draculea noticed the brief grimace of disapproval before the priest could control his face. "I do not think Beta will argue too much. If his son wishes to observe the formalities he can do so at Castle Varga."

 

Draculea looked at Nicolae and said quietly, "Has he been on his knees all this time?"

 

Mircea looked at the boy also, and his voice was just as quiet. "Yes. This is nothing, my lord. I have seen the boy kneel and pray for hours on end. Bless him, when Varga forced him to return from the abbey he spent two full nights praying to be allowed to return. I forced him to rest after he fainted the second time. I have already urged him once to take a rest, but he would not. For such a sweet boy," he said wryly, "he can be very stubborn in some things."

 

"I will have to try my hand at persuasion, then." Mircea watched as Draculea went to Nicolae and sank to his knees beside the boy. He folded his hands and began to whisper the Ave's with Nicolae. The boy looked over at him, smiling a greeting, but continued his prayers. When he came to the end of the rosary and began to turn it to start again, Draculea reached over and took his wrist, stopping him. "Nicolae, how many rosaries have you said for Varga so far?"

 

The boy frowned. "I... am not sure, Domn."

 

"However many, it is enough for now."

 

"But, my prince..."

 

"Nicolae, will Varga be released from Purgatory in your lifetime?"

 

Nicolae did not hesitate. "No, Domn. None are innocent enough to escape so quickly."

 

Especially not that bastard. "Will he be released in a hundred lifetimes, no matter how many masses or rosaries are said?"

 

Nicolae thought. "I am afraid not, Domn. He was not... He died unshriven."

 

An excuse, Nicolae. He would have gone to hell had the pope himself been there to absolve him. "So you see, Nicolae, you can send up countless prayers, and it will not lessen his time by any measure. There is no rush. You are weary, my love." He saw the boy glance quickly at the statue before them, guilt in is eyes. No, Nicolae. I will not have that. I will not have you shamed by our love. He touched his cheek, drawing his eyes back to meet his own gaze, and he put every scrap of love and warmth he felt into that look.

 

As he knew he would, Nicolae melted. He touches slim fingers to Draculea's hand where he holds his wrist. "One more... Vlad." Again he felt an almost dizzy elation when Nicolae spoke his name, knowing that he was the only one who had ever heard that tenderness in his voice.

 

Draculea kissed his hand, then released him and sat back on his heels as Nicolae once again murmured the ancient chant. When he was done Draculea helped him to his feet. Nicolae swayed slightly and Draculea, slipping an arm around him, helped him from the room.

 

As they went to their room Draculea said, "If you must continue your prayers for him later you will do so in the comfort of our room, on soft pillows."

 

"But Domn..."

 

"No, Nicolae. Do the priests not tell us that God hears our prayers no matter where we are? Your voice will be no clearer on the cold stone floor." He pushed Nicolae down into a cushioned chair and bent over him. "Listen to me, little one. Those who mortify their flesh thinking to please God are fools. He cannot truly want His followers to injure themselves in vain attempts to catch His attention. It is a childish way to show devotion. Rather they should live to do his bidding, and keep themselves strong to serve His will. It will do Varga no good if you make yourself ill, and it will hurt me. Do you understand?"

 

"Yes." His arms went around Draculea's neck. "I would not hurt you, Vlad. Not for anything."

 

"I know." He kissed Nicolae's forehead. "Tell me, pet. How is Beta?"

 

The boy looked down, and said hesitantly, "She is distraught, Maria Ta. I... suggested that she go to her room."

 

Draculea studied Nicolae's face. The boy could not meet his eyes. He sighed. "The only lie you've ever told me," Nicolae's eyes flashed up to him, stricken, and he continued gently, "and it is in defense of another. I cannot fault you, Nicu. I spoke with one of the servants."

 

"But Maria Ta, if Beta is indeed with child she must not subject herself to anything harsh or distressing."

 

"Child, I lay with her once, and that so lately. While it is true that she might have taken, it is not likely. Time will tell, but I suspect it was a convenient excuse to escape something she found tiresome."

 

The boy seemed to droop. Draculea bit his lip, and decided that it would do no good to try to make Nicolae face Elizabeta's shortcomings. He did not want to believe. Only time and further examples would convince him. Till he grew wise Draculea could only watch, and try to guard his heart as best he could. "Perhaps I am wrong. She has been through a painful ordeal."

 

"Yes, Maria Ta," Nicolae agreed, eager to find some reason that would absolve his beloved sister of the indifference he had suspected. "To lose a father is a terrible thing."

 

Draculea pulled the boy up, then sat in his place and drew him down to sit on his lap. "And you, Nicolae?" Nicolae gave him a puzzled look. "You have lost your father, also."

 

There was a flicker in his eyes, almost of surprise, as if this had just occurred to him. "It is different for me, Domn. He was never really my father. I grieve for him as one Christian grieves for another who has met his end outside the grace of God."

 

Draculea sighed, hugging him. "Good. I was worried, Nicu." He pressed his face against the boy's chest, letting himself drink in the warmth and scent. Nicolae smelled of soap, ink, and beeswax from the candles he had lighted for Ernestu's soul.

 

They sat like that for a time, then Draculea urged him up, standing himself. "I will go speak to Beta. I must extend my condolences and tell her of the arrangements that have been made. If she wishes, she can accompany her father back to Castle Varga for his burial. Why don't you take a nap, Nicu?" He led his young lover to the bed and pushed him down on it gently, tucking a pillow under his head. "Rest. If you must, you may have Mircea say another mass this evening."

 

"Thank you, Maria Ta." As Draculea walked toward the door that led to Beta's room Nicolae called softly, "Vlad?"

 

Draculea turned back. "Yes?"

 

Nicolae's eyes were moist, his expression wistful. "Do you think he loves me now? Now that he is beyond earthly concerns?"

 

Draculea did not think it was possible, but he found another reason to hate Ernestu Varga.

 

Elizabeta sat on a low stool before the mirror that hung on the wall. Lena stood behind her, slowly drawing a tortoiseshell comb through her hair. Beta cocked her head, studying her reflection. "This is one thing I like about Castle Draculea. My other mirrors have been so small that I could scarce judge my own appearance."

 

"Yes, pet, it is quite an extravagance. I believe it belonged to the prince's mother. When I saw it on our tour I knew that you must have it." She frowned. "The servants were remarkably stubborn about bringing it. I had to slap one of them before they obeyed properly. I told them that the prince had given approval for any changes you wanted to make, but they wished to consult Simion in any case."

 

The door to the private hall was off to the side, and the two women were so absorbed in each other that neither heard the light scrape of it opening. Draculea watched them for a moment, noting the intimacy with which Lena touched his young bride, and the familiar way the girl leaned back against the older woman.

 

Ah. he thought. I believe that I begin to understand. His lips curved in a smile that was cold, and more than a little cruel. You have thrown your lot in with the wrong one, Lena. You will never rule through her. He quietly stepped back through the door, shutting it, then deliberately let his boot scrape against the floor.

 

There was quick rustling and whispering on the other side of the door. He counted to three, then opened the door. Lena was nowhere to be seen, and Beta was stretched on her bed, holding a dainty handkerchief to her eyes, shoulders shaking prettily. Somehow I think I would find that pretty scrap of silk quite dry, he thought cynically.

 

He went and sat beside the girl, and made his tone solicitous. "Beta, your maid is not with you? You should not be alone now, lest your grief overwhelm you."

 

"I think she has gone to... to seek something to soothe my nerves."

 

Draculea gestured to the carafe and goblet on the table. "The wine would not suit?"

 

Beta was still a moment, cloth covering her eyes, and Draculea smirked inwardly, imagining how her mind raced for a suitable reply. At last she said, "She said something about brandy. I have not tasted strong spirits often, but if she thinks it best..."

 

"You will of course do as she wishes," he finished for her. "Your father's body has been prepared as best as can be. I'm sorry, Beta, but I cannot allow him to lie in state here more than a day. He must be sent back to his home, and your eldest brother can take care of further arrangements there. He will return to the castle to claim his inheritance, no doubt."

 

"Yes, though it may take him some time to make the arrangements."

 

"In that case, do you wish to accompany him home? There should be someone of his blood to sit vigil with him until his burial, for form's sake."

 

She sat up quickly, dropping the handkerchief as she exclaimed, "Oh, no!" Draculea's eyebrows rose, and she hastily amended, "I could not leave you so soon, and I know you cannot leave your duties here." She thought, and her face lighted. "We can send Nicolae!" The sudden coldness of Draculea's expression startled her. "Husband?"

 

Draculea stood up and walked away to stand before the mirror. He studied himself as he said, "Nicolae stays here. Varga did not claim him in life, and the boy owes him no allegiance after death." He looked at her through her reflection. "Go or stay, as you please, but Nicolae remains." Turning his eyes back to his own image he said, "I see you have appropriated my mother's mirror."

 

"I... yes. I thought..."

 

"It's quite all right. Get what pleasure from it you may." He turned his back on it and walked to the private hall's door. "I dislike mirrors. They are cold things, and they lie."

 

Beta was puzzled. "My lord, they give the truest image of man."

 

"No, Beta. They give the truest image of our mortal clay, but do not hint at what lies inside. Now, if ever a glass is made that will reflect a man's soul, that will be a true marvel. But sadly I think that what lurks inside most men..." he paused and glanced toward the door that led to Beta's dressing chamber, where Lena no doubt waited, and listened. "or, indeed, women would shatter them."

 

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Chapter 28: Balances

Child of the Night, Part Twenty-eight

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Castle Dracula, Wallachia

Balances

 

Ernestu's body was placed on a bier before the alter in the chapel the next morning. Father Mircea spoke to Draculea as the bundle was settled in place. "My lord, generally I am not an extravagant man, and I know that incense is expensive, but..."

 

"Burn all you need, priest, and I will have more brought from the village." He wrinkled his nose distastefully. "Use a year's supply, if you must. Use two years' worth. I know that Nicolae will insist on being here much of the day to offer up prayers, and I do not want the boy fainting from the stench."

 

Mircea spoke carefully, "Domn, I know that you harbored no love for the man. I want to thank you for allowing the boy this time, for not trying to restrain his devotions. It will make this passage much easier for him."

 

"There is no need to thank me, priest. I want nothing but what will be good for Nicolae, emotionally as well as physically. I have not known him as long as you, but I feel I know him well. As foul as Varga was, Nicu would grieve if he could not feel he was doing something to ease the dog's way in the afterlife."

 

"Yes." Mircea studied Draculea. "Sir, we have not spoken before, but I have had words with your man, Simion."

 

"Yes?" He watched the priest closely. The man could make things difficult, if he chose. Nicolae's devotion to the Church would leave him vulnerable to the priest's influence.

 

"I want to thank you for what you are doing for the boy."

 

Draculea was surprised. He knew that many holy men were so immersed in contemplation of the next world that they were scarcely aware of what went on in this one, but Mircea did not strike him as that sort. He wondered if Mircea were aware of the true nature of his relationship with Nicolae, or if he saw him only as a generous and kind patron. His doubts were resolved when the priest said, in a low voice, "My prince, you do know how much this means to Nicolae? While most boys pass through different loves in their youth, I fear that Nicolae's first love will be his last."

 

Draculea looked toward the front of the church. Nicolae knelt before the bier, head bowed over his folded hands, lips moving silently. He said slowly, "It is possible for a man to live many years and be with many people without ever truly loving, Father." He looked back at Mircea. "Nicolae is not the only one who's first love will be his last."

 

Nicolae spent the entire day in the chapel. In deference to his lover's wishes, he did not spend it entirely on his knees, as he would have otherwise. Instead he sat in the front pew, telling his beads, occasionally rising to light another candle. Beta dropped in briefly, joining him in a few prayers, then left to consult with a merchant. She explained to her brother that the man was not in the area for long, and she really had to choose the material for the new draperies now, else she would have to wait near half a year for his next trip.

 

Nicolae did not protest, but watched her sweep down the aisle to meet Lena at the entrance. The older woman gave him a hard look as she put her hand on Beta's shoulder and steered her out. Nicolae was puzzled by Abul's attitude. To the best of his knowledge he had never done anything offensive to her, but she obviously disliked him.

 

He sighed, turning back to his meditation. It had been so with all the servants at Varga's castle. They all took their cue from their master, and it was well known that Varga held no love for him. Still, he rather hoped that here it might have been different. The cook was friendly enough, and the other maids, though too giggly to make much sense, did not seem as distant as they had. Ah, well. Draculea's people have been kind, and I cannot find favor with all of God's children.

 

Simion managed to scold Nicolae out of the chapel long enough for him to have lunch, but couldn't persuade him to rest in his room afterward. Nicolae was sweet and apologetic, but so stubborn that Simion had to hide his smile. He might not think of himself, but when it came to his sense of what was best for others the boy had a steely core.

 

That evening, when Nicolae did not appear for dinner, Draculea went directly to the chapel. He found Nicolae on his knees again. "Boy, enough. Come away."

 

Nicolae glanced at him, then looked away. "Soon."

 

"Now."

 

"Domn, I have agreed not to spend the night here, as would be strictly proper..."

 

"As would be foolish. You know very well that Mircea will be here. Nicolae, Varga's soul has fled to whatever fate is prepared for it and I promise you that there is no danger of his body being stolen. Come away."

 

"Just a few more rosaries."

 

Draculea grunted. "Your first defiance is like your first lie: done for another's sake." Nicolae's shoulders stiffened, but he continued his prayers. Draculea sighed. "If this is how it must be..."

 

Nicolae's voice faltered as Draculea squatted in front of him. The prince wrapped his arms around Nicolae's legs, put his shoulder to the boy's belly, and stood. Nicolae gasped as he was lifted over Draculea's shoulder. He clutched at his lover's broad back, the rosary falling from his hand.

 

Mircea came and retrieved the beads, handing them to the boy. "Goodnight, Nicolae."

 

Draculea began to carry him to the door, and Nicolae called out, "Father! Speak to him!"

 

"Goodnight, Prince. See that he sleeps well."

 

Nicolae protested as vehemently as ever he had as Draculea carried him through the great hall. He stopped, going still and silent when they passed a curious servant girl. He let his head droop, his hair falling to conceal his face, and the blush rising in his cheeks, as Draculea carried him up the stairs. But once they were out of sight, in the hallway, he kicked strongly. "Let me go!"

 

"As you said, Nicolae: soon."

 

Nicolae was squirming so hard that Draculea did not dare loosen his grip when he reached his room. A brisk kick on the door brought Simion to open it. Simion watched, near astonished, as his master carried the wriggling librarian into the room and over to the bed, tossing him sprawling. The boy's face was red with embarrassed anger. Simion was glad to see that the boy had a little spirit in him.

 

The boy started to spring up off the bed, but Draculea pushed him back down, "Stay there and calm yourself."

 

"You treat me like a child!"

 

"When you act like one, yes, I do! I will not have you endangering your own health, Nicolae."

 

Nicolae was breathing heavily. Simion watched with interest. He had never imagined the boy angry, but it seemed that there was about to be a temper demonstration.

 

He was correct. Both of the other men were astonished when Nicolae snatched up a pillow and threw it at Draculea. The prince made no move to ward it off, and it thumped softly against his chest, dropping to the floor. Vlad stared down at the pillow, then looked back at the boy sitting on the bed. "Well," he said mildly. "I suppose I should be grateful there was nothing heavy easily to hand." Again Nicolae tried to get up, and again Draculea pushed him back down with a firm shove to his chest. "Nicolae, why do you defy me?"

 

Nicolae was flushed, agitated color rising in his cheeks. His voice was hot, even though it trembled a little. "Am I your whore that you must direct my every move?"

 

Draculea flinched. "Is that what you think?"

 

With a scowl the boy threw himself on his belly, burying his face in the remaining pillow. "What else can I think?"

 

Draculea moved to sit beside him. "That I care about you. Nicolae, you were weaving."

 

The boy peeked over his arm at the prince. "I only wanted a few more minutes. I would have finished the rosary, then come with you with a willing heart. You gave me no choice."

 

Draculea frowned, but he was feeling something alien: he was feeling ashamed. "You must understand, Nicolae. I am not accustomed to defiance. My reaction was instinctual."

 

Nicolae sat back up. His expression was no longer angry, but it was still stern. "That is a reason, Vlad, not an excuse. As to your instincts... The Good Lord has given all men free will. Yes, our instincts run strong, but they need not control us. It is what sets us apart from the beasts."

 

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Perhaps I have not made it clear how important my devotions are to me." He was silent for a moment, thinking. Finally he said, "For so much of my life, all I had was the Church. It gave me a place where I was accepted, if not loved. It was the one strong part of my life that I could always count on. It supported me in my past and led into my future, offering a clear, safe path. I was dragged from that path when Varga ordered me away from the abbey, and I have floundered since then, praying only that I might return to that which I knew."

 

Vlad remembered that Nicolae had been trying to reach the abbey when he ran away. He felt a sickening stab of fear that even after what they had made together, he might regret having been brought back to Castle Draculea. "And now?"

 

The boy's lips twitched in a brief, but heartfelt, smile. "Now I am grateful that those prayers were answered 'no'. This is where I belong, with you." Relieved, Draculea leaned toward him for a kiss. "But..." Nicolae held him away, but gently. "Vlad, you have to understand how important this is to me. I need it." He stroked Draculea's arm. "I love you, but it is a dangerous thing to make one person your entire life. That is why I do not feel jealousy for what you have with Beta."

 

"There is no reason for you to be jealous, Nicu. The union is a brittle, shallow thing."

 

"It will not always be so. When you have a child, you will not be able to help loving its mother, and that is as it should be."

 

Draculea held his tongue. God, Nicolae, and you think yourself aware of the world? I could point to so many examples that would prove your fond beliefs false, beginning with both of our fathers. He said nothing, though. He was secretly pleased that Nicolae had the belly to stand up to him, but he felt he could not condone rebellion.

 

Nicolae was continuing. "Domn, I will have passed my nineteenth year soon. There are men of my age who already have a family to care for, and it is past time for me to act like a man. You must trust me to find my own limits. You cannot guard me so closely that I never dash my foot against a stone."

 

But that was exactly what Draculea wanted. The thought of Nicolae suffering any distress, physical or emotional, was like acid to his soul. Still, he knew that if he stifled the boy, restricting him and dictating his every move, it would kill a part of him.

 

He sighed. "It is not easy, Nicolae. My family has protected Wallachia for generations. Protectiveness has been bred into my bones."

 

Nicolae leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. "You must learn to trust me with my own life, and, after all these years of having my every moment directed by either Church or patron, I must learn to make my own decisions, and live with them." He thought for a moment, then said, "I wish to hear one final mass today. Father Mircea will not deny this." Draculea nodded reluctantly. "You, my prince, you should go to your bride."

 

He scowled. "She has as little desire to see me as I have to see her."

 

"Not so. Even one such as I could tell yesterday that she wished to coax you to her bed."

 

To his utter amazement Draculea felt a faint flush rising in his cheeks, though if it was from embarrassment or irritation he could not tell. "She wants a child."

 

Nicolae nodded. "As do you, also. And the people of Wallachia yearn for an heir to assure the bloodline. The quicker one is provided, the quicker certain tensions will ease." When he saw Draculea's look, he added, "No, I do not believe, as many do, that having a child will solve all problems within a union. Indeed, sometimes new problems arise. But it will at least ease some of the strain between you and Beta." He smiled sunnily. "And I like babies. I would like to be an uncle."

 

Nicolae made his way back down to the chapel and asked a surprised Mircea to perform one last mass for Ernestu's soul. During the ceremony the priest found himself casting glances at the entrance, wondering if Draculea would burst into the room to once again drag Nicolae away, but it never happened. The ritual was finished in peace. Instead of kneeling again to pray, Nicolae thanked him, crossed himself before the crucifix and the statue of the Virgin, and went back upstairs.

 

It would seem that they are reaching a compromise, the priest thought as he put away his surplice. He hoped that this was going to work out well. There was not doubt of where the Church stood officially on such pairings. How they were openly treated, though, was another matter. Much depended on the position of the men involved, their usefulness to the Church, and their discretion. Draculea was a powerful man, and he had done great services to the Church, and would probably do more in the future.

 

Mircea wasn't exactly sure what he would do when Nicolae came to him for confession. He couldn't in good conscience just ignore what the Church considered to be a major sin, but he couldn't find it in his heart to completely condemn the relationship, either. Draculea was the only person Mircea knew of who had ever shown a genuine, personal care for the boy.

 

And Mircea himself? He was fond of the boy, surely. Nicolae was one of the sweetest souls he'd ever known, but the boy was so needy. The priest had seen early on that when Nicolae loved, he would love with his whole being. As a priest, Mircea felt he could not allow that love to fix on him. His first dedication must be to God always, and Nicolae deserved someone who would put him first. If fate was merciful, he had found that someone.

 

Back in the bedroom Nicolae found his lover relaxing before the fire with a glass of wine. Nicolae carefully put away his rosary and went to put his arms around Draculea's neck.

 

When he felt the soft lips press to his temple, Draculea grunted. "Have you sent his soul to Paradise, Nicu?" He closed his eyes briefly, regretting his remark.

 

But Nicolae only said, "No one can do that, my lord, but everyone should have at least one soul on earth to plead their case with sincerity instead of duty."

 

"You know I do not believe he deserves your intervention?"

 

"I know. Perhaps he doesn't. But if I do not pray for a lost soul, how can I ask for prayers when I also pass from this world?"

 

Draculea returned Nicolae's embrace. "Would you pray for me, Nicu? If I die, will you send your supplications to heaven on my behalf? If any could persuade St. Peter to open the gates for an imperfect one such as myself, it would be you."

 

Nicolae went very still. "I wish you would not speak of such things, Domn. They make me sad."

 

"I will not in the future, sweetheart. But answer me this one time. If I died, would you pray for me?"

 

Nicolae pulled back. He smiled, but his soft eyes were infinitely sad, and Draculea wished he had left the question unspoken. "Yes, Vlad. I would pray for you." He looked into the fire, the smile fading. "For whatever time I had left on this earth, I would pray for you."

 

---

Chapter 29: Frustration

Child of the Night, Part Twenty-nine

The Year of Our Lord, 1461

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Frustration

 

"Lena, I need the cloths."

 

Lena Abul, seated at her needlework in her mistress's bedchamber looked up and sighed heavily. "Oh, Beta, not again."

 

"Yes, Lena, again, as it has been every month. I am as regular as the phases of the moon. My courses have come again, and do not begin chiding me. I cannot help it if I have not gotten with child." She was pouting. "It isn't as if I am trying to prevent it."

 

"But it isn't enough, Beta. You must try."

 

"And how, pray tell, may I do that, Lena?" Beta snapped. "I open my legs every time he comes to my room. I do not wash for a full day after he has me. I lie in bed so that none of his seed may be lost." She threw up her hands. "God forbid that a future prince should run down my leg."

 

"Beta! That is unpardonably coarse. No wonder you have not conceived."

 

Elizabeta laughed shortly. "You believe that coarseness makes one barren? Then explain the fecundity of the peasants, Lena. Now, will you get me the cloths, or will you have our nice, new rug ruined?"

 

Lena sighed and set aside the delicate shift she had been embroidering aside, then went to a cupboard for the supply of linen cloths that were kept to staunch the flow of Beta's monthly issue of blood. "I thought to have done away with this chore many months ago. It has been a year since your marriage, Beta. You should even now be nursing your first born."

 

"I swear before God, Lena, you are worse than Stefan. Thank the lord that Draculea has not chosen to make an issue of this yet, but his advisor is more than making up for his lack of attention. You would think that the man expects me to produce either his own grandchild, or the messiah."

 

"He wishes to see the bloodline assured. He only speaks aloud what most of the prince's subjects think."

 

"I'm trying, Lena!"

 

"I'm not sure you realize how important this is, pet. You..."

 

"Saints preserve me! Yes, Lena, I know! You have told me often enough."

 

Lena continued to speak grimly as she pinned a cloth to the inside of a pair of drawers. "You have to conceive. If you prove barren he can find a way to annul the marriage and remarry."

 

"But the Church would not allow it."

 

Lena snorted, helping Beta into the drawers. "He is a prince, Beta. Surely you are not naive enough to believe that the Church would not find a way to please such a valuable servant? You must try harder, child."

 

"Lena, he comes to me at least twice a week, and I can scarcely bear that."

 

Lena gripped her chin hard. "You can bear much more for your position. He simply must come to your bed more often."

 

Beta pulled out of her grip, grumbling, "I do not think it is possible. The man is cold. I sometimes think he finds as little joy in the act of sex as I do." Beta looked at Lena in astonishment as the woman started to laugh. "What is so amusing, Lena?"

 

"Draculea? While he can be cold in his dealings with those he dislikes... physically cold?" It was rather disconcerting to see the usually sour tempered woman tittering like a girl.

 

"But it's true. Lena, you know how little he cares for my embraces, and to the best of my knowledge he has no bastards among the peasants. He doesn't even have a mistress..." Beta stepped back in astonishment as Lena half collapsed on the bed, shaking with laughter. She realized that there was a bitterness in that laughter that was, at least partially, directed at her.

 

Finally Lena got control of herself, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "God, child, how you can be so blind I will never know, but I suppose I should have expected it. You can't see past your own nose. If it doesn't affect you in the most direct, physical manner, you ignore it." She cleared her throat and sat up straighter, fixing Beta with a look that was amused, and a little cruel. "Has it occurred to you that perhaps the prince might keep someone other than a mistress?"

 

Elizabeta paced the floor in confusion. "I suppose that he might simply visit a whore in the village now and then instead of keeping a mistress, though I had thought him more refined in his tastes than that." Lena was shaking her head. "No? But what else is there?"

 

Lena rolled her eyes. "Beta, stop for a minute and consider yourself and me." She watched as Beta chewed this over, and the idea slowly dawned on her.

 

"Lena, no! You... you don't mean that Draculea is... is..."

 

Lena laughed again. "Oh, so shocked! Yes, he is a sodomite, a lover of his own sex."

 

"But... but..." Beta was stuttering in her confusion. "He beds me."

 

Lena shook her head at the girl's ignorance. "Just because a man prefers meat it does not mean he refuses a bit of fish now and again, Beta." Lena frowned. "It would not be so bad if he merely took his pleasure where he found it. I do not like the fact that he seems to have settled on one lover."

 

"Who? One of his men? There are some handsome nobles who serve under Draculea."

 

Lena snapped, "Girl, does your brain work at all save to plan your next change of gown? Who is the prince's most constant companion? Whom does he coddle? To whom can he refuse nothing? Who looks at him with great, soft eyes whenever he enters a room?"

 

Beta thought hard. At last she said, "It almost sounds like Nicolae." Lena raised an eyebrow. Beta laughed nervously. "Lena, no! Oh, how silly. Nicolae is so... so innocent. So humble, so unworldly. For the Lord's sake, he was almost a monk!"

 

"Has he asked to return to the abbey since he came here? He has changed, Beta. You have been too involved in your own affairs to notice."

 

"But this! Nicolae, a catamite? He spends time with the castle wenches, I know this."

 

"He is teaching them to read, of all the ridiculous notions. He has the idea that they can then teach their children, who will teach their children, and so on. I don't mind telling you, Beta, I do not think it is either proper, or entirely safe. Perhaps you should mention it to the prince."

 

Beta was quiet, contemplating what Lena had told her. Now that she thought about it, Nicolae and her husband WERE unusually close. She hadn't thought much about it, except to be grateful that he had some companion to keep him occupied and free her from the tedious occupation of amusing him. But the idea that Nicolae could ever form a passionate attachment was startling. She was so used to thinking of him as sexless that the revelation that he could desire anyone, much less one of his own sex, was a shock.

 

"I suppose," she said slowly, "That it is almost a good thing. Nicolae is a sweet boy, and he deserves some happiness in his life." She brightened a little. "He IS happy. I remember how he used to creep about the castle, fearful of making the slightest noise lest Father be angered."

 

"Your father was a harsh man, but he kept him in his place. I can understand Draculea using him to warm his bed. He is a comely enough lad, I suppose," she said grudgingly. "But the man caters to his every whim. Nicolae has but to express a wish and it is granted. YOU have to beg for what you want."

 

Beta shrugged. She didn't feel deprived, except when Lena brought such things to her attention. "He is more generous than most husbands."

 

"And so he should be! But everything he gives you is like a sufferance. He gives to his little toy joyfully."

 

Lena studied her charge. The noblewoman had never liked Nicolae, resenting the few crumbs of affection Beta gave the boy. Now she resented the fact that Nicolae was higher in Draculea's regard, in reality if not in show, than his bride. And since Lena estimated her own position in relation to Beta's, that meant that the boy was usurping her rightful place.

 

Nicolae was a thorn lodged firmly in Lena Abul's side. He knew that the woman disliked him, but had no idea of how deep the animosity went. While Beta might wish that the prince spend as little time with her as possible, Lena knew that the safest thing would be for the prince to love her madly. A man in love will go to great lengths to please the one he adores. Beta could be a beguiling little creature, but there was little chance that she could capture the prince's heart while Nicolae was about: Draculea was besotted with the boy.

 

Lena knew better than to try to turn the prince against his lover. Draculea had made it clear that he tolerated Lena only for Beta's sake, and any direct attack on Nicolae, no matter how subtly presented, could be very dangerous. Lena had never been entirely satisfied with the explanations of Ernestu's death, and had resolved to be very cautious in her own dealings with Draculea and Nicolae.

 

Still, if she could turn Beta against the boy, she might eventually be able to insert a wedge between the two, especially if Beta produced the desired heir. So she began. "If the prince spent less time with his bed toy, you might conceive."

 

"I hardly see how."

 

"Really, Beta, such unmanly pursuits can hardly help but weaken his seed. And I know that the librarian has been talking about tutoring your child, once it is born. I hardly think you would want your precious baby under the influence of someone like him."

 

"Oh, Lena, Nicolae is a good boy. He is one of the sweetest, gentlest people I've ever known."

 

"That may be, but he can hardly be considered a good influence, can he?"

 

Beta shrugged. "It hardly matters, at least not now. There is no child, and not likely to be for months yet." Beta adjusted her dress. "I must go and tell Signor Vitelli that I cannot sit for him today, or indeed for the next few days." Signor Vitelli was the Italian painter Draculea had summoned to the castle to paint her portrait. All members of the royal family had to have a portrait. "He will simply have to find something to keep himself occupied."

 

"That will not be a problem." Lena's voice was elaborately casual. "I expect he will use the time to work on Nicolae's portrait."

 

Beta hesitated. "Nicolae's portrait?"

 

"Yes, Beta. Didn't you know? The prince has commissioned a portrait of his librarian."

 

This bothered Beta more than any other issue Lena had raised. Commoners did not have their portraits painted. What use would posterity have for them?

 

She found the prince, Vitelli, and Nicolae in the library. Nicolae sat very still at a table loaded with books and parchments. The artist, a thin, intense man with a neat goatee, was sketching, his eyes flicking back and forth between Nicolae and his work. The prince sat to the side and watched the work, but his attention was mainly fixed upon Nicolae.

 

Nicolae was the only one who noticed her. Again a sweet, pleased smile broke over his face, and she felt vaguely ashamed of herself. She didn't have much time for him, but he was always so happy to see her."Beta!"

 

He jumped up to greet her, and the artist made a distressed noise. "Young master, I had almost finished."

 

"I am sorry, Signor, truly, You are very patient with me, and I promise to be as still as stone when you begin to paint, but a lady has entered the room. I cannot stay seated, can I?"

 

The other two men noticed Beta at last. Draculea's expression was, as usual, unreadable, but the Italian's showed clear reluctance. Still, his tone was civil as he said, "Ah, Princess! You are as lovely as ever. If the light holds today, I think I will make great progress."

 

"The light is immaterial, Signor. I am afraid I cannot sit for you today. I am... indisposed."

 

They all knew what she meant. The two older men merely shrugged, but Nicolae looked crestfallen. I do believe that the boy wants the child as much as Lena and Stefan, and for much more unselfish reasons. Beta thought. Poor Nicolae. If what Lena says is true, it isn't likely that he will ever father children.

 

"Well, if the lady is not inclined to pose today, it will be an excellent chance to begin the young lord's portrait."

 

Beta frowned slightly at the title, and thought of correcting the painter when Nicolae spoke up. "Signor, I am no lord. The prince is kind enough to act as my patron, but I work for my bread." He looked around the library with shining eyes. "This is my work."

 

Pride was not a common emotion for Nicolae, but he WAS proud of the library, and rightfully so. The change had been nothing short of wondrous. Where before it had been a dusty, damp, gloomy cavern, it was now a bright, airy place of comfort. He had persuaded Draculea to have two openings cut in the walls to allow light and air inside, and the prince had without urging installed rich stained glass windows. All the shelves were new, smoothed and stained. There were soft rugs on the stone floor and tapestries on the few sections of the wall that were not covered by books.

 

The books themselves had never been in such good repair or order. As he had promised, Draculea had hired a bookbinder to teach Nicolae the skill, and the boy had spent many hours carefully stitching and gluing. All the books were ranked on the shelves in an array that was not only pleasing, but logical. Nicolae could find any given volume among the many, many hundreds in scant minutes Mircea, who had made a pilgrimage to Rome in his youth, said that, to his mind, only the Vatican had a better maintained library.

 

Yes, the pride was well deserved, but still it bothered Beta. Nicolae was, after all, little better than a peasant, and what right did a peasant have to pride?

 

The artist left to fetch his supplies, and Nicolae turned back to a manuscript he was working on, hoping to finish the page before he had to begin his enforced inactivity. He, himself, thought the idea of a portrait a bit above his station. But Draculea wished it, and there was little he could deny his lover.

 

Beta beckoned her husband aside and said quietly, "Husband, is this wise? While I love Nicolae dearly, he is hardly a fit subject for a master artist."

 

"Oh?" Beta knew immediately that she had made a mistake. The tone of his voice was cold and hard.

 

"It is just that... that it is such an expense. Signor Vitteli commands a great price, does he not?"

 

"You should know. I believe you looked more at the fees of the artists I suggested than the examples of their work that they sent. How is it that you are suddenly concerned about the state of my purse, Beta? It has not troubled you overmuch before. You have always been quick enough to ask that I open it. What makes this any different?"

 

Beta was silent. She couldn't very well speak the truth: that those expenses were for the comfort of herself and Lena, therefor they should take precedence.

 

Finally Draculea said, "I want this. That is the only reason that need concern you."

 

As he began to turn away, Beta blurted, "You are very fond of Nicolae."

 

Draculea stopped, turning to her again. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, but his voice was flat and almost challenging. "Yes, Beta, very fond."

 

"You spend almost all your time with him."

 

"A good bit, yes."

 

"It does not seem right that you should dally so much with a servant, wasting your time, while you have not yet given me a child."

 

Draculea took hold of Beta's arm and steered her quickly to the door, away from Nicolae. Once there he said quietly, "First, you will not call him a servant. Do you understand?" Now there was steel in his voice, and she nodded apprehensively. "Second, as to your barren state, I am trying give you a child. I make a greater effort than could charitably be expected, given your coldness and lack of interest." Beta gasped, but Draculea kept speaking, cutting off whatever she might have said, "And thirdly, I do not believe you would have come up with this unreasonable and selfish idea on your own. You would do better to change your counselors, Beta, before they lead you to mischief."

 

"I only want what is rightfully mine."

 

"You have it already, Beta. You have the title, the position, the admiration of the masses, the luxury. What more you could want, I cannot say."

 

She lifted her chin. "Your love?"

 

Draculea blinked, then smiled slowly. It was not a kind expression. "Good God, girl, you do not want my love. You barely tolerate my touch. You could be happy here if you simply allowed yourself to be. Many husbands and wives make long and peaceful marriages on less than this. No, Beta, you will never have my love. That belongs to another. And you are in danger of losing both my friendship, and my respect. Have a care."

 

With that he turned to help Signor Vitelli, who was struggling through the door, trying to juggle an easel, a canvas, and various brushes and pots of paint.

 

So, it is in the open between us now, she thought. We will continue to play at the charade for the others, but now I know, and I cannot pretend ignorance to him.

 

She watched as the Italian artist fussed over Nicolae trying to get him arranged just so, in a manner that would make a pleasing portrait. Her half-brother saw her look, and smiled again, rolling his eyes expressively. Beta could not help but return the smile. She left the room thinking, I hope I get pregnant soon. Perhaps then I will have some peace. A last glance back into the library showed Nicolae sitting, relaxed and still, as the artist began to sketch on the canvas, Draculea standing close behind to watch the progress. Let it be soon. I do not want to hate you, Nicolae.

 

---

Chapter 30: Confrontation

Child of the Night, Part Thirty

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Castle Dracula, Wallachia

Confrontation

 

There were few things in the world that irritated Lena Abul more than seeing a man obtaining power and influence that she viewed as rightfully her own. With Nicolae Calugarul, the irritation had moved over into cold hatred. Despite her scheming and machinations, Beta had no more real control over the prince's household than she had when she arrived. That meant that Lena had no more control.

 

Oh, if the princess gave a direct order, it would be obeyed. But if it was anything more than the most trivial task or request, the servants would go first to Simion for his approval. It did not escape Lena that Nicolae had only to hint that he wanted something, or desired some task performed, and the peasants practically fell over themselves, scrambling to please him.

 

The prince is not much different, she thought disdainfully, watching the prince stand behind the young man as he carefully, thoughtfully, placed books on the shelves in the library. Vlad was holding a stack of volumes, handing one to him each time he held out his hand. It was disgusting. He was assisting his own librarian.

 

Lena approached as Vlad handed over the last book. Nicolae smiled his thanks and turned to place the last book on a high shelf. His head tipped back, and his hair swung down, brushing over his shoulders. He had stopped cutting it, no longer keeping it in the monkish crop he had favored before. And Lena could guess why. As she approached, the prince reached out, sliding his hand up under the silky fall of hair, letting it sift through his fingers. He caught the last few strands and tugged gently. Nicolae turned with a soft laugh, his hand going to Draculea's cheek. Lena deliberately scraped her foot against the floor, and the boy dropped his hand quickly.

 

Draculea rubbed his arm, then turned cool eyes on Lena. "Abul. You bring a message from your mistress?"

 

Lena curtsied. "No, lord. But I do have a matter of importance I would discuss with you."

 

"So?" He looked at Nicolae. "You plan to visit Father Mircea, do you not?" Nicolae nodded. "Go now, then. I will come later. I suppose I should make a confession sometime soon."

 

Nicolae beamed at him. "I will tell the father to expect you." His smile faltered, but did not die when he looked at Lena. "Lady Abul, my sister is well? I... have not seen her for some time now."

 

Of course you have not, boy. I take great care to keep you apart. "She is in good health, Calugarul. Her spirits are another matter."

 

His face fell, and he looked distressed. "What troubles her? Is there anything..."

 

"Nicolae." Nicolae looked at his lover doubtfully. "I saw Beta last night, and she is as she always is: spoiled and marginally content. Go speak to the priest; it will calm you, as it always does."

 

"Yes, Domn." Nicolae trusted Draculea not to lie to him. He might be mistaken, but he would not deliberately deceive him. "Lady, please tell my sister that she is in my thoughts each day and my prayers each night."

 

"How sweet," Lena drawled.

 

Draculea saw the flicker of pain in Nicolae's eyes as he started toward the door, and his own eyes narrowed. He waited till Nicolae was gone and went to sit at a table, beckoning Lena to stand before him. He did not give her permission to sit, so she remained standing before him. "Lena, I know you do not seek my company for pleasure, so what is it?"

 

She stiffened at such a bald challenge. Lena had learned to use the subtle courtesies and facades of propriety to her advantage, and she disliked being forced to deal with anything directly. "As I told the boy..." when Lena called Nicolae a boy there was no affection in her voice, only contempt. "his sister is not in good spirits, and it is my duty to see to her comfort and happiness."

 

"You take your responsibility seriously, Abul," said Draculea dryly. "Since your arrival in my household you have worked ceaselessly to change every facet of life here that you could. The furnishings are too heavy, the draperies too poor, the food too simple. The woman has had more gowns in a year's time than most of my court ladies see in a lifetime. Under your gentle care she seems to have gone from a spoiled child to a difficult woman."

 

Lena's voice was stiff. "I only remind her of what is due her station, prince." She folded her hands. "And what is due her station, my lord, is a child."

 

He studied her. "Abul, I tolerate such things from Stefan in deference to his grey hairs and exalted station as my advisor. If you were a man, you would even now be on the floor, and I would be considering whether or not I should continue your beating. It is only your sex and my wife's reliance on you that saves you from the thrashing that your impertinence has so richly earned."

 

Lena paled even further, but she did not back down. "She frets about the security of her station, Domn. A child would cement that, and reassure her that she need not worry about being deposed from her position at court," she lowered her voice "as she has already been deposed from her position in your heart."

 

He scowled, waving his hand. "Woman, do not play the fool, nor treat me as one. All but the babe at its mother's breast know that the chit has never had a place in my heart. She might have won one in my affections were it not for your influence, constantly goading her to discontent. As to the child, I have tried, Abul. I want a child, too, but it simply has not happened. I can command many things, but not that."

 

"You could make a greater effort, prince."

 

Draculea laughed harshly. "And now you would dictate my schedule for bedding your mistress? Good God, woman, is there no limit to your gall?"

 

"When it concerns Elizabeta's wellfare? No."

 

"I'm curious, Abul. I spill my seed into Beta on a regular basis. Nicolae and Mircea pray daily that we be blessed with a child, so heaven itself is on our side. How would you suggest that I better her chances of conception?"

 

"Your regular basis is no more than twice each week, my lord." Her eyebrows rose. "I have cause to believe that you are capable of a greater effort."

 

"I hardly think she would welcome that, no matter what you say."

 

"She will be amenable. And there is no need to race away once the act is done. Closeness could not help but aid her quickening." Draculea stared at her in astonishment. Lena mistook his silence, and continued. "And if you would not squander your energy and essence on... other pursuits, then there would be that much more chance."

 

Draculea's voice was low and dangerous. "What 'other pursuit' would you have me sacrifice, Abul? Hunting? Our larders would suffer. Training? The Turks test our borders more and more, and we will have a confrontation soon. Would you have me soft and unprepared?"

 

"I would have you chaste save for your rightfully bound wife, Domn. I would have you leave off your unnatural romps with your catamite at least until a legitimate heir is born."

 

Draculea's hands tightened into white knuckled fists on the chair's arms. Lena truly did not know how close she was to death at that moment. Indeed, a year before, Draculea would have broken her neck with scarcely a thought, but now...

 

While Draculea was not given to random cruelty, his wrath could be swift and terrible. Nicolae had been a gentling influence on his lover. The entire household had noticed this, but they knew Draculea well enough to see that the violence was still there, and they were careful not to provoke him, especially when the librarian was not there to act as a buffer. Lena, in her arrogance, thought herself in no danger.

 

Draculea stared at the woman before him, fighting the urge to put his hands on her throat. It wouldn't do, though. Ernestu's demise had been explained away in a reasonable manner, but Lena... It would be difficult to dispose of her in a manner that would not raise suspicions. And Beta was so dependent on the woman it was not impossible that she would fall into a decline without her.

 

Despite Lena's worries, Vlad had not the slightest inclination to replace his wife. Though he would have preferred to live with Nicolae openly acknowledged as his mate, he was realistic enough to know this was impossible. The situation now was the best he could hope for: a wife who presented the proper image to the world while leaving him alone to enjoy the company of his chosen mate. In truth, there had been a few subtle hints from Stefan that perhaps the poor child was barren, and would be happier released from her vows. Vlad was well aware that what he truly meant was that perhaps it was time to free himself in order to form another union that might bear fruit. Draculea ignored him. He supposed that a child would come eventually. If not, well...

 

He could try with one of the court ladies. It wasn't unheard of for an illegitimate child to succeed, though only the royal families could expect such exceptions under the law. A substantial bribe, in the form of tribute, would have to be given to the Church, but it could be done. There was no hurry on that, but this should be dealt with immediately.

 

He stood up and stepped close to her. "If you ever again refer to Nicolae in such a manner, I will strangle the foul breath from your body."

 

Lena did not move away. She looked up at him. "Calling him by another name would not change what he is."

 

The temptation was strong, but Draculea put his hands on her arms instead of her throat. He squeezed deliberately, and saw her flinch, sweat beading on her upper lip. "He is a good man, the most selfless and sweet natured I have ever known. I would much rather see you dead than see him suffer a moment of distress. Do you understand?"

 

"I do. And you must understand, Prince Draculea, that if your unnatural attachment was ever spoken of publicly, ever presented to those outside your immediate influence, that it would hurt him terribly. You know what shame and humiliation would be heaped on him. You know the torment he would suffer when every religious leader save his own pet priest condemned him. Would you do that to him?"

 

"Abul... do you dare to threaten me?"

 

"I? Threaten you? Oh, prince, I am too humble, too lowly to be of any threat to you, surely." Her expression, a parody of hurt innocence, was grotesque. "You have nothing to fear from me. You need only fear the consequences of your own choices." She curtsied. "If you will pardon me, Beta will be wondering where I am."

 

He watched her go, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side, then he began to pace. The bitch was threatening him in the only manner that had the slightest chance of succeeding. She had shrewdly guessed that, while he might brazen out any confrontation with his advisors, or even church officials, he would not want to risk Nicolae being hurt and shamed. The boy's sense of self worth was still fragile, and he would be devastated if held up to public ridicule. It was even possible that someone ambitious in the Church or the legal profession would try to have him punished, because relations between men were officially illegal.

 

He couldn't risk that, but he couldn't acquiesce to Lena's demands, either. It would be impossible for him to be near Nicu without touching him, loving him. It would kill both of them. There had to be a solution to this problem.

 

Draculae went in search of Simion. He found his best unofficial advisor supervising the maintenance of his armor. As Draculea had mentioned, the Turks were being difficult, and they had to be ready. Still he left the task to a competent metalsmith and followed his lord back to his chamber. Once there Draculea told him what had happened, though his language was much blunter than Lena's had been. "The bitch says she will see to it that our love is a public scandal, voiced to man, state, Church, and God. I wouldn't give a damn, Simion, you know that, but Nicolae..."

 

"Yes, Prince. This is indeed a sad situation. The wench may speak soft concern for her mistress, but it is her own position she seeks to bolster. She sees Nicolae as a threat." He shrugged. "She would see anyone who had any influence as a threat, and she knows that you only tolerate Beta, while you would do anything for Nicu. She wishes to separate you, and I think she believes that you will eventually turn to Beta, then she will influence you through her." He shook his head. "For an otherwise intelligent woman, her plan is remarkably stupid."

 

"I cannot kill her outright, Simion."

 

"No, prince. Even the most plausible accident would be suspect. While it matters little what the rest of the world would think, Nicolae would suspect. Abul must be put back in her place without direct action." He smiled.

 

Draculea returned his smile. "Judging from your expression, Simion, I would hazard that you have a plan."

 

"Indeed, my prince."

 

"What do you propose?"

 

"It is simple. I think that Abul's own tactics should work very well."

 

"Lena, it's been so long since you've done it. Please."

 

"Beta, you know we don't want to risk endangering any possible pregnancy."

 

"My courses have just run, and he has yet to visit me again, so I'm sure it is safe. He left to check the local supplies available on his lands, so there is no danger of him coming to visit me tonight. Please, Lena."

 

"Very well, pet. It has been awhile since I've taken you fully."

 

In the narrow corridor between Draculea and Elizabeta's room, the prince and Simion exchanged glances. Draculea settled himself comfortably against the wall and whispered. "You were right, Simion. They couldn't resist the opportunity. You are sure that Nicolae is occupied?"

 

Simion's voice was just as low. "I had one of the serving wenches ask him to teach her to write her name. She will be very stupid about it, and you know his patience: he will not give up until she succeeds." He smiled. "Not if it takes half of his parchment and all his ink, and you know how he prizes them."

 

Draculea grunted, but there was a fond smile lingering about his lips. "My lord, it might be better to remove the woman from the castle, at least for a short time, after this. Abul will not like having her plans thwarted, and I do not trust the woman. Perhaps she could accompany her mistress on a short pilgrimage to one of the more fashionable shrines?"

 

Draculea shook his head. "Impossible. It would be an excellent suggestion were it not for the unrest we have had lately. The bandits know that the army is focusing more on guarding our borders, now that the Turks are testing us, and they are much more active. It would not be safe for them, and as much as I loathe Abul, Beta must be protected while there is even the slimmest chance that she could be carrying my child. And you know how attached Nicolae is to her. I fear he would pine away if she were killed."

 

"The boy loves strongly," Simion agreed. "Would that all he fixed with his affections were worthy." They were silent for a moment more. Now there were faint sounds coming from the princess's bedchamber, and Simion said, "I think it is time, Domn."

 

He reached for the handle, but Draculea stopped him. "I think our entrance must be a bit more abrupt to be most effective, Simion. Allow me." He gently lifted the handle, disengaging it so that the door opened a scant crack. Then he took a step back, raised his foot, and kicked the door so violently that it slammed against the wall with a reverberating crash. He was through the door in a heartbeat, and Simion was right behind him.

 

Both men halted after a few steps and stared at the tableau presented to them. They had expected to find the two women in an illicit embrace, but they were unprepared for what they saw.

 

Both women were totally naked, a state seldom experienced by gentlewomen except when they bathed. Beta crouched on her hands and knees on the foot of the bed. Lena Abul stood behind her, grasping her hips. It took Draculea a moment to understand what he was seeing, and another moment to believe it.

 

All Lena wore was a braided leather belt, slung low on her narrow hips. A dark object was attached in the front, and would have dangled there... would have dangled, but for the fact that it was buried deep in the slick pink folds of his wife's sex.

 

Lena froze in horror, but Beta was in such sexual thrall that she did not immediately realize what had happened. Draculea watched in surprise as the girl gyrated and thrust herself back at her lover, moaning. She was showing more sexual heat in the space of those few seconds than she had during their entire marriage. Damn. If she had been like this, my weekly attempts at fatherhood might not have seemed such a chore.

 

Beta whimpered when Lena pulled out of her abruptly, and she looked back to protest. That was when her gaze fell on the two men who stood just inside the door, watching. Both women gave small screams. Both reached for the coverlet that had been folded neatly at the end of the bed, but Beta got it first, and wrapped herself in it. Lena threw herself on the bed, hiding behind her charge as best she could, trying to pull a fold of the material up to shield her nakedness.

 

Surprisingly, it was Beta who first managed to collect her wits enough to speak. "How dare you! Leave at once."

 

Draculea gave her a puzzled look. "Beta, you usually have better sense. I am your husband. No one can order me from your room, least of all you." He looked at Simion and said conversationally, "Simion, Abul called Nicolae a catamite. Tell me, is there a term for a female who engages in like activities?"

 

"I do not think so, my lord. At least, I have never heard of one. I would suppose, though, that 'female catamite' would do as well."

 

Draculea walked over to the bed, followed by his advisor. "Well, Abul, it seems that I am not the only one who's private pleasures might not meet with universal approval." He gave her a hard smile. "And I hardly think that the world would grant you as much tolerence as I might expect."

 

Her voice trembled. "No one would believe you. They would think it merely spite, an attempt to annul your marriage so that you could be with your..." His eyes flashed warningly, and she bit off what she had been about to say. "So that you could be free."

 

"I have no desire to be free. Why can't you see that? If you will keep yourself to Beta and stop trying to make things difficult, if you will treat Nicolae with at least the bare minimum of courtesy, then I will be content. And as to not being believed..." He gestured at Simion, who bowed. "I have a witness. One of us might be discounted, but not both. So, Abul, you know what is necessary for you to continue in this comfortable life you have made for yourself?"

 

She scowled. "I know."

 

"Beta." He turned his attention to the girl, who looked confused, and softened a little. He believed that she was unaware of Lena's latest machinations. "Beta, I have no objection to your finding pleasure with your maid. I would be a hypocrite if I did. We never really pledged our love, but you did pledge to remain faithful. It may sound strange, but I do not really see this as cheating. As long as you do not go to another man's bed, I will have no complaint, but there must be no question of the legitimacy of whatever child you bear. Do you understand?" She nodded. "Good. No more will be said of this."

 

He began to turn, prepared to leave, but he hesitated. Vlad stepped to the other side of the bed. Before Lena could avoid him, he caught her shoulder and threw her sprawling, back on the mattress. He planted a hand firmly on her belly, holding her in place, and turned a curious eye on the device she had been using to plunder Beta. It was a slightly curved, gently tapered cone of wood, sanded and varnished to a satiny finish. "No wonder I couldn't satisfy you, child." He touched one finger to the blunt tip. "You have here a cock that never flags. It would be hard for mere flesh and blood to compete."

 

Draculea saw the malice in Lena's eyes. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear so that Beta could not hear. "If you are plotting revenge, consider this: if I survive, you will find yourself taking into your body a wooden skewer much larger and sharper than the one you use to fuck my wife." He turned without another look or word and went into the private hall, Simion following.

 

In his own room, Simion poured wine for the prince. When Draculea accepted it, he directed his servant to take some for himself. "That should take care of it. The woman cares for Beta only to the point she can use her, and she will not risk her position now." Draculea shook his head. "I knew we would find them in a state that would allow me to blackmail her, but that... I've heard of such things, of course, but I haven't seen them. Just when I think I know the world, Simion, it surprises me."

 

As he sipped, a thoughtful, speculative expression stole over his face. "It was an... intriguing device. Simion..." he paused. "what do you think Nicolae would make of such a toy?" When his servant raised an eyebrow, Draculea cleared his throat. "Well, with the unrest, I may have to be away for a time. He could... I mean, if he liked... I'm curious as to whether he would..."

 

"He would prefer your touch, my lord. But I think that if he knew it would bring you pleasure, he would make a great deal of such a toy. I am sure that the workman who carved decorations on the new library chairs could produce one even finer than the one we saw. Perhaps even one more, shall we say, realistic? Shall I speak to him?"

 

"Yes, do that." He smiled. "It can be a present for Nicolae. He does enjoy surprises."

 

Simion chuckled. "I believe I can promise you that such a gift will most definitely surprise him, my prince."

 

---

Chapter 31: Poison, and Passing Time

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-one

The Year of Our Lord, 1461

Castle Dracula, Wallachia

Poison, and Passing Time

 

"He doesn't love you."

 

"Oh, God, Lena, I know that! Why must you point it out to me at every turn? I rise in the morning, you tell me. I don my gown, you tell me. I break bread, you tell me!"

 

"I would not have you ignorant of your danger, my love." The prince had broken in on them almost three months before. Lena had managed to keep to the standards that Vlad had set, mainly by avoiding Nicolae even more stringently than she had before. She was not sure how long she could keep it up.

 

Beta twitched. Lena's constant harping on this theme was destroying her nerves. Testily she snapped, "I am in no danger!"

 

"Whenever a woman of rank has a husband who loves another, she is in danger."

 

Beta threw up her hands. "Lena, please, do not begin about Nicolae again. The boy himself would die before he saw harm come to me."

 

"So he was once, Beta, when he was but an humble servant in your father's house. Then he knew his place, and his devotion was almost... touching. But now... Beta, I fear that your husband's attention has turned the boy. Oh, I don't believe either of them meant you any harm when they began the affair." She shrugged. She was brushing Beta's hair, drawing the elegant, ebony handled boar's bristle brush through the shining fall. Each night she brushed Beta's hair two hundred strokes. There were times when the back of the brush was used to drive home a lesson against Beta's bare buttocks, also.

 

"He's ambitious, Beta, and you know how dangerous ambition can be. If he weren't, then surely he would have stopped the nonsense of his portrait before it went as far as it has. A few sketches, that's understandable. A master like Vitelli needs to keep himself fluid and practiced, but he spends at least as much time on the boy's picture as he does on yours. It's a scandal."

 

"Truly?" Beta looked concerned. "I had not heard. Does the court speak of it?"

 

Not as much as I would like. I don't understand why they seem so willing to ignore it. It's all I can do to keep the whispering going. "Of course. Constantly. The fact that you still join him for devotions does not help matters, Beta."

 

"But Lena, it's practically the only time I spend with him now, and he enjoys it so much."

 

"Is it for his joy that you hear mass and say prayers, Elizabeta?" Lena made her voice stern, though she knew very well that the devotions, with or without Nicolae, would mean little more to Beta than a routine, followed to satisfy convention. "Surely your contemplation would be deeper and more spiritual without his distraction."

 

"I... suppose so."

 

"I will tell Father Mircea that you will require a separate mass said each week--one that only you and I shall attend."

 

As she had done most of her life, Beta refused the chance to think for herself, and turned the decision over to Lena. "Whatever you think best, Lena."

 

Draculea went to fetch Nicolae from the library that evening, as usual. He was surprised when he found only Signore Vitelli, cleaning his brushes--"Signore, through so soon?"

 

The artist shrugged. "I had hoped for another hour, after the young man returned from the chapel, but he cried my pardon. He seemed a bit upset for some reason."

 

Draculea was instantly alert. He went directly to the chapel, and found Father Mircea just standing from lighting a devotional candle. He did not hesitate, but said bluntly, "What has upset Nicolae?"

 

Mircea sighed. "Elizabeta has decided that she must make her devotions alone. She sent a prettily worded note saying that she feels the need for less distractions, that she felt this would draw her closer to God. Nicolae was waiting for her here. You know that her time in the chapel has become practically the only time they meet? When I showed him the note to explain why she would not be coming..." Mircea heaved another deep sigh. "He gave the most beautiful smile, saying that he was glad that Beta wished to seek God more fervently, but Prince, his eyes... He looked like he wanted to cry."

 

The good father was startled by a short growl from the prince. "It will be Abul's idea. Damn! I don't see how I can correct this. If I order Beta to join him, Abul will make sure that he knows it was not her choice. Nicolae has made it clear that this is one aspect of his life with which I will not be allowed to interfere."

 

Draculea stood, glowering, for another moment, and Mircea feared that his anger would override his logic. Finally the tall man shrugged. "Well, there is nothing I can do about this, at least not now. I'll have to see if I can cheer him up, and make him forget his abandonment, at least for awhile."

 

"That would be the wisest course, Prince. How will you do this?"

 

Draculea smiled slowly. "I have a belated Christmas gift for him. I would have given it to him last month, but I feared he would not think it appropriate for such a holy time. I will be required to leave the castle for a few days now and then to inspect my men, and he may find it a comfort in my absence."

 

Nicolae was curled in a chair in front of the fire, staring into the flames, his knees tucked up under his chin, in the room he shared with Draculea. For the first time since he had come to live at the castle with his lover, he felt alone. He had known that Beta was moving away from him, had known it for some time. While he had lived at Castle Varga she had granted him odd moments of companionship, but now...

 

He bent and put his forehead against his knees. I just don't understand. What have I done? What have I failed to do?

 

He had friends now: the castle servants and some of Draculea's men. They had all noticed that their master was more peaceful, more stable, since Nicolae had come into his life, and they knew that a calmer, more stable leader could not help but be a better leader. They were grateful, and they genuinely liked the boy. But it wasn't the same.

 

Beta was the only blood that Nicolae had, the only blood he had ever felt like he had, and now she had rejected him.

 

He heard the door to the room open, but he didn't move. When the footsteps approached he knew who it was and, knowing who it was, could not stop a small, sad smile. When the hand fell on his shoulder he tried to make the smile sunnier when he looked up at Draculea. "My lord."

 

"You are sad, my Nicolae."

 

Nicolae shook his head with mild dismay. "Is there nothing I can hide from you, Domn?"

 

"Nothing, Nicolae, though I confess that your secret was told to me before I came to you. Father Mircea is worried about you."

 

"I must try to reassure him."

 

Nicolae unfolded his legs, preparing to stand, but Draculea pressed him back down. "Peace, Nicolae. He knows you are all right--he is just saddened by your sadness." He rubbed Nicolae's shoulder. "You cannot care for the entire world, no matter how you try, boy."

 

Nicolae nodded, "I tell myself that, my lord, but the urge is still there."

 

"Perhaps this is just a passing thing, Nicolae. She may return to her usual ways soon, but you must not grieve yourself over it. But tell me..." He knelt beside the chair so that he had to look up into the young man's face. "Is that all that troubles you?" Nicolae looked back into the fire. "Is it the trip I am to make?"

 

Nicolae turned his eyes back to Draculea, and there was a pleading light in them. "Can't I go with you, Domn? I could make myself useful. I could help your cook, or care for Lucifer. He... he tolerates me now."

 

"Nicolae, we have discussed this. The camps and fortresses I will visit are rough places, filled with rougher men. There are bandits roaming my land, and although we go well armed, there may still be trouble. I want you safe, where I need not worry about your physical safety." And I will be leaving Simion to see to your emotional well being. He has my orders to do away with the Abul bitch if she steps too far above herself, or threatens you in any way, but you need not know this.

 

"I know, but Vlad, you will be gone for so long."

 

"Only a bit more than a fortnight."

 

"You may as well say 'forever'."

 

"Sweet." He stretched up as Nicolae leaned toward him, and they kissed. "I will miss you, also, but I have something that may help." He laid a cloth-wrapped bundle in Nicolae's lap. Nicolea picked it up, turning it curiously. "It is a gift. Just a toy, but I hope it may be some consolation to you while I am gone."

 

Nicolae had no idea what Draculea could mean. It was about as long as his forearm, from palm to elbow, but from the feel of it, not as big around as his wrist. He felt it carefully, and said doubtfully, "I am rather old for poppets, Domn."

 

"This, my love, is a most grown-up toy," Draculea assured him, a sly smile on his face. Nicolae unknotted the cord that bound the bundle and unfolded the cloth.

 

When the contents were revealed, Nicolae studied it, frowning in puzzlement. It was a long cylinder--no, not a perfect cylinder. It was of pale wood, sanded smooth and it had been enameled a glossy cream. "What is it?"

 

"Look at it more closely, pet. Touch it."

 

Nicolae studied it more closely, running his fingers over it. The end was slightly bulbous, and there were thin, rounded ridges running up the side. Nicolae squinted at it. There was something a little familiar about it. He picked it up and studied it from a different angle. "It almost looks like..." His eyes flew wide, his mouth dropped open, and red flooded his face. "Domn!" Draculea laughed. "Domn, it... it isn't...? Oh!" He put it down quickly.

 

"What do you think?" his voice was teasing.

 

"Oh, that is... is... wicked!" He gingerly touched it again with one fingertip.

 

"It will not bite, pet."

 

"Do not tease me, Domn," he said severely. "Where did you get this?"

 

"I had it made."

 

"But why? I mean... It is... interesting." He ran his hand over it. Draculea wet his lips, watching the long, slim fingers move over the artificial phallus. "Beautiful, in a way." He turned an almost helpless smile on his lover. "But I can hardly put it up on display."

 

"It isn't meant simply to be admired, Nicolae. It's for you to play with while I'm away."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"Still the innocent." Draculea formed Nicolae's hand around the phallus, holding it beneath his own and began to move them both slowly. "Think, Nicolae." He nuzzled the boy's neck. "How will you feel when I am gone?"

 

"Alone." Nicolae whispered. "Empty."

 

"I would prefer it to be me, love, but if it cannot be me, I want you to have some pleasure. This can fill the bodily emptiness, at least for a time."

 

"Vlad, do you mean for me to take this into my body, as I do you?" The astonishment in his voice almost made Draculea laugh again, but he managed to control it. Nicolae was being as skittish as he had envisioned, and he did not want to add indignation to the boy's already high emotions.

 

"Do not be so horrified, my love. Not without thinking about it a bit."

 

"I have already thought." He was staring at the object, round eyed. He tried to pull his hand away, but Draculea held it there against the staff.

 

"No, pet. Really think about it." He stood, and put his lips against the boy's ear whispering, "Feel how smooth it is? How hard?" He continued to move Nicolae's hand. The boy's breathing sped up a little, and Draculea smiled to himself. "Feel." He guided Nicolae's finger along one of the wavering ridges. "The artisan carved the veins, and see at the end?" He indicated a tiny notch. "There is even the little slit that would spill the seed. Imagine, Nicolae. Imagine this sliding into your back passage, sliding deep, filling you. Think of it rubbing over that special place inside. Nicolae, if you control it, you can touch that special place repeatedly. Even I cannot do that for you every single time I enter you. And it will never tire, Nicolae. You could pleasure yourself for hours on end."

 

"It would feel like I was betraying you," he whispered, but his hand was moving of its own volition now.

 

"No, there would be no betrayal. I know you, my love." He licked Nicolae's ear delicately, and the boy closed his eyes. "If you do this, you will think of me. You will imagine that it is my cock moving inside you. I am vain enough to believe that it will not satisfy you like I can, but it might prove an adequate substitute. Will you at least try it, for me?"

 

"Vlad, you are unfair," he murmured, turning his head to meet Draculea's lips. "You know how hard it is for me to refuse you anything that would give you pleasure."

 

Vlad stood, taking Nicolae's hand to pull him up. "Then come and pleasure yourself, Nicu. That will pleasure me." He led the boy to the bed, then sat near the foot, dropping his hand. "Pretend that I am already gone, Nicu. You have spent the day in your beloved library, and it has been good, but you have not seen me for several days. Do you miss me?"

 

"Oh, Vlad, you know I do."

 

"Do you crave me, Nicu? Does your body ache for my touch."

 

"Yes, Vlad." Nicolae was looking away from Vlad, and Draculea saw with satisfaction that he was, indeed, imagining what it would be like when his prince was absent. "I need you."

 

"But I am not there, I am far away. Poor Nicu. But you are not totally bereft, for you remember my gift." Nicolae looked down at the false prick, which he still held, and his expression was thoughtful. "Now, Nicolae. What would you do in such a circumstance?"

 

"I would wish to dream of you, Domn. I would seek our bed, and hope that some scent of you lingered on the sheets and pillows."

 

"You cannot go to bed dressed, boy."

 

"No, Domn." Nicolae laid the staff on the bed and began to disrobe. Draculea watched avidly. He never tired of looking at Nicolae's body. He had changed only a little in the year they had been together. His muscles were a little heavier, a little better defined, but his skin was still almost as smooth and pale as it had been when Draculea first met him. The only appreciable difference was that now his hair swept down to his shoulders in a blue-black fall.

 

When he was nude Nicolae stood for a moment, running his hands over his chest, his eyes distant and dreamy. He rubbed his nipples, and they rose quickly to hard nubs. "I would think, Domn, of how much I love the way you touch me." He pinched gently, his head dropping back. "Like this." Then he pinched even harder, biting his lip, and Draculea smiled. He had been surprised, but pleased, to find that sometimes Nicolae enjoyed rougher attention.

 

"Yes, love, touch yourself." He watched as one of Nicolae's hands slid down his belly to brush the dark thatch of curls at his groin. "Feel, Nicolae, and you will see that the idea is perhaps not as distasteful as you first thought."

 

Nicolae let his hand drop lower, and closed it around his cock. It was already half hard, beginning to rise from the cushion of his pubic hair. Draculea watched as he lifted his member, as if weighing it, testing its firmness. Then he ran his fingers down its length, as he had with the wooden prick, and Draculea's own hands twitched. One clear droplet of pre-ejaculate, like a glass bead, oozed from the narrow slit set in the pink cockhead, then another. As the young man slowly pumped his sex in and out of his fist, they ran together, drooling down to slick his shaft and make the glide of his hand even smoother.

 

He paused, lifting glistening fingers to his lips, and put them into his mouth, sucking softly. He opened his eyes and fastened them on Draculea, then said. "It is not as delicious as your taste, my lord."

 

Draculea smiled. "Sly Nicolae. It will not work, my love. I will not touch you now." He cocked his head. "Perhaps after you have tried your gift?"

 

Nicolae did not quite smile, his expression rueful. "I think perhaps we know each other too well, Domn." He climbed onto the bed and gingerly touched the gift, which lay beside him on the sheets. "It's very large, my lord."

 

"The ointment is on the table." Draculea undid the lacings at the front of his breeches as the boy reached toward the small pot that stayed beside their bed. Nicolae dipped his fingers into the cool salve, scooping up a generous blob of the white cream as Draculea pulled his own stiffened member free of his garments. "Prepare yourself well, Nicu."

 

Nicolae lay back against the pillows at the head of the bed. He bent his left leg, and caught it behind the knee with his left arm, pulling it up toward his shoulder. Then he reached down with his right hand to the spread crease of his ass. His breath hissed slightly as he wiped the cool salve into his crease, spreading it generously over and around the pucker of his anus. He massaged, rubbing it in so that it warmed with his body heat, the white fading into a clear shine.

 

Draculea began to masturbate, watching the slender finger circling the pink star. He looks so tiny. I am always amazed that he can hold me so well. When Nicolae slid the first slick finger in, they both groaned. Nicolae pushed deep, twisting his finger as he pumped it in and out, and quickly added a second digit. Draculea rubbed himself strongly, watching as his lover probed deeply into his own body. Nicolae's eyes were closed again, and there was an intent look on his face. Draculea murmured, "It isn't so easy for you to find your own magic spot, is it?" Nicolae shook his head. "The toy, Nicolae. You can find it with the toy."

 

When Nicolae opened his eyes, they were black instead of brown, the pupils dilated with passion. He picked up the wooden rod, and Draculea's pulse quickened. "Use the ointment, Nicolae. Grease it well." Nicolae reached into the pot again, then coated the bulbous head of the false organ. After a moment's thought, much to Draculea's delight, he also smeared the cream far down the sides of the rod.

 

Nicolae rubbed the tip of the phallus against his own straining cock, stroking the length, and getting used to the feel. It was not as warm as flesh, and it was harder--unyielding. But it was undeniably pleasurable, and now he was curious as to how it would feel inside him. He took a pillow and moved it under his hips, raising his ass a little, then spread his legs and bent his knees, placing his feet flat on the bed. Draculea shifted a little, moving to sit where he had a clear view up between Nicolae's spread legs. As his lover brought the phallus down and placed the carved head against his slightly spread hole, his hand began to move faster. Nicolae closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered, "Vlad." Then he began to push.

 

It was something like when Draculea mounted him, but there was no solid, comforting bulk of a body pressing down on his own. The staff was a bit bigger than his lover, and, although he had prepared himself well, Nicolae felt a slight ache as the ring of his anus stretched to let the invader inside. Yes, it hurt a little, but the sensation caused by the friction was delicious. Nicolae pushed some more, and felt it slide in another few inches.

 

He gasped, "Oh, it is so big, Domn! And unlike your cock, it is not so forgiving or considerate of my own weak flesh."

 

"Take a moment, love," Draculea urged. "Just be still and feel it. Let your body become accustomed to it."

 

Nicolae did as he suggested. It hadn't really felt bad, and after a moment he began to be used to the unyielding feel. He turned it experimentally, and made a low hum of pleasure at the sensation. He could feel himself relaxing even more and, after a moment, dared to begin again. He applied more pressure, sliding it in an inch at a time.

 

Suddenly there was a familiar burst of heat and pleasure in his bowels, and it swept quickly through his body, seeming to coalesce in his now throbbing sex. His hips arched, and he moaned. He heard his lover's voice say, "There! Ah, yes, sweet boy. You found it, didn't you?"

 

Nicolae couldn't reply. During love play, at Vlad's urging, he had tried before to reach that little nub that caused such intense pleasure, but he had never managed it. Draculea would always take pity on his frustration and seek it out with finger or cock. This was the first time he had ever managed to reach it himself. While he would have preferred his lover's touch, this was still good--very good.

 

Eager now, he pulled back an inch, then moved it forward again. When he didn't immediately touch the sensitive spot again he whined impatiently, drawing soft laughter from his lover. Determined, he pushed harder. The feel of the hard, thick staff sliding so deeply into him distracted him from his pursuit. He'd always felt that Draculae filled him completely, but now he wondered. This toy was even larger than his love. Could he possibly take more than he did when Draculea fucked him?

 

Curious, he exerted slow, steady pressure on the staff, feeling it move deeper, and deeper still. He heard a soft, wondering murmur from Draculea. "Damn, boy! Nicolae, so much." The sense of fullness was almost overwhelming, and he finally stopped, panting, feeling a heavy ache that was not unpleasant. He lay that way for some moments till Draculea, his voice tinged with concern, said, "Speak to me, Nicu. Are you all right?"

 

When he spoke, the boy's voice was a breathy drawl that reassured him. "M-a-aster..." He released his hold on the rod, his hands drifting up to glide dreamily over his own chest, tweaking the stiff buds of his nipples. His ass rose and fell lazily, and he purred at the feelings caused by the minute shifting of the phallus in his body.

 

Draculea watched, feeling relieved even as his eyes followed the wavering of the short length of wood protruding from Nicolae's taut stretched hole. He had thought for a moment that his lust to witness this act might have led his darling to injure himself, but it was plain that the boy was relishing it. "It feels good, Nicu?"

 

"It feels... exquisite, but it will feel better." He reached back down, gripped the end of the staff again, and began to pull it out. Then he pumped it back in, slowly. He repeated the action, again and again, setting up a steady rhythm.

 

Draculea moved only enough to reach the ointment, and slathered a generous amount on his rigid cock. With the added slipperiness, his hand fairly flew as he watched his lover fuck himself with the huge false prick. I must use that on him before I go, but not this time. He has to learn a way to tend his cravings while I am gone. Ah, such a sight is almost enough to persuade me from my duties.

 

Nicolae suddenly lifted his hips, giving a soft cry as he again touched the special spot deep inside. Now that he knew where it was he was determined not to lose it again. He drew the wooden cock back a scant half inch, the gave it a tiny thrust, angling it. It rubbed over the spot again, and his next cry was almost triumphant. He began to work it in and out with short, hard motions, passing it over the little bump over and over. The pleasure moved from individual burst to a continual wave.

 

With his free hand he gripped his lust-swollen sex and began to stroke himself furiously. The twin pleasures, prick and ass, robbed him of any coherent thought, and all he could do was strive frantically for release. Vlad felt that he had to touch Nicu, some way. He knelt between the boy's wide planted feet. With his left hand he gripped Nicolae's knee, while he continued to squeeze and rub his rock-hard erection. Pre-ejaculate drooled from the slit in a steady stream, mingling with the ointment he had applied. He was tempted to pull the staff from Nicolae's body and mount him, burying himself into the hot channel that had been so well opened, but he did not. Later, sometime before dawn, when he has rested, I will take him. Nicolae wailed, hips thrusting upward. I will take him hard.

 

Nicolae grunted, and shoved the phallus into his back passage as hard as he could, at the same time reaching down to squeeze the tight, furry sac that rode just above it. His seed burst from him in a hot, milky stream, spraying past his belly, onto his chest. Even as he continued to work the phallus in his clenching ass, he smeared the warm, sticky liquid over the aching points of his nipples.

 

He heard his lover groan. Draculea leaned forward so that his sperm bathed Nicolae's crotch. Nicolae gripped his own cock again, using his lover's essence to slick his flesh as he stripped the last of his own sperm. He felt the warm liquid dripping down to flow around the hard rod that impaled him, and he moved the phallus a few more times, drawing in a few drops of his lover's seed. Then his knees collapsed and he lay, panting, the phallus still sunk deep in his body.

 

Draculea reached down and gripped the end of the toy, beginning to pull it out. Nicolae's legs moved a little, and he made a small purring sound. Smiling, Draculea pumped it gently a few times, and was rewarded with a quiet croon of sated pleasure. I believe I could rouse him again, doing this, but we both need rest now. Draculea pulled the phallus out of Nicolae. Removing his own shirt he carefully wiped the instrument, reminding himself that he must warn Nicolae to clean it carefully after each use. Then he retrieved the cloth he had wrapped it in and swathed it, laying it aside. Stripping completely he climbed into the bed and lay beside Nicolae.

 

The boy turned to him quickly, moving into his arms. Draculea held him for a moment, then pushed him back gently and began the slow, enjoyable task of licking their combined sperm from his body. When he was finished he again held the boy, one hand idly caressing his belly. "So, Nicolae. What do you think of your gift now?"

 

He sighed voluptuously. "I still prefer you, my Vlad, but it will... will be amusing while you are gone. But what ever possessed you to think of such a thing?"

 

Draculea chuckled at the honest bewilderment in his voice. "Let us just say that we may learn things, even from our enemies."

 

---

Chapter 32: Reunion

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-two

The Year of Our Lord, 1461

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Reunion

 

Draculea stroked Lucifer's neck, and the great black beast snorted in appreciation. "Soon, old friend. We will sight home very soon." Lucifer tossed his head, as if offering hearty approval of this. He was a tough animal, but he was tired and eager to reach his own stall. His men and their mounts, none of them a match for their master and his steed, rode in weary silence. Draculea had set a break-neck pace.. The prince had many miles to cover, and he had been determined to make good time. He had a reason to hurry.

 

This trip had been both heartening, and worrisome. It was not as disturbing as it might have been, because he had found that his men were well prepared. The bad thing was that the Turks were indeed beginning to press in on his beloved country, and this would not be the last tour. There were many more garrisons to be inspected, and it was important to demonstrate that the prince was both aware of the problem and willing to do something about it.

 

His heart lifted as the castle came into view. When they rode into the courtyard, one of the guards at the gate (they knew better than to leave the entrance unattended, especially when they were under the eye of their lord) hurried inside, no doubt to announce his arrival. By the time he had dismounted and handed Lucifer over to an hostler, Simion had emerged. He bowed and said, "Welcome home, my prince," but the warmth in his voice softened the stiff formality of the gretting. "You have made good time. We did not expect you till tomorrow at the earliest."

 

"Longing lends speed, Simion."

 

As they entered the castle, Elizabeta swept down the staircase, with Lena not far behind. They both dropped curtsies, and his wife stepped forward to present her cheek. "Welcome, husband."

 

Draculea regarded her dispassionately for a moment, then dropped a dry peck on the profferred cheek. "Greetings, Beta."

 

"Well met, my lord. How fare our interests?"

 

"Better than they might be, but not as well as we might hope. There is no great present danger, but it would be well to be prepared."

 

She curtsied again. "I am glad to have you home, safe and well. If you will excuse Simion, I wish to speak to him about the household supplies. I have heard of a wine merchant passing through, and I think our cellar could be better supplied." Draculea thought of the hundreds of bottles laid up in the dark, cool rooms under the castle, but he nodded his agreement and watched as Simion climbed the stairs behind Beta. Lena was waiting at the head of the stairs. She stared down at him. When he did not drop his gaze she turned quickly to follow her mistress.

 

Now that the formal greeting was out of the way, Draculea went in search of Nicolae. The library was empty. Draculea regarded the clutter on the main table with a slight frown. It was spread with a casual jumble of ink pots, quills, and parchments. The sheets were all covered with awkward scrawls that bore only the faintest resemblance to Nicolae's elegant script. Draculea recalled that his lover had been teaching some of the castle staff to read and write. These, then, were their copy lessons. There was something not quite right here, and it took Draculea only a moment to recognize it.

 

It was the mess. Nicolae had been raised in a monastery, and neatness had been ingrained. The young man always left his workplace tidy, even if he would be gone for only a moment. It would have rankled him to leave such disorder. Many times Draculea, come to fetch him, had waited and watched fondly while he quickly reshelved books and neatly stacked parchments. Only when the library was tidied to his satisfaction would Nicolae leave. What could have been urgent enough to persuade him to leave such an uncharacteristic mess?

 

Draculea could think of three other likely places to search. He would try the chapel first, then the kitchen before going up to his room. Father Mircea laid aside his bible when Draculea entered. The prince exchanged greetings with the priest and related the state of military readiness. After the initial pleasentries, Draculea asked after Nicolae. He felt a thrill of unease as he saw Mircea's expression darken. "What is it? What is wrong?"

 

Mircea thought, then said slowly, "You have been sorely missed, Maria Ta. The boy has tried to keep up a brave front, but..." He shrugged. "I have done what I could. Simion spent time with him, but it was not enough, I fear."

 

Feeling alarm rising, Draculea said, "Is he ill?"

 

"Oh, not in body," the priest assured him, "though he does not eat as he should, and he seems very tired. I think he has not slept well." Draculea understood. He had, himself, lain awake more than he would have wished, missing Nicolae's warm, quiet body sleeping beside him. The priest continued. "It is the state of his spirit that troubles me." When Draculea raised an eyebrow, the priest waved his hand. "No, not the state of his soul. But Maria Ta, he has become so quiet, and you know how he chatters. At first his days moved at their normal pace. Then he began to spend more time here, praying for your safe return. But lately... Lord, he seems to be losing interest in everything. He has not worked at his copying for several days. He has even lost interest in teaching the servants, and he was always so patient about that."

 

This was indeed troubling. Tending the library and helping others gave Nicolae such joy. It was not a good sign for him to neglect either. "His sister's distance is part of it," Mircea mused. "Beta scarcely speaks to anyone, except to complain or give orders. Well, anyone except her maids."

 

Draculea scowled. This would be dealt with, but first he wanted... No, he needed to see Nicu. "Where is he?"

 

"He has taken to spending much time on the roof, Domn. He says he feels closer to God."

 

"Huh. I would have thought he would have seen me arrive, and come down."

 

"So he would, lord, were he watching the road. Had you not arrived today I have no doubt that dawn would have found him eagerly watching the road. Now, though, I believe you will find him at the back of the castle."

 

Castle Draculea was built with its back close against the Vestalitz River. The river was deep and wide, and it offered protection on that side. Enemies could not approach, as the banks were steep and tall. In winter the river was rimmed with jagged ice, but it flowed too swiftly for the center to freeze over, even in the deepest cold. In spring it swelled with the melting snow, churning and foaming. Even when it was calmest the flow was swift and strong. Every year some unwary soul drowned. Even strong men thought twice before entering the water. The thought of Nicolae wandering high above the river was not comforting.

 

Draculea hurried upstairs and went to the steps that led up to the roof. The moment he emerged through the open doorway he turned toward the back of the castle, and spotted Nicolae immediately. Draculea's heart clenched when he saw that the boy was siting on the low wall that rimmed the roof.

 

Nicolae sat with his knees bent, his feet flat on the stone as he gazed out into the distance--a pose much like the one at Castle Varga that had made Draculea compare him to a faerie prince. Draculea hesitated, trying to decide how to announce himself. Should he call out? Should he approach without speaking? Either way could be dangerous. If he were startled... He settled on allowing his boots to scrape on the stone as he approached.

 

Nicolae's head turned slowly, his black hair ruffling in the breeze blowing across the roof. Draculea halted, feeling a stab of dismay. Normally pale, the boy looked almost bloodless. The only real color in his face was the shadows under eyes that were far too weary. His cheeks looked slightly hollowed, and there was a sprinkle of dark stubble. When he saw Draculea, the listless eyes suddenly lit, kindling with joy. "Vlad!" His heart stuttered as the boy shot off the wall, but he flew toward him as straight as an arrow.

 

As he came, the disturbing lassitude seemed to fall away. When he threw himself against Draculea, he rocked the bigger man back several steps. Draculea wrapped his arms around Nicolae, closing his eyes and sinking into the feel of the sturdy body pressed against him. Beyond the sensual pleasure he always felt at Nicolae's touch there was a quieter, more profound feeling--the soul-deep satisfaction of being with someone that he knew beyond doubt loved him. "Nicu." He whispered the boy's name against his ear, burying his face in the softness of his hair. "Boy, what have you been doing?"

 

The question was more than it seemed. He was asking more than the simple physical facts. Nicolae knew this, but answered simply, "Waiting for you." He squeezed hard. "You came back."

 

Draculea frowned, and pushed Nicolae back a few inches so that he could see his face. He ran his thumb over one high cheekbone and said gently, "Did you doubt that I would? Nicolae, nothing but death itself could keep me from you." His eyes were fierce. "And even then..."

 

Nicolae quickly pressed a finger against his lips, stopping words that he felt would border on blasphemy. He had warned his lover before of the folly of making someone else one's whole life. He had thought that he had avoided that particular danger. This last week had proven how mistaken that belief had been. He kissed Vlad, murmuring into his mouth, "Take me to our room. Take me to your bed." He pressed his cheek against his lover's and whispered, "Take me."

 

Draculea drew his lover down the stairs, away from the disturbing drop on the other side of the roof. He led him back to their room. There he stripped both of them and, easing Nicolae back on the bed, began to make love to him.

 

He tried to be gentle, but Nicolae was insistent, frantic, almost wild. For the first time in their life together he was aggressive, demanding. Draculea found himself thrown on his back by the younger man. He was hard, had begun to harden the second his lover had touched him, and his prick thrust from his groin in a thick, eager rise. Nicolae threw a leg over him and, without regard for oil or careful stretching, impaled himself. The sensation was incredible, but it always was with Nicolae. He was surprised when he slid deeply into his lover's body with little resistance. Nicolae was slick and already a little relaxed, and Draculea realized that Nicu had made extensive use of his last gift.

 

Vlad watched the shift of emotions that flitted over his beloved's face as he sank down, filling himself. There was a brief flicker of pain in the young man's expression, but it passed almost as swiftly as it appeared, swallowed in a look of almost sweet intensity. Nicu rose and fell, the long muscles of his thighs moving smoothly.

 

It couldn't last. It had been too long for both of them. In only a few minutes both men reached a strong, shuddering climax. Nicolae spilled his seed over Draculea's belly and chest, even as he felt the hot pulse in his clenching back passage. Nicolae's body stiffened over Draculea, then slowly went limp, collapsing to lie loose-limbed atop his body.

 

Vlad stroked Nicu's back, feeling tremors slowly ease from his body. Nicolae murmured smething in a thick, sated voice. He would have been incoherent to anyone else, but Vlad understood completely. "I know, Nicu. I love you, too."

 

In another moment Nicolae was asleep, deeply asleep. Poor child. He's exhausted. How much has he slept this fortnight? He waited another moment, then carefully rolled the boy off onto the mattress. Another moment and he gingerly extracted himself from Nicolae's embrace. He slipped on a robe and went to the door. As he had half expected, Simion was waiting in the hall.

 

The blonde man entered silently and went to pour wine for the prince without being asked. He brought it to Draculea who, when he had taken the goblet, gestured for him to sit. Simion sat, tossing a glance at the slumbering boy, and said softly, "My lord, I would have told you, had there been time."

 

"I know, Simion. What happened? I knew he was unhappy when I left, but this..."

 

Simion shrugged, and his next words held something Draculea had never heard in the older man's voice--helplessness. "He pined for you, my lord. I did what I could. I even delegated many of my duties so that I could spend time with him, but..." He spread his hands. "I am his friend, but it wasn't enough."

 

"What about his sister?" Simion's expression hardened, and it was answer enough, but still Draculea said, "Tell me."

 

Beta was unpleasantly surprised when her husband came to her room not long after she had left him. Lena had been of the opinion that Draculea would be occupied with his bed warmer for some time.

 

The lady's maid was dismissed with a silent glare that she dared not pretend to misinterpret. He indicated that Beta should sit, and brought her a goblet of wine, then sat across from her and began. "I don't ask much from you, Beta, but this I will demand."

 

Draculea watched the emotions flit across his wife's face. He thought that Beta was lucky to have married into her position. She would not have risen far, for she was not skilled in hiding her true feelings. Draculea could tell that she was torn between her own natural, if weak, affections for Nicolae, and the feeling of contempt and distrust that Abul tried to foster. At last Beta said haughtily, "You will dictate my companions?"

 

Draculea sighed impatiently. "God, child, is that different from what most husbands do? Had I fully enforced my wishes, that viper that you nurse in your bosom would have long ago been scourged from my domain."

 

Beta turned pale, but he continued. "I have stayed my hand many times, for your sake." ...and Nicu's, he thought. He's still so innocent in some ways. He would try to nurse a rabid wolf, and be surprised when it tore him. "All I ask is that you spend time with him. Resume your communal masses, take at least one meal a day with him, visit the library. It will take scarcely an hour of your day, and it will mean the world to him."

 

"He has Mircea, Simion, and the servants," she said sullenly.

 

"It is not the same, and you know it. You are his blood, Beta."

 

"My father never acknowledged him." Beta had been toying with her goblet--one made of rare Venetian glass. She gasped in alarm as Draculea snatched it from her hand and dashed it to the ground. It sent a spray of glittering shards and crimson wine across the rich rug--another recently acquired luxury.

 

Any protest she had considered died in her throat as he seized her by the shoulders in a punishing grip, jerking her up from her seat. "Do you dare speak so? When I came to court you I heard you chastise Varga for that ommision. You boldly declared Nicolae to be Varga's son, and your brother, and now this?" He shook her roughly. "Your tongue may wag, but I think it is Abul's words that you speak."

 

What could she say? He was right. It occured to Beta that she could not remember the last time she had held an important opinion that had not been influenced--nay, dictated by Lena.

 

Draculea continued. "My late absence was not easy on him, Beta. He showed me a cheerful face, but he was far too pale and thin. Simion has told me how it was for him. Before I returned he had even lost interest in his library and his students. He spent the last few days in either the chapel or his room--or on the roof." His voice was quiet. "The news from the border is not good. The Turks are restless, and becoming more aggressive. I am going to be away more often, and I will not have him eating his heart out while I am gone. You will do this, Beta."

 

Beta lifted her chin and said, "And if I do not wish to?"

 

When he replied his voice was soft and chilly, and his eyes were frightening. "If you crave solitude, I can provide it. There are rooms in the castle, rooms you have not yet visited, where you and your creature, Lena, could spend the rest of your days in solitary communion. Of course, they are not as pleasant as these quarters. They are darker, and danker, and the servants seldom trouble with them. But I can assure you that once you take up residence there, you will not be troubled by Nicolae again." He paused, and when he spoke again the menace peeked through the civility. "Though I may visit you occasionally."

 

---

Chapter 33: Preparations

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-three

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Preparations

 

Nicolae had quickly returned to near normal once Draculea returned, and he did not seem too very upset when he learned there was to be another tour. However, the next time Draculea had to leave the castle to attend to affairs of state, Nicolae could not force himself to see his lover off. He left their bed before dawn, dropping a final lingering kiss on his lover's cheek, and went to the chapel.

 

Father Mircea, also an early riser, found him there not long after, kneeling in prayer before the altar. He was already petitioning the Virgin and all the saints to intercede with God to give Prince Draculea a safe journey, and a safe return. His voice faltered just a moment when he felt the older man's hand come to rest on his shoulder. When he finished the prayer Mircea pulled him to his feet. "Up, boy. We will say a mass, yes?" Nicolae silently embraced the priest, and Mircea felt tears against his neck. Giving the boy a single, firm shake he said gently, "Despair is a sin, boy."

 

There was a sigh, and Nicolae wiped his face as he stood back. Then his eyes shifted to a spot behind Mircea. The good father saw the tear-bright eyes widen. There was questioning, then disbelief, and finally a dawning happiness. Mircea turned.

 

Beta was coming down the aisle, the rich brocade of her gown rustling softly. Beyond her he could see Lena lingering near the chapel door, then sitting in one of the pews. When Beta reached the men she hesitated, then bent forward and pressed a quick, light kiss on Nicolae's damp cheek. When she pulled back, Beta had to resist the urge to wipe the salt trace from her lips. She said, "Brother, shall we say a mass for the Prince's safety, and the well being of our country?" There was an almost infinitesimal glance back at the scowling Lena, then she continued, "Will you pray with me each day, at least till he returns?"

 

What, Mircea mused, did the prince say to this woman?

 

The second trip was not as bad for Nicolae as the first. There were still long stretches of loneliness, but this time there was his sister, as well as his other friends, to help him keep the frightening blankness away. There was the gift for when the emptiness was more physical than emotional, and he clung to every faint trace of his lover he could find. He gently forbade the serving girls to change the cases on their pillows when they brought fresh bed linen. When it all got to be too much, he would hug Draculea's pillow, his face buried in the spot where his love's head had lain, deeply inhaling Draculea's scent. He wasn't happy, but it was enough. He found that he could survive his lover's absence, as long as he knew Draculea would be returning.

 

Four tours were enough to inspect all of the border garrisons, and most of those in the interior. After the final tour, Draculea consulted with Stefan and his other advisors. "We are strong, but they are also strong, and they are many." He sighed. "As much as I hate to say it," he looked sourly at Stefan, "it may be time for diplomacy."

 

Stefan closed his eyes in relief. "Thank God that you finally see sense, my lord."

 

"Sense?"

 

Bishop Alfred, the Church's representative, said the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. As it very well may, Simion thought disdainfully.

 

Alfred repeated the word, giving it an extra twist. "Sense? Sense to bow to these... these heathen animals--these uncivilized curs?"

 

Draculea reflected on how the Turkish nobles, whose families could be traced back generations before Wallachia had come into being, who referred to the most sophisticated of his countrymen as infidels, would react to the bishop's characterization. He said coldly, "Have I mentioned aught of bowing to anyone, Your Grace? If there must be war, then war there will be, but I owe it to my people to seek out avenues of peace if I may do so without showing weakness. Stefan, are they still offering to send envoys?"

 

"They have never ceased, my Prince. Shall I send an invitation?"

 

"You have not done so already?" When Stefan started to sputter, Draculea relented with a wry smile. "Yes, do so. I'll give them at least one chance to pull back. I would prefer not to go to war, but I will need compelling reasons."

 

Bishop Alfred, obviously still displeased, said, "Prince Draculea, where will you meet these men?"

 

Draculea waved vaguely. "Here, of course."

 

"Of course? Of course?"

 

"Your Grace, have you been bewitched? You seem to be compelled to repeat what you hear. Yes, here, of course. It might be considered an insult to meet them in a lesser dwelling."

 

Alfred spoke stiffly. "You will expose your wife to these barbarians?"

 

Draculea thought. This could be a delicate matter. While the Turks would never present their own wives or daughters to westerners, would they view the same actions as reasonable, or as an insult?

 

While he thought, the bishop said piously, "My Prince, the women must be protected. Let me suggest that the Princess Elizabeta and her ladies make a retreat to one of our convents. The Little Sisters of the Sacred Blood are close by, and can provide comfortable lodgings."

 

"That sounds reasonable." He regarded the cleric coolly. "Can the sisters accomodate all the women of my household?" He waited a moment, watching the confusion grow in the bishop's expression. "Ah, I see. You mean the ladies must be protected, not the women."

 

The bishop's expression was still uncomprehending. Chivalry was fiercely upheld for nobles and royals, but common folk... Well, they were more important than cattle... at least in most cases, but one could hardly be expected to extend them such courtesies. In truth, concern for his servants' welfare would not have occured to Draculea a year ago, but Nicolae had developed a fondness for the women and girls who served in the castle.

 

Draculea beckoned Simion closer. "Simion, send the females away for the duration of this farce. Replace them with men, and let them know that if they grumble at doing women's work, I can find an infinitely less pleasant way for them to spend their time."

 

His other advisors exchanged glances. Though it was seldom officially admitted, in instances such as these, foreign diplomats were usually supplied with every comfort, including bed partners if they so desired. Only the most pious monarchs (and Draculea had never been numbered among them) formally prohibited carnal pursuits. Would the delegates have to practice abstention during their state visit? It would be most prudent to keep them in a good mood, but who would suggest such a thing to the prince?

 

They relaxed when Draculea continued, "Bring a woman or two up from the village. And make sure you get seasoned ones. Who knows what the Turks will want? Offer them silver--gold, if necessary." Most peasants went their entire lives without touching more than a few copper coins, and this sort of largesse could not fail to bring eager compliance.

 

Stefan's formal invitation was quickly accepted. The Turks looked upon it as a chance to gain lands and other concessions without having to go to war. There was much discussion over who would go. It was a delicate matter. Delegates of too high a rank would indicate eagerness, while too low a rank might be seen as an insult.

 

Finally two senior officials, Mahamoud and Ali, were chosen. They were crafty men who had survived many years of intricate political manuevering. After some mental debate, the sultan also sent one of his younger courtiers. Rahazad had not yet attained his third decade, and was, in truth, a former favorite. Rahazad had proven intelligent, at least to the point of making no difficulties when he was supplanted in his monarch's affections. This trip would lend prestige to his position at court. He was expected to listen, remain silent (save for pleasantries) while his elders negotiated, and present a favorable image of the Turkish court with his personal beauty and grace.

 

Nicolae was not overly sad that Beta would be away for a time, since Draculea would not be gone. The evening before she was to leave for the convent, he visited her in her chamber.

 

Beta was grumbling, not an unusual thing. "I do not see why I cannot stay and entertain the envoys. One of the things that I looked forward to when I wed was the chance to meet the foreign diplomats. I thought I would be amused and entertained by the cleverest men from France, Britain, Italy, perhaps even the orient. So far there has been no one save that delegation of Russians." Her nose crinkled in disgust. "They wiped their hands on their hunting dogs, and I think they rubbed bear grease in their hair."

 

"I expect there will not be much gaiety, Sister," Nicolae offered consolingly. "They will wish to concentrate on affairs of state." Now his tone became almost apologetic. "And politics are not within a woman's scope, save in very special cases."

 

Lena snorted. Abul was of the opinion that she, herself, could understand politics very well. "That is not why he sends her away, Librarian. He fears for her chastity, if not her very life."

 

Nicolae frowned. "Lena, these are Turkish nobles. They will be the most civilized, cultured men of their court."

 

"Pah. Calugarul, they are from a land where a man may have four wives, and may own as many whores as he can afford." She laughed harshly at his blush. "Saints, boy, have you not listened to the tales told by the young rips here at the castle?" She smiled cruely. "No, I expect you stop your ears and run to say a Hail Mary. You should be educated, so listen closely."

 

Her eyes glittering, she leaned close to the young man, who had to fight an instinct to flinch back. "The Turks are the most carnal beasts to walk the face of the earth. To find their like, you would have to look back to the debauches practiced in Rome before the Blessed Church gained power. None are safe from their outrages--not women, men, children, or even," her voice lowered suggestively, "the beasts of the field, or so I have heard."

 

Nicolae's face went slack with horror. "No, not the children?"

 

"Oh, aye, the children. Though I do not think they usually bother with suckling infants, as Tiberius did." Lena grinned as Nicolae covered his mouth, clearly ill at the implication. "No, I think they let them toddle and lisp before they take them. But the greatest prize, I have heard, is a fair skinned boy or girl who has not yet grown their adult hair."

 

Nicolae was too shocked by these revelations to wonder much at Lena's crudity, or how she had learned such things. "It is good, then, that you and Beta and the others will be gone."

 

Lena nodded, and went back to packing Beta's trunk, layering in the substantial number of garments they would be taking. There might be no one there to impress but a few nuns (who had most likely taken a vow of poverty) but Beta would need to change at least thrice a day. "If I were you, Calugarul, I would be careful. One of the Turks may take a liking to your pretty face and slim body." She closed the case and cocked her head at him, saying maliciously, "Someone like you--pale, comely, well-spoken--you would fetch a good price on their slave block. The old men would fairly drool."

 

"Lena, enough." Beta did not like the look in Nicolae's eyes. The older woman was clearly trying to frighten him, and she seemed to have succeeded. Lena only shrugged and smirked.

 

Nicolae went to his room, telling himself that these were only rumors. Lena had heard, she had been told. Surely they were merely stories that had been magnified and distorted through many retellings. I have never pre-judged any man, I must not do so now. If I had... He smiled softly. I would have fled from Vlad in shrieking horror after some of the things I'd heard about him.

 

A part of Nicolae knew that the tales he'd heard about his lover's previous cruelty and violence could not all be false. He also knew that if he asked directly, Draculea would answer him honestly. Finally Nicolae knew that he would never ask because he did not want to believe the man he loved was capable of the atrocities he had heard attributed to him. The main reason NIcolae would never confront Draculea was because he knew that no matter what Draculea had done, he would still love him, and Nicolae thought that could very possibly drive him mad.

 

The women left that next morning, Beta and the court ladies going to the convent, or family estates, the servants going to the village or nearby farms. All would return when the envoys left.

 

The Turks were met a few miles past the border by an escort of Draculea's men-at-arms and courtiers. The message presented by the mixed group was that Draculea did not necessarily expect trouble, but he was prepared to meet force with force, if necessary. Stefan, despite his age, had made the journey. Greeting the three diplomats at the head of their own small group of soldiers, he marveled at how much could be communicated by show and symbol, entirely without words.

 

They began the journey back to Castle Draculea, a trip that would take nearly a week, due to the more stately pace they would maintain in deference to their visitors. Stefan welcomed the time, hoping to lay the groundwork for a smooth agreement. He knew his master.

 

Draculea seemed to have mellowed somewhat in the last year. At least there had been no more mass public impalings. Executions had been carried out quickly and cleanly, with a minimum of torture. But Draculea was a fiercely proud man, and viciously protective of all that was his. If he thought the Turks believed him to be a negligible threat, if they insulted him, even subtly... Well, it was entirely possible that the envoys would be returned to their sultan packed neatly in canvas bags, and Wallachia would be at war.

 

Two days before the ambassadors were to arrive, a quartet of women arrived at Castle Draculea and were led, giggling, through the great hall toward the domestic quarters. Nicolea, in the library as usual, heard whispering female voices, and went to investigate. He found them huddled together near the door to the kitchen, and, curious, approached them. They fell silent as the handsome young man with the friendly smile approached. All bobbed clumsy curtsies, and he said, "Please, good women, do not bend your knees to me. I am no lord--I work for my bread tending the prince's library."

 

The women relaxed slightly. From Nicolae's fine clothes and gentle speech they had assumed he was a noble, but the gentry never sought employment, save as attendants to those of higher rank.

 

The eldest, Marguerite, a hard-faced veteran tavern wench approaching her thirtieth year, smiled back at him. "Well, now, if you was one of them they brought us here to service, I'd say it could be scarcely counted as work."

 

All of the women saw the incomprehension in Nicolae's eyes, and there were a few good natured titters. The older woman said, "I've no idea why the castle wenches were sent away, but it's more luck for us. What the Prince's man offered will see me comfortable for near a year, if I'm careful." There were murmurs of agreement.

 

Understanding now, Nicolae studied the women. One could be counted a girl, as she was younger than he had been when he first met Draculea. But there was a certain... awareness about each of them. He did not tell them that they could refuse this duty if they chose, because he could see that it clearly was a choice. Instead he said, "I have been teaching the staff. I suppose you will not be here long, but if you so desire, I may have time to teach you to read and write your names."

 

The women looked at each other, then at Nicolae with doubt bordering on disbelief. None of them could recall anyone ever encouraging them to learn anything beyond simple catechisms and prayers. At last the youngest ventured, "You are kind to offer, sir, but I am far too stupid to learn such things."

 

"What is your name, girl?"

 

"Jane, sir."

 

"Jane. Come here, Jane." He led her to a table in the kitchen, one where a great trough of dough was rising. "I hope the cook will forgive me this mess." He sprinkled flour on the boards, then smoothed it into a thin film. "Do you fish, Jane?"

 

The poor, pretty man must be mad. "I have done, sir."

 

"Can you draw me a fish hook?"

 

She glanced at her companions, who shrugged, as if to say, Give him his way. Where is the harm? Hesitantly she touched her fingertip to the tabletop and drew it down, then curved shallowly up to the left.

 

Nicolae smiled at her. "You have written the first letter of your name, Jane."

 

"Sir! Do not tease me so!"

 

"I do not. It is simple script, not the formal style of my manuscripts, but any who can read could tell it plain." He sketched in the flour as the others, curious, gathered to look. "a--n--e. Jane."

 

The girl delicately touched each letter with a white dusted fingertip. "This... is me?" He nodded. The look she turned on him was so admiring that he blushed.

 

Simion entered the kitchen, followed by two men bearing large buckets of water. The men poured the water into the great pot hung over one of the kitchen hearths, then began to stoke the fire under it.

 

Simion came over and studied the letters etched in the flour. "Librarian, why am I not surprised?" Another two men carried a bathing tub into the servants' quarters as Simion handed the women towels and lumps of soap. He bowed slightly to the women. "Ladies." The women were again surprised. There was no irony in his voice when he used the term. "Your first task will be to bathe."

 

The eldest woman tried to hand her supplies back to him. "No need, sir. I wash my hands and face every day, and I washed my feet last Sunday."

 

Simion folded his arms, refusing to take back the items. "Lady, the Turks are peculiarly fastidious. You must get into the tub and bathe all over."

 

There were gasps. One of the women declared, "It is indecent! A mortal woman should be washed entirely twice--once at birth, and once before she is laid to rest. More is not only immodest but... but unhealthy."

 

Simion shook his head. "You are lucky we do not insist you be shaved, as I have heard they favor." Jane looked as if she might faint. "It will not harm you, and if you fear for your purity..." here there was a touch of irony, "Father Mircea will hear your confession."

 

"Really," Nicolae urged, "it is most pleasant." He touched the white, waxy lump that Jane held. "This is called soap. It is remarkable. It foams like beer, but..."

 

With a smile Simion returned to preparing the castle for the envoys' arrival. He had no doubt that Nicolae would charm the women, and they would soon be cleaner than they ever had been before, or would likely be again.

 

I only hope the bolder ones do not invite him to lend a hand. More than a year with my lord, and the roses still bloom in his cheeks at the slightest thing.

 

Father Mircea was a bit surprised when Draculea came alone to the chapel and indicated that he wished to make confession, but he was more than willing to perform the office. He took his place in the box, and slid aside the panel when the prince was seated.

 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been more than a week since Nicolae last hectored me to confession with silent reproach in his eyes."

 

Unseen Mircea smiled. Draculea continued. "Let me think... I have avoided sloth, gluttony, and avarice, but I suppose by boasting such I am guilty of vanity. I am afraid I have been proud, as usual. Anger...? Yes, I have been angry, and impatient. I have harbored uncharitable thoughts, particularly about one of my wife's maids, but that is nothing new." He fell silent.

 

Sighing regretfully, Mircea said, "Is that all, my son?" The silence continued. Through the screen Mircea could see the stern, handsome profile of the prince. He dreaded the day that Draculea chose to confess his infidelity and fornication. Indeed, Mircea wondered if Draculea would ever make that confession, for he knew that the man did not see his relationship with Nicolae as a sin.

 

Mircea was content to leave it at that if he could be sure they would live a long life together, and he could attend Draculea at a peaceful deathbed. He had no doubt that then the prince, to comfort his gentle companion, would perform the proper ritual. But with the present unsure state of affairs, he could not help but worry, and he had to ask. "Prince, is that all?"

 

Draculea looked through the grate, and his blue eyes were chilly. "Yes, Priest. I have committed no other sins that need confessing."

 

For loving Nicu is no sin. Mircea thought. If I sin in this, may God forgive me, but I cannot help but agree, my Prince. Bowing his head, Father Mircea began to speak the words of absolution.

 

---

Chapter 34: Forbidden Fruit

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-four

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Forbidden Fruit

 

Rahazad was not impressed by the first sight of Castle Draculea. Granted it was of imposing size, but seemed very rough compared to the sultan’s palace. He had kept his eyes open on the trip, noting men and fortifications. Both were more than he would have wished. Still, the bounty of the land they passed through convinced him that it was worth the risk.

 

He noticed the castle’s secure position, with the river at its back and its thick, high walls. A siege could be both tedious and dangerous if the castle were well supplied and word could be sent to Wallachian forces stationed nearby.

 

Rahazad turned his mind from such practical concerns toward anticipation of easing the discomfort he had suffered on his journey. Rahazad had been raised to be a courtier. His training in the military arts had been mostly token efforts. He had never yet engaged in true battle. He was used to regular meals of carefully prepared delicacies, soft beds, and the attendance of comely servants who catered to his every need and whim. He had not been allowed to bring even a single concubine or body slave. Two dour men attended the three ambassadors.

 

As they entered the castle courtyard, Rahazad looked forward to good food, decent wine, and the chance to bed a serving wench or lad. This was his first time among these infidels, and he found the idea of their pale skin exciting. So far, though, he had seen no women (not even in the streets of the village), and the men had been too rough, grizzled, or dirty to inspire attraction.

 

His hopes rose when he saw the people gathered in the courtyard to greet them, but again there were no women. Still, as they dismounted he took note of several likely young nobles in the assembly.

 

The Wallachian prince who came forward to welcome them was a handsome man. His stature was impressive, and he bore himself with grace, but more pride than dignity. There was a sense of barely leashed power about the man, and the elder statesmen took note. They had expected this to be an easy venture, believing from Stefan’s missive that they would find his master reasonable, if not eager to please. One look at Draculea’s cold expression and the pale glitter of his eyes was enough to wipe away their hopes of subtly bullying the prince into concessions. Rahazad, more of a fool than his patron would have wished to believe, saw only that the prince was not to his particular tastes.

 

Draculea moved forward to welcome the men officially. He studied them closely as Stefan made the introductions. Mahamoud, Ali, and Rahazad: two wise old dogs and a puppy. He watched the grace with which the young man made his deep bow, somehow managing to keep the red tassled hat securely on his sleek, dark head.

 

That observation brought the ghost of a frown to his face. Soldiers, of course, were not expected to remove helmets, but it was generally held protocol to greet a monarch bare-headed. He had allowed the few Jews who came into his presence to retain their skull-caps, in tolerance of their religion, but this... He decided to give the Turks the benefit of the doubt. He could let it pass, seeing as they were out of doors.

 

Draculea’s manner of address was polite, but not in the least fawning or flowery. “My most noble and respected visitors. I make you welcome in my land, and in my own home.”

 

Mahamoud thought, He tells us that he might have received us in a lesser place, but chose to honor us in this manner. That is good.

 

“May God grant that we reach an accord that will allow our hard-won peace to continue.”

 

He reminds us of the losses he has dealt us in the past, and they are considerable.

 

“May He also grant us the wisdom to recognize the path that will lead us to what He has planned for us.”

 

And that says that he will not be ruled by his advisors. If they conflict too strongly with his own feelings, they might well suffer for their importuning. We will have to step carefully with this man, but we must not appear weak.

 

The company entered the castle, and Draculea excused himself to confer with Stefan. Simion took charge of the envoys. He bowed and invited them to follow him up the grand staircase.

 

Most of the luxuries that Beta had accumulated during her marriage had been moved into the three rooms that the envoys would occupy. Nicolae, visiting the rooms the day before, had found the opulence nearly suffocating. The Turks took it as their due. The rooms were side by side along one corridor. In Mahamoud’s room, Simion informed them that they had only to ask for anything they needed. There would be a formal banquet of welcome that evening. Negotiations would wait until the next day.

 

When Simion excused himself, Rahazad begged leave of his seniors and followed him out into the hall, saying, “You are called Simion?”

 

Simion eyed him. He will not call me ‘sir’, but hesitates to call me ‘slave’. Arrogance and caution--an odd mix. Simion bowed. “So I am, Domn. Is there aught you need?”

 

“I have a question.” Simion lifted his eyebrows in an attitude of polite readiness. “How do you westerners produce children?”

 

“I... Domn, I would assume in the same manner as you and your countrymen.”

 

“We require women for this, Simion. That is a commodity that your otherwise rich land seems to lack.”

 

Ah. “My lord, you have arrived at a time when our women folk habitually make a retreat in order to meditate and refresh their spirits. However, if you require the comfort and companionship that only the fair sex can provide, there are a few in the domestic quarters beyond the kitchen. One might be brought to you.”

 

“Is it permissible for me to visit them there?” He smiled. “I’m sure you can understand my desire to see which of the fair ones would prove most congenial.”

 

You would pick and choose. Understandable. “Of course, Domn. If you would care to come with me now?” Simion led the young Turkish noble downstairs. They passed through the kitchen, dodging the men who bustled to prepare the banquet (none of them daring to mutter about the domesticity of their assignment).

 

The women had been instructed to wait in a small common room, which had been furnished simply but comfortably. As part of their promised pay they had each been provided with a simple set of new, modest clothes--the sort that respectable women of the merchant class might wear.

 

They all looked up when the men entered, then stood quickly. Simion they knew, so their attention fastened immediately on the other man. He was young, not long into his twenties. His clothes, though a bit dusty from travel, were of strange design. The trousers were loose and flowing, and the colors were brighter than any they had ever seen outside a flower garden. The effect was exotic.

 

He was handsome, though his looks were unfamiliar. The hair that peeked from under his cap was black and a bit coarse. His eyes were nearly as dark as his hair. He was clean shaven, with nut brown skin. His features were strongly drawn, with an arrogant thrust of nose and jut of jaw. The eldest whore regarded his wide mouth, took note of the faint, petulant droop at its corners, and hoped that he would not choose her. This young man believed that many, many things were rightfully his, simply because he was who he was, and he would not be easy to please.

 

Rahazad looked the women over silently. Very poor. Even the merchants of Turkey have better slaves than this. Still, it would not do to disparage their hospitality. Two of them are not so bad, I suppose, thought they look well used rather than experienced.

 

“Charming, Simion. Tell me, are there any young men of the court who are...” he considered his words, “sportive?”

 

Three of the women looked confused. Marguerite rolled her eyes and murmured something about how lucky it was that most common folk did not share the noble’s tastes, else it would be hard for a woman to earn her bread.

 

“I expect, my lord, that one or two of the minor gentlemen in attendance would prove amenable. If you are patient for but a few more hours, I do not doubt that you will find companionship.” He bowed. “Shall I show you back to your room? There are tasks to which I must see.”

 

Rahazad waved him on. “I can find my own way.” Simion left, and he turned his attention back to the women.

 

At last one of them ventured, “You speak our language very well.”

 

“I speak several languages. My Latin is probably the equal of your priest’s, and I speak French and German as well.” His smile was both condescending and leering. “I have a talented tongue. Perhaps I will demonstrate my skills for you later.” As he spoke, he put his hand into her bodice and squeezed, none too gently, testing the firmness of her bosom (and finding it disappointingly loose.)

 

The door opened again, and he turned, expecting to find Simion, urging him politely to repair to his room.

 

An unfamiliar voice said cheerfully, “Look, Marguerite, I’ve brought you more parchment. You mustn’t give up, now that you’ve made such excellent progress. I’m sure... Oh.” Rahazad gazed at the man who had just entered the room, and felt an immediate spark of interest.

 

He was young, still several years younger than Rahazad. He was tall, and his simple clothes showed a trim body. Hair as dark as Rahazad’s own, but with a satiny sheen, tumbled low on his forehead and brushed his shoulders, longer than what seemed to be the current fashion in the land.

 

His eyes were a deep, soft brown. They were large, with a slight tilt that would have made him suspect that the boy had Mongol blood, if it were not for the fineness of his features, and his complexion. Oh, his skin! Merciful Allah, the women in his court would kill for skin like that. Staring at Rahazad, the boy was blushing, and it was like milk and honey poured over rose petals.

 

The wide, dark eyes flickered away, and he stammered, “I... I am sorry. I...” He laid the parchment on a table and backed quickly toward the door. “Ladies, if you want, later... If you have time, I... The library. I’m sorry.” He was gone.

 

There was silence for a moment, then Rahazad breathed, “Who was that?”

 

Jane piped up, “That was Nicolae the Monk. He is librarian here.”

 

Speaking as if thinking aloud, Rahazad murmured, “He is beautiful.” Then he slapped Jane briskly on the rump. “Come to my room tonight after the banquet.”

 

When he had gone, Marguerite said, “We should have told him.”

 

Another whore, named Anne, shrugged. “It’s not our place.”

 

“But he might get himself killed.”

 

“So? If he’s stupid enough to make advances to the prince’s sweetheart because his prick leads him on before he finds out what’s what, it’s his own fault.”

 

“But shouldn’t we at least warn Nicolae?”

 

This gave the women pause, but at last one of them, Martha, shook her head. “I doubt he’d believe it. Hell, he hasn’t yet noticed that he gives us all damp drawers, has he?” She patted Jane on the shoulder. “Well, lass, you’d best set yourself for tonight. I have a feeling that you may learn a thing or two from that heathen.”

 

Librarian. Rahazad liked that idea. Most courtiers made at least a token effort at training in the military arts--swordplay, archery, fisticuffs--but a scholar...

 

The library was easy to find, but it was empty. Rahazad entered and looked about. He was impressed. The sultan’s ancestors had revered learning, and had built a large library of their own, but this surpassed it. Could the young man he’d seen really be responsible for this?

 

Rahazad examined several volumes, noting neat repairs. Sheets of copy work on the table showed meticulous, but elegant, script. He’s talented. Talented, and beautiful. No doubt intelligent, too. A true prize. If I could present such a treasure to the sultan it would be a coup. It is not unthinkable that a servant could be made part of the settlement.

 

The door opened and the boy entered. He halted when he spotted Rahazad, watching him cautiously from under a dark fringe of hair.

 

Rahazad gave him his most open, friendly smile. Nicolae could not help responding with a tentative smile of his own. Mindful of the visitor’s rank, he made a bow and waited to see if he would speak to him.

 

The Turk touched his forehead in a greeting that was meant to flatter the young man (since he did not believe him of sufficient rank to deserve it.) “Greetings. I am Rahazad ibn Hamara. You are Nicolae the Monk?”

 

Nicolae bowed again. “Nicolae, sir. Calugarul, the Monk, is a title no longer appropriate. I left the monastery long ago, and will not return. I am custodian of this library. Is there anything I can do for you?”

 

“There may well be, Nicolae.” He indicated the table. “This is your work?”

 

“Yes, Domn.” He went to the table and began to neaten the already tidy contents. “I am now copying a book that details the life of Saint Francis of Assisi. When I am done, the book will be returned to their order.”

 

“You write a fine hand. Can you read as well?” Rahazad knew very well that one thing did not necessarily guarantee the other. There were many skilled copyists who were illiterate.

 

“Oh, yes, Domn! It is one of my greatest pleasures.” His eyes, shining, roamed over the well filled shelves.

 

Rahazad stepped closer, and his voice was soft. “What are your other pleasures, Nicolae?”

 

Something in the man’s silky tone alerted Nicolae, and he looked at the Turk sharply. During his time at Draculea’s court he had come to recognize when a man desired him. Oh, the nobles of the court never made any direct advances--they all had better sense than that. Still, Nicolae had learned to recognize the caressing glances and change in breathing. When Rahazad moistened his lips, Nicolae knew for sure, and he took a step back. “I pray, Domn.”

 

Rahazad did not take the implied rebuke. He moved closer, saying, “Then you are used to spending time on your knees. How fortuitous.”

 

Rahazad was between Nicolae and the door, and Nicolae began to try to edge around him. “If you will excuse me, Lord, I must go.”

 

Still smiling, he moved to block Nicolae’s escape. “No, boy, I am not ready to excuse you.”

 

Nicolae kept trying to move around him, but Rahazad countered every move, seeming to be quite amused by the boy’s tentative efforts at escape. “Sir, please.”

 

“You’re not an innocent, boy. I will not believe that one such as you could escape untouched at any court, not even that of your own pope.” Nicolae gasped in shock at the sacrilege. Rahazad said, “Come now, no need to be so skittish, pretty one. I wager I can show you more pleasure than your most skilled lover.”

 

Nicolae drew himself up with dignity. “Sir, you must not press me. I have pledged myself to someone. I belong to him, and I want no other.”

 

Rahazad made a dismissive gesture. “He will never know, and I can make you want me.” He lunged suddenly, grabbing Nicolae’s wrist and jerking the boy into his arms.

 

The grip on his wrist was bruising. Nicolae felt the Turk’s free hand tangle in his hair, holding him fast as Rahazad brought his lips down on Nicolae’s. Nicolae’s cry of protest was muffled against Rahazad’s mouth, and the Turk took the chance to thrust his tongue deep into the hot, sweet depths of the boy’s mouth.

 

The envoy was enjoying the tensed feel of the body against which he pressed, relishing the librarian’s obvious reluctance, when the pain struck. He released Nicolae with a yell, clapping his hands to his mouth in astonishment, unable to believe what had happened. The boy had fled from the library before he could bring himself to admit that he had, indeed, been bitten.

 

Stunned, Rahazad dropped into a chair. There was a coppery taste in his mouth. He put a finger in, gingerly touching his tongue. When he withdrew it, his fingertip was smeared with thin, bright blood. He grinned. By Allah, a fighter! How long has it been since I took an unwilling partner?

 

He moved his tongue, sucking at the trickle of blood. Complete and immediate submission can become boring. He stood up and strolled out of the library, heading for his room. If I can’t persuade the fools to include the boy in our agreement, perhaps I’ll just take him. After all, he thought as he climbed the stairs, Draculea is hardly likely to endanger a favorable accord for one slave.

 

---

Chapter 35: Bad Judgement

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-five

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Bad Judgement

 

Nicolae paused as he hurried down the corridor, and spat violently several times, trying to get the salty tang out of his mouth. He’d bitten the Turk harder than he had thought, but he’d been frightened, and it had worked.

 

The few times Draculea had laid hands on him before he had recognized his own desire for the older man, he had been insistent, but not rough. Nicolae had known, even in his confusion and inexperience, that Draculea was being as thoughtful of Nicolae's feelings as he was his own. There was no sense of this with Rahazad. The Turk was thinking only of his own desires. The fact that Nicolae was not interested was not merely immaterial--it was an impetus.

 

He started to Draculea’s room, then hesitated, and turned down a side corridor. He went to the small, pleasant room to which he had been brought the day he arrived at Castle Draculea. He had only occupied it a handful of nights--when it was imperative that a seamless front be presented to outsiders. He had stayed there when the Russian diplomats had been in residence, and on the few occasions that Bishop Alfred had visited.

 

To someone unaware of the true situation at the castle, it would not have seemed unusual. The sparce personal contents would have been put down to the occupant’s aesthetic nature. Aside from the bare furnishings, there were only a Bible, a rosary, a crucifix on the wall, and a few clothes.

 

Draculea had not told him that he should stay there, but Nicolae had himself decided that it was the best course. Now he wasn’t sure.

 

While he was nervous about being alone, he thought that it would not be wise to let his lover know that one of the diplomats was showing an improper interest in him. He had never witnessed the full force of Draculea’s anger, but he knew from what he had seen that it would be formidable--perhaps even deadly.

 

Nicolae dropped down on the edge of the bed, sighing. He put his elbows on his knees, then propped his chin in his hands. No, he couldn’t tell Draculea. This treaty was important, much more important than his own feelings. He could not risk endangering it with complaints. He frowned. Besides, can I count myself truly a man if I do not at least try to defend myself? He sat and thought for awhile, and there was a tap at the door. “Come.”

 

Simion entered. “So, here you are. He’ll be looking for you soon.”

 

“We agreed that I’d stay here for awhile.”

 

“Yes, and he won’t be able to spend much time with you for the next few days, but you know very well that he won’t be able to stand keeping you away for so long.”

 

Nicolae absently rubbed his wrist. “I think that I might take my meal in this room tonight.”

 

“No, Nicolae,” Simion said firmly. “You will not be able to sit beside him, but seeing you at the table will soothe him.”

 

“I’m not sure...”

 

Simion sat beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders. In a low voice he said, “Nicolae, you know him. You must realize that you are greatly responsible for his late tolerance and evenness of temper? We need him calm and reasonable.” He gave him a small shake. “You must do your part.”

 

“I know, Simion. I will do what I can.”

 

Simion stood and ruffled Nicolae’s hair. “History will record that Beta is Draculea’s wife, but you are his true mate, and the mates of great men are often more of an influence than the world knows.”

 

He left, and Nicolae rubbed his face, thinking, And the world does not know how heavy that responsibility can be.

 

The banquet was much smaller than Draculea’s wedding feast, but it was still far from intimate. All of the men of Draculea’s court were in attendance, along with the local nobles. The diplomats were seated at the head table, on either side of the prince. Rahazad was delighted to find that mead was available. Since it was made from honey, it did not violate the Islamic prohibition of beverages fermented from fruit or grain. While his compatriots limited themselves to water, Rahazad had his first taste of intoxicating liquor--perhaps not the wisest act of a diplomat.

 

No one, except perhaps the visiting dignitaries, was surprised that someone as humble as the castle librarian was sitting only a few chairs down from the head.

 

Rahazad was very interested in this fact. He hadn’t expected to see the pretty scholar at the meal. This must mean that he had an influential patron at court. A bed warmer was seldom allowed to attend state banquets. He supposed that the boy’s talent and education was what made him fit for such exalted company. After all, he reflected, the most successful courtesans are the ones who can fascinate with their minds as well as their bodies. I really must bring him back with me. The sultan will surely abandon the chit he favors now if he can have one who will speak to him intelligently after he has sated his desires.

 

Rahazad made himself pleasant to the nobles who sat on either side of him. He followed the sultan’s intentions for him by presenting an impressive image of the Turkish court. He was handsome, charming, and witty, and he made no references to politics. That would be left to the senior diplomats, and they would not discuss affairs of state at such an open event.

 

Draculea made polite conversation with Mahamoud, on his right, and Ali, on his left, but those who knew the prince knew that there was something on his mind. He studied each of the diplomats carefully as the meal progressed. At last he said to Mahamoud, “Your manner of dress is pleasing, though strange, sir.”

 

Mahamoud bowed his head. "Our styles are distinct, your highness, but they suit our country and lifestyle well.”

 

“No doubt. I see that you have each donned a new set of garments for the feast.”

 

A bit puzzled, Mahamoud agreed. “It would be disrespectful of your station not to, your highness.”

 

He nodded. It was very true. Only peasants wore the same clothes over and over again, while a noble was expected to change often. It both demonstrated their own wealth and status, and honored those about them. “In fact, the only garment I recognize is your hats. They are the same as when you arrived.”

 

Some of the guests at the high table stopped eating and tried to be inconspicuous as they listened. Mahamoud thought he could see where this was leading, but he pretended that he saw no rebuke in the statement. “They are of a similar style, but different hats, your highness. The ones we wore for travel needed to be cleaned.”

 

“So you donned clean hats to present yourself for the banquet.”

 

“Yes, your highness.”

 

Draculea casually poked at a bone on his plate. “The Jews wear their skull-caps...” He frowned and turned his head to look at Simion, who stood behind his chair. “What is the word, Simion?” “Yarmulkas, Domn.”

 

“Yes. They wear them for religious reasons, something about covering their heads before their god. Tell me, is there such a reason for you wearing your hats?”

 

Mahamoud hesitated. "No religious reasons, your highness. It is simply our custom.”

 

"Mm." The quiet had begun to spread down the table. His eyes roamed over the assembly. "I see no one else here with his head covered. You know, to the best of my knowledge, in all the courts of Europe and the orient it is the custom to greet the ruling monarch with the head bared--as a sign of respect." Draculea leaned forward a bit and looked at Stefan, only a little way down the board. "I am not mistaken in this, am I Stefan?"

 

Stefan closed his eyes briefly. Why didn’t I notice? He is right, and he has executed men for less than this. He remembered one incident in particular, near the beginning of Draculea's rule.

 

Draculea had taken the throne by removing a distant relative who had a claim that was slightly more tenuous than Draculea's own. Not all of the officers of the Wallachian armed forces had been completely supportive. During his first review of the troops, one of the generals had refused to bow.

 

Draculea had given him a second chance to perform the proper obeisance, and had been scornfully refused. The prince had remarked that perhaps the general needed help in learning to bend his back.

 

The general was stripped naked. He was forced to bend double, and his torso was bound tightly to his legs, so that his face was against his knees, then he was strung up by his feet in the castle courtyard.

 

Stephen did not remember how long it had taken him to die. A week? Ten days? The end might have come more quickly, but the prince had ordered that he be given a little food and water each day. Some might have thought this showed a hint of mercy, but Stefan knew that it was done to prolong the man's ordeal.

 

The ropes had cut into the skin at his ankles quickly. It took a little longer for the binding ropes to do the same, but his weight had done the trick eventually. Blood had streaked down his body to moisten the ground beneath him, mingling with his own wastes.

 

The ropes around his ankles had sunk deep into the flesh. The feet had swollen to monstrous size, darkening from blue, to purple, to black. The skin had split, and the fissures had leaked foul, yellow matter. The smell around the unfortunate man had become almost unbearable. The horses had shied when they had to pass, and more than one of the men had to empty their bellies when they came too near.

 

Stefan supposed that, had the man lived long enough, his feet would have eventually torn off, but it hadn't come to that. Someone had taken pity on the man, who was by that time quite mad, and had cut his throat during the night. No one had wanted to admit the act, as it could have been interpreted as treason. Draculea had calmly stated that if the one responsible did not want to confess he would simply kill every other soldier who had been under the man's command.

 

A man had stepped forward to take the blame. The whole company had cringed, waiting to see what horror Draculea would decree. The prince had announced that he heartily doubted that this was the actual culprit. He was of the opinion that the man was confessing only to save his comrades, and that such loyalty should be rewarded. He had given the man the former general's position.

 

Remembering this, Stefan prayed fervently that the Turks were not attempting a subtle show of power. Any monarch faced with such a blatant show of disrespect would be expected to take action. If Draculea did not deal with this it would be viewed by his people as a slight to them as well, and no ruler could afford that.

 

Stefan took a deep breath and said, "In truth, my prince, such is the rule, though each monarch may decide the finer points of manners within his own domain, as he sees fit." You do not have to retaliate, my lord. Pray God you give these men another chance, so that we can at least try to reach an agreement with the sultan.

 

Draculea seemed to consider this. Not a morsel of food or a drop of wine was consumed as they awaited his pronouncement. Finally he said, "I was troubled that you did not doff your hats when we met, but I set the matter aside. You were weary, and we were still outdoors. But tonight..." He shook his head. "This is a formal occasion, and niceties should be observed."

 

He looked again at Mahamoud, whose expression was grim and apprehensive. "Can you give me a compelling reason why you should not show me this respect?"

 

If it had been quiet before, it was silent now. Allah, the man would confront us before all his court! How can we bend now? Word will spread swiftly of our submission, and it will undermine our position throughout the empire. He considered all possible outcomes in a few heartbeats, and made his decision. Surely the penalty for such a comparitively minor offense would not be great, and they could continue with the negotiations. Upon their return he would warn the sultan to be especially cautious of all tiny courtesies in his future dealings with this man.

 

Mahamoud inclined his head. "Your highness, it is the custom of our fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers before them. We honor our ancestors in this way."

 

Draculea's voice was cool. "It is an admirable sentiment, but in honoring the past you must not slight the present, or endanger the future. I will give you a chance to consider where your priorities lie. I look forward to our next meeting with great curiosity." He stood. "If you will excuse me, I did not get a chance to exercise my horse today, and a war steed must not be allowed to grow too restive. The banquet will continue."

 

Draculea made his way down the table, followed by Simion. He stopped here and there for a word with different guests. Rahazad, involved in draining his mead cup, did not note how Draculea, in passing, ran his hand gently across the shoulders of the young librarian.

 

The banquet continued, growing more boisterous now that the prince had gone. Rahazad would have restrained himself had the ruler been present. As it was, he felt that is was safe to indulge. He would soon have to return to his homeland, and abstinence. Now he intended to revel.

 

He became drunk for the first time in his life, and enjoyed the effect immensely. He wondered if he might be able to attain a posting in one of the barbarian courts, so that such amusements would be readily available. He watched as Nicolae excused himself to his dinner companions, rose, and made his way toward the chapel. Such a gift to the sultan would, I think, incline him in my favor. Of course, he smiled to himself, I should sample the gift first, to be sure of its quality.

 

He waited a few more moments, then excused himself. Mahamoud dismissed him, thinking with approval that if the young man was foolish enough to become addled with strong drink, at least he was wise enough to stop and take himself off to bed before he did something indiscreet.

 

Rahazad tried to step carefully, though the floor was more unsteady than he remembered it being. Eyes followed him as he left the hall. Some wondered why he turned toward the chapel if he intended to go to his own room, but most knew why. These pondered having a word with the prince, but decided against it. While it might court favor to warn him of the young Turk's interest in his little friend, there was also such a thing as killing the messenger...

 

With the court still amusing themselves, there was no one about as Rahazad made his way to the chapel. He eased open the heavy door quietly and slipped inside. It was dimly lit. The candles that flickered on the altar cast a faint glow at the front of the room, only enought to illuminate the young man kneeling before the icon of the Madonna.

 

Rahazad remained very still till he was sure that there was no one else in the chapel. When he was certain that he and Nicolae were alone he began to make his way slowly down the aisle. He focused on the kneeling figure, using it as his guidepost.

 

He moved up beside Nicolae, his felt slippers silent on the stone floor. The boy's eyes were closed, his lips moving in prayer as he slipped the beads of a rosary through his fingers. Rahazad feasted his eyes on the pale, handsome face, so peaceful as he made his devotions. He let his gaze travel down the smooth, strong column of Nicolae's neck, then turned his head to follow the long, straight line of his back to the tempting swell of his buttocks. Unable to resist he reached out and touched the candlelight gilded hair.

 

Nicolae felt the touch, and smiled. How like Draculea to surprise him like this. They had both been apart for the whole day, and this was perhaps even harder to bear than Draculea's absence. Now they saw each other, but with the eyes of others so much upon them they could not touch. He leaned his head back into the cradling hand as he finished his prayer, then murmured lovingly, "Master."

 

"Slave."

 

Shock bolted through Nicolae, and his eyes flew open. Instead of his beloved he saw, looming over him, the Turkish envoy who had accosted him in the library that morning. The man's hand was in his hair, and the intimacy of the touch revolted him. He started to pull away, but Rahazad tightened his grip viciously, grinning at the boy's faint cry of pain.

 

"So, I find you on your knees, Nicolae."

 

His voice was slurred, and the sharp smell of alcohol almost made Nicolae gag. "Domn, you are drunk! Let me go."

 

With his other hand Rahazad caressed Nicolae's face. "Not so drunk that I cannot take you, sweet."

 

Nicolae grabbed at Rahazad's arm, trying to force the Turk to release him, but the grip only tightened. He gritted his teeth. "I told you, I am not free, and even if I were, I would refuse you!"

 

Rahazad laughed. "Ah, so you would choose?" He shook Nicolae. "Proud slave. You should be broken of that vice. It will be my pleasure to teach you more fitting ways."

 

He dropped to his knees, dragging Nicolae down till the other man was forced onto his hands and knees. He reached beneath him, seeking the lacings of his breeches.

 

"No!" Rahazad's grip in his hair was agony. Nicolae had not experienced comparable pain since his father had last beaten him, and the memories it raised panicked him. He tried to shove his attacker away, but he could not use his arms without putting more weight on Rahazad's grip, and causing himself more pain. His upbringing had kept Nicolae from rough and tumble play with other boys, and his sheltered life at the monastery had protected him from the violence that was so much a part of everyday life for most of the people of his day. He was woefully unprepared to defend himself.

 

Rahazad paused in his rummaging to give Nicolae an almost casual slap, then returned to what he had been doing. "You may fight if you wish, pretty, but it will be more painful for you." He tore at the lacings, loosening them, and tugged at the breeches. He managed to draw them down the boy's hips, half exposing the globes of his buttocks.

 

"Ah, such a beauty! So pale." Rahazad brought the flat of his hand down on the firm swell, the blow resounding with a sharp crack and drawing a yelp from Nicolae. He watched in admiration as a pink flush rose under the white skin. Gripping Nicolae's hip, Rahazad bent over quickly and bit the delectable looking flesh, nipping him hard. "Mm, your prince's banquet did not provide such sweet and tender meat." He began to shift, trying to manuever himself into position behind the boy. "Spread your legs, little whore. If you are good, I will spit to ease the way when I mount you."

 

Rahazad was pulling back so hard that Nicolae feared his neck would break. Desperate, he twisted and kicked, ignoring the searing pain in his scalp. If Rahazad had not been so drunk, he would never have been able to land a blow, but Nicolae's heel sank deep into his crotch, smashing against his arousal.

 

The alcohol Rahazad had drunk was not enough to dull the agony that exploded in his groin. He released his victim, groping instead for his injured privates. As he collapsed back, Nicolae scrambled up, clutching his garments closed even as he ran.

 

The door was opening as Nicolae reached it, and he almost collided with Father Mircea. The priest caught the boy's arm, chiding, "Boy! Such unseemly haste in the Lord's house..." He trailed off as he heard a moan from the front of the chapel. He saw the man laying on the floor before the Madonna, and he recognized him as one of the visiting Turks.

 

His gaze darted back to the boy beside him. He took in the wild eyes and the trickle of blood seeping from his hair to stain his forehead. He saw the disordered state of his clothes and felt the tremors that ran through the arm he held. "Nicolae, my boy! Are you all right?"

 

"I... God was with me, Father."

 

"In our very sanctuary?" Mircea whispered, horrified. "The prince will..."

 

"No!" Nicolae clutched at him desperately. "You must not tell him, Father, please!"

 

"But Nicolae, think. This man has not only sought to pollute holy ground with his lusts, he has violated the prince's trust and hospitality in the foulest manner." His voice shook with anger. "And he has attacked a good and harmless young man."

 

"I would not be the cause of any man's death, Father. Please." He saw the hard resolve in Mircea's eyes, and took the only course he saw open. He whispered, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a day since my last confession."

 

"Nicolae..." Mircea saw what the boy was trying.

 

Nicolae spoke over his words. "I have tempted the guest of my lord. I led him..."

 

"No, Nicolae." When he would have continued, Mircea gently laid a hand against his lips and said firmly, "I will not hear false confession. You committed no sin, Nicolae. Do not claim what is not yours." He sighed. "I will not seek out Draculea."

 

Nicolae gripped Mircea's wrist and fervently kissed his palm. "Bless you, Father. Our people's peace is more important than my small distress." He lowered his eyes. "And Draculea's soul is more important still. I would not have him seek revenge in my name." His eyes flashed anxiously to the priest's face. "Swear to me that you will not go to him with this."

 

"I swear, Nicolae." Satisfied, the boy nodded, and slipped away. Mircea stared at the Turk, who was only now pulling himself upright. There was a puddle of vomit on the floor where he had emptied his stomach. Perhaps now he would be sober enough to make his way to his own room. God forgive me for deceiving you, Nicolae. I will not go to Draculea, but if he seeks me out, I will not still my tongue.

 

 

---

Chapter 36: Calamity

 

Notes: Lutfen, Prens, merhamet--Please, Prince, mercy. 'Stoneless'--Draculea is telling him that he acts like he has no balls.

 

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-six

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Calamity

 

It had been some time since Draculea had riden Lucifer at night. For the last two years, he had had a compelling reason to stay in at night--Nicolae in his bed. He would have preferred to be with his lover, but if he could not, this was good.

 

Lucifer was enjoying the exercise, stretching his strong muscles as he flew down the moonlit road. One or two peasants, out on some errand, stopped to watch the prince pass. Before, these nocturnal races had inspired superstitious dread. They had whispered that Draculea must indeed be the devil's son. Clinging to the back of his ebony steed as it thundered across the land, he had looked positively demonic, but now... now the previous grimness was gone.

 

Mindful of the work to be done the next morning, Draculea did not stay out long. The moon had not risen far before he returned to the castle. He dismounted and led Lucifer to meet the head groom as the man came to take charge of him. As he handed the reins over the groom said, "I am glad that you chose to take him out tonight, Domn. The grooms and stable lads throw lots to see who exercises him when you are too busy, and it is the loser who takes him, not the winner."

 

Draculea smiled fondly as he patted the horse's broad, warm neck. "He's a one-man beast."

 

"And speaking of that, my lord, I wish you would speak with young Nicolae. That horse of his is easy enough to exercise, but I swear that it sulks when he does not come to visit it."

 

Draculea had provided his lover with a beautiful white gelding, and it was as sweet-tempered as his master. The groom continued. "We can always tell when a new book comes into the library. He is either absent, or spends only a few moments petting and cossetting Sugar. He hasn't been to the stable for two days now, my lord. Please entreat him to come before that foolish beast of his dies of loneliness."

 

Draculea laughed. "I will. When I tell him the horse is pining, he will fly to it with gifts of apples and sugar lumps."

 

He gave Lucifer a last stroke, then went into the castle. He glanced in on the banquet, but did not enter. The two elder diplomats were still at the table, their heads together. There will be more than one of my men with an aching head tomorrow, but Stefan will have been long in his bed by now, he thought. He will gird himself for tomorrow's meeting as well as I gird myself for battle.

 

At the head of the stairs he hesitated, then turned down the side corridor and went to the little room that had been assigned to Nicolae so long ago.

 

He lifted the latch, but the door did not open. He tried it again, wondering if the wood had swollen with damp. At last he tapped softly. He heard Nicolae's voice from the other side. "Who is it?"

 

Draculea frowned. There was a nervous edge in the boy's voice that he had not heard for a long time, and why had he locked the door? "Nicolae, let me in."

 

"Vlad..." The relief was evident in his tone. He heard the bar being lifted inside, and the door opened. Nicolae stood in the doorway, staring at him. He could see that the boy was fairly quivering with the need to throw himself into his arms, but he looked nervously down the hall. Draculea knew that he was worried that someone might see, and he would embarrass the prince.

 

Draculea stepped into the room and pulled Nicolae into his arms. Unmindful of the door still open behind them, he kissed Nicolae gently. When they drew apart he said, "Why did you bar the door?"

 

Nicolae pressed his forehead against Draculea's shoulder. "I know not, Domn." He paused, then said, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, "This room is strange to me. If I could not have your arms around me, I needed something to make me feel secure."

 

"You are safe here, Nicolae." He smoothed Nicolae's hair back, then frowned. There was a small raw patch near his hairline, the edges still damp with blood. He touched it, saying, "Sweetheart, what is this?"

 

"Oh." Nicolae reached up quickly to touch the wound, and Draculea caught his arm.

 

Pushing his sleeve farther up, he examined the dark marks on his wrist. "And this. You're bruised, Nicolae. How did this happen?"

 

Nicolae took a deep breath, then smiled. "It was my own foolishness, Domn. When I visited Lucifer today I tried to lead him out of the stall. I should know better by now. I had the reins turned around my hand, and... and he was temperamental. He reared. I was lucky that the reins were not wrapped too tightly, else I might have been dragged. As it was," he touched his head again, "I fell against the wall. Nothing but foolishness and clumsiness." He bit his lip. "You will not blame Lucifer?"

 

Draculea was very quiet as the words of the groom ran through his mind. He's lying to me. Why? He only lies to protect others. He hadn't let go of Nicolae's arm yet, and he was studying the bruise closely, prodding the discolored skin. I've seen marks like this before, and they weren't caused by a strap. They were made by a hand. He lifted his eyes to Nicolae and said quietly, "Is this the only injury you sustained? You do not need to see Simion?"

 

"I... No, Domn. Nothing else. I must be more careful in the future."

 

"Yes, love, be more careful. I do not know what I would do if aught happened to you." He kissed him again. "I must go now."

 

"Yes." Nicolae squeezed him almost fiercely before letting him go. "You must be fresh for tomorrow. It is important work you will be doing."

 

"Perhaps some of the most important of my life," he agreed.

 

Draculea went out into the hall and started toward his room. When he heard the boy's door close he stopped and thought, He did not have those injuries earlier--they are very fresh, no more than an hour or two old. In whom might he have confided?

 

He was unsure of where Simion was at the moment, but he knew of one other likely confidant. He found Father Mircea in his room, just behind the chapel. The priest admitted him with a grim look. "I had hoped you would come tonight, Prince."

 

Draculea entered and sat in the one chair. "Nicolae has been injured, priest. He told me a fairy tale about a restive horse, when he has not been near the stable for days. The only reason he would lie to me would be to protect someone."

 

"Perhaps, Prince, but more likely something."

 

"What would this something be?"

 

Mircea sighed. "I promised him I would not go to you. I feel I cannot tell you directly, but..."

 

"I see." Draculea said, slowly and deliberately, "Nicolae has become fond of many of the gentlemen of the court."

 

"Aye, Prince. They are for the most part fairly sensible young men."

 

Not a courtier. "He has not gotten to know the local nobles very well, I think."

 

Mircea agreed, saying, "Yes, none of them have grown close to the boy."

 

Not one of my nobles. "He gets on well with the servants."

 

"They all like and respect him."

 

Not a servant. That leaves only... "I have been considering introducing him to the Turks."

 

Mircea's expression hardened. "That might not be the wisest thing, Lord. Their ways are strange, and the boy is impressionable."

 

Draculea nodded. He needed to ask no more questions. Mahamoud and Ali had still been at table--only Rahazad had been missing. The prince remembered him. Most particularly he remembered the way Rahazad's eyes had lingered over the young men of his court. "I see. Yes, I see very well."

 

Hearing the tone of Draculea's voice, Mircea became apprehensive. "Nicolae did not wish to endanger any accord we might reach with Turkey."

 

"That would be his way." Draculea stood up. "Do not fear, priest. The Turks themselves will decide how this fares. From what I have seen, though, I do not hold forth much hope for these negotiations. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to speak to Simion before I sleep."

 

The next morning Nicolae left his room early and went to the kitchen for breakfast. There were a few sleepy men moodily preparing food. It was a great change from the usual warm, cheerful bustle. Mornings were one of his favorite times, as the kitchen staff had made him a particular pet. The cook or one of the girls always had a sweet for him, and he enjoyed watching the efficient activity as he munched his treat. Today he quietly gathered some of the cold remains of the previous night's meal and sat out of the way to eat.

 

Simion came in and sat beside him, accepting a portion of the food. He watched Nicolae and asked casually, "You are well, Nicolae? Draculea said you had a dispute with Lucifer yesterday."

 

"I'm not a horseman, Simion. I should have learned that by now, I suppose." He sighed. "They begin the discussions today."

 

"Perhaps--if the Turks are reasonable."

 

He saw the worry in Nicolae's eyes, but the boy tried to sound calm when he spoke. "What could block them? Surely there is no obstacle."

 

"We must hope not, but you remember how the Turks' lack of courtesy troubled the prince. Recall what he said. He is giving them a chance to come to him humbly. If they do not..." He shrugged. "he must not back down. Surely you can see that?"

 

Nicolae did. If Draculea did not insist on the respect due him as a ruler, other countries would interpret it as weakness, and a country with a weak ruler was vulnerable. It would not be only Turkey they had to fear.

 

Simion was continuing. "They will meet with Draculea in the great hall, with the court in attendance. If all is well, they will go somewhere more private to begin the real negotiations." He hesitated. "It would be better if you did not attend."

 

Nicolae lowered his eyes, then looked up at Simion. "Does he forbid me?"

 

"No, Nicolae, not directly, but things may become... nasty. It would be better if you remained in your room, or the library." He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I say this for your own sake. The ways of politics can be violent, and you..." he took Nicolae's chin in his hand, "you bleed for the world. Please, stay away."

 

"I will not go to the hall, Simion."

 

"Good." He patted Nicolae's cheek. "Whatever happens, this will not last long." He stood up. "I must go now, and speak to the castle carpenter."

 

"Why, Simion?"

 

"Because our lord has asked me to make certain preparations. They may not be necessary, but I must be ready."

 

Nicolae went to his room after his meal, but he could hear the other occupants of the castle passing through the halls, going down to the great hall. His curiosity overcame him at last.

 

The upper floors of the castle were deserted, and he made his way half down the stairs. From there he could see a little way through the entrance, into the great hall. I told Simion I would not go to the hall, and so I do not. He glanced up toward heaven. Forgive me for paring my meaning so closely, Lord.

 

Nicolae settled himself on a step and craned toward the entrance, listening.

 

Draculea had no official throne, but a fine chair was drawn up on the dais at the end of the great hall. Here he sat, hands resting loosely and easily on the arms. Simion stood at his usual place, just behind his master. His court and those nobles who had remained at the castle after the banquet lined the sides of the hall. The room was quieter than might have been expected of such an assembly. The men spoke, but in hushed tones. All knew of the directive that the prince had given the Turks the night before.

 

Nicolae, listening to the quiet murmur from the hall, did not hear the Turks approaching until they were starting down the stairs. Hearing the scuff of their slippers, he realized that he had been mistaken to think the upper floor deserted. He jumped up quickly, pressing back against the wall to allow them passage.

 

As they came abreast, Nicolae dropped his head humbly. The two elders, leading the way, passed him without notice, but Rahazad paused before him.

 

"Little whore." The dark eyes flashed up at Rahazad, flicked away, then returned to his face, and Nicolae lifted his chin. "Still proud, I see. You would not have escaped last night, had I not let the drink dull me." He leaned closer, and Nicolae flinched as his hot breath bathed his face. "I am not drunk today, pretty."

 

"Rahazad!" The others had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Mahamoud was gazing up at him impatiently. "Leave your dalliance. We have important matters to which we must attend."

 

"I come, sir." When he saw that the others had turned back to the great hall, he quickly put his hand on Nicolae's chest. His fingers found one nipple through the thin cloth, and he pinched viciously. Nicolae's face twisted in pain, but he bit his lip, making no sound, and no movement. "Soon, little whore. Very soon."

 

He went down the steps to join his companions, and Nicolae sank back to his seat on the stairs, rubbing at the ache. As he watched them disappear into the great hall, he murmured, "They wear their hats. Oh, Lord, why did you not send them wisdom in the night?"

 

The Turks entered the hall, and whatever little talk there had been was silenced. They walked up the center of the hall, their pace slow and calm. Their heads were high, their backs straight. They came with all of the pride of their nation and their race--and all of their arrogance.

 

When they stood before Draculea, they bowed, and Mahamoud said, "Prince Draculea, greetings. The Sultan of Turkey sends his regards and is prepared to discuss means to retain peace between our two great nations."

 

There was no reply. Draculea stared at them, one finger tapping slowly on the chair's arm. His gaze passed slowly over Mahamoud and Ali, lingering significantly on their hats. When he looked at Rahazad, though, his eyes locked on the young man's face.

 

Rahazad returned his gaze. In his own way, he is as beautiful as the slave, but he is so pale, his expression so cold and hard. Allah, if I did not see his chest rise with breath, I would think him a statue carved of marble, with sapphire eyes. I think that Mahamoud may have misjudged. We should have removed our hats.

 

Draculea tented his fingers before his face, bending to rest his forehead against them. Then he lowered his hands and said quietly, "Gentlemen, I see that you have seen fit to ignore my directive."

 

So, it comes down to a game of bluff, Mahamoud thought. "Prince Draculea, as I told you, we wear these hats to honor our fathers. Surely you would not ask us to disrespect them?"

 

"No, of course not. I cannot but admire your determination to hold to your resolve. If this is so important to you, more important than showing proper respect for the ruler with whom you came to council...," He gestured. Rahazad broke out in a sweat as several burly men-at-arms moved through the crowd to surround the Turks. "...then I feel I should help you follow your precious custom."

 

He gestured again. As he stepped down, Simion took a cloth covered tray from a nearby table and brought it to him. While they had been speaking, Draculea's soldiers had quietly surrounded the few men that the Turks had brought with them. When the envoys were seized, the Turkish soldiers found swords at their throats. All they could do was watch with the others as the scene unfolded.

 

Ali and Rahazad began to struggle, but Mahamoud stood still, though all color had drained from his face, leaving him as pale as it was possible for a Turk to be. He realized that he had made a mistake, but it was too late to back down now. "Think, Prince Draculea. Is such a small thing worth war?"

 

"Mahamoud, somehow I think that, in your own court, a like offense would not be viewed as small. I have heard that your own sultan had a man's feet cut off when he dared to tread on the head of his shadow." His voice was quiet. "There will be no negotiations. I was wrong to ever agree to them, as it is clear that your lord intends to take what he can. You will return to your sultan and tell him this, but first..." He flipped the cloth off the tray. "First I will make it so that you are never again in danger of offending your fathers by losing your hats."

 

On the tray there was a hammer with a flat, broad head, and a dozen spikes. They were slender--about the length of a man's thumb, sharp and shiny. Draculea picked up the hammer and one of the spikes, and stepped toward Mahamoud.

 

The older man said no more as Draculea pressed the point of the first spike against the hat, near the brim. He closed his eyes, whispering a prayer to his god as Draculea raised the hammer high.

 

Something was happening. There was no unusual noise from the hall, but Nicolae could feel it. The few people he could see at the back of the room were all staring fixedly toward the front, shifting uneasily. What will he do to them? Justice is so harsh. Will he have them beaten? The oldest one might not survive. He might remove their ears, because of the hats...

 

There was a thudding sound, and a wavering scream. Nicolae winced. A beating, then. There was another thud, and a weaker scream. The third and fourth blows were followed my weak moans.

 

There was a pause, and another voice, an elderly voice, rose, babbling in Turkish and his own language. He could understand only part of it. "No! I beg you, sire! Merhamet. Lutfen, Prens, merhamet!"

 

Again there was the dull thunk, and a scream. Something about the sound set Nicolae's teeth on edge. It was not a meaty sound, like a fist striking flesh, nor was it cracking, like an open handed slap. Do they use clubs? Again there were three more blows, followed by shrieks and groans. He has set the punishment at only four blows apiece? That is surprisingly merciful. But... but the screams. I would think that such proud men would not scream easily.

 

As he thought this there was another scream from the hall. There had been no preceeding blow, and this scream was different from the others. It was not of pain, but of panic, and it was vigorous and lusty. It spoke of terror. Surely a simple beating should not inspire such fear? My prince, what are you doing?

 

Mahamoud hung limply in the arms of the soldiers who held him. He was already dead. His age, thought Draculea. Ali is doing better. He has not even lost consciousness. The heads of both men hung low--but the hats stayed in place.

 

Blood pattered to the floor in thick drops. Draculea's left hand, the one that had held the spikes, was splashed with gore nearly to his wrist, and his face was sprinkled with tiny droplets. The wounds tended to spray when the points first pierced the skin. Head wounds are always bloody.

 

He turned his attention to Rahazad. The young man had been staring in horror at his companions, unable to believe what was happening. Moments before they had been honored guests. How had things changed so quickly? When he saw that Draculea had fixed his attentions upon him, he howled with terror.

 

Draculea snapped. "Saints! If this is an example of the sultan's fighting men, we have no cause to fear." He stepped closer to the struggling Turk and growled, "You have made your choices, now accept the consequences like a man instead of a stoneless dog." There were four spikes left on the tray, and he lifted one of the gleaming slivers.

 

Rahazad screamed again, and thrashed. His hat fell to the ground, and he looked to the prince with wild hope, but one of the soldiers picked it up and placed it back on his head. He tossed his head so violently that the man grabbed his ears to hold him still.

 

Draculea moved close and settled the point of the spike against the soft red felt of the hat, on the left side of the brim. He looked into the Turk's eyes and said, "Carry this message back to your master: I will not be mocked." He leaned even closer, and his voice dropped to a hiss. "And I will not suffer what is mine to be taken."

 

Through his haze of terror Rahazad suddenly realized who was the pretty librarian's protector. As Draculea lifted the hammer high over his head he screamed, "Forgive! I did not know..."

 

The hammer swept down. Draculea put all his force into the blow, all the power of an arm made strong by wielding weapons of war. When the story was passed on later, some witnesses would swear that they saw sparks fly when the hammer struck the spike.

 

There was a muted crunch, and blood sprayed again across Draculea's face. He licked it absently from his lips as he struck a second time, seating the spike even more firmly. The scream of the Turk even made some of the battle hardened soldiers pale. Draculea took another spike and set it at the right side of the brim, then drove it home with two swift blows. The extra strokes were not lost on the witnesses. Rahazad was paying for more than rudeness and pride.

 

In quick succession, Draculea affixed the final two spikes in back, then stepped away, tossing the hammer down. It rang against the stone, bouncing. Simion sidestepped quickly, barely dodging the gory tool. "Are their mounts ready?"

 

"They are, Domn. They wait outside the front door, complete with provisions to help them on their way," Simion replied.

 

"Let them return to their master. Send men with them to the border--I would not want them delayed on this journey. Send swift riders to all my forces, telling them to be ready. Somehow I think that the sultan's response will not be long in coming." He looked down at his gore stained hands and frowned. "And have a basin brought. This diplomacy is messy business."

 

The screaming had died away, but by then Nicolae was pale and sweating. He stood as he noticed a stir in the hall. Someone was coming out.

 

Nicolae covered his mouth and moaned as he saw the limp body of Mahamoud carried out. One soldier carried his arms and another his legs. His head hung almost to the floor, but the hat remained in place.

 

Ali was carried out, then Rahazad. Both of them were still moving feebly as they were carried out the door. Simion came out of the hall, intent on seeing that the envoys were sent on their way, and the messengers were sufficiently motivated, but he paused, looking upward.

 

Nicolae stood halfway up the stairs, staring after the Turks. He was swaying slightly. With a quiet oath, Simion hurried up and took the boy's arm before he could fall. "Nicolae! You said you would not come here."

 

The young man's voice was weak. "I said that I would not go to the great hall, Simion." He leaned back against the wall, holding his belly. "God punishes me for lying through misdirection."

 

"Sit, before you fall." Simion helped him to sit on the steps once again. "Stay here. Do not dare try to move until I return, and speak to no one." Nicolae nodded, and Simion hurried to perform his allotted tasks.

 

Many of the nobles passed through the entry as they left. They were all in a hurry to reach their own homes and begin preparing. There were trying times ahead, and they all had much to accomplish before the sultan's now inevitable response.

 

Some of the courtiers saw Nicolae, and stopped to speak to him. The boy only shook his head respectfully, and they did not press him. All knew that what had happened was due at least in part to Rahazad's ill-considered pursuit of the librarian, but none of them blamed Nicolae. His devotion to Draculea was unquestioned--he would not have encouraged the Turk. All knew of his gentle nature, and were convinced that he would not have sought revenge either, no matter how grievous the offense. No, in their estimation the Turks had invited their fate through their own arrogance, and their sore miscalculation of Draculea's desire for peace without confrontation.

 

When Simion returned he found the boy staring numbly at the thick trail of blood that stretched from the great hall out the front door. When he touched Nicolae's shoulder, he did not look up. His voice dull, he said, "The entry rug will be ruined. Beta will be so angry."

 

"Come, my friend." Simion pulled him to his feet and helped him upstairs, holding him steady when he faltered. When Nicolae would have turned aside, he led him to the room he shared with Draculea instead, knowing that he would need the comfort of familiar, beloved surroundings.

 

Once there he made the unresisting boy lie down, and brought him a cup of wine and a cool cloth. After Nicolae had drunk, Simion sat, pulled the boy's head onto his lap, and wiped his face gently. "You should not have seen that, Nicolae. When your master or I ask you to do a thing, we have reasons."

 

"Yes, Simion. I am sorry." He closed his eyes. "Oh, I am most heartily sorry."

 

They were quiet for a moment, then Simion said, "You do realize that he had to do that?"

 

"I know that he had to do something. I am not quite as ignorant as I was when I came to Castle Draculea, Simion. I know he could not let such a slight pass without damaging himself, and our country, in the eyes of the world. But Simion..." He swallowed hard. "Oh, it was a fearsome lesson he taught them."

 

"Our master is a hard man, but that is what our nation needs on the throne. A gentle man would not long hold the crown, and the Turks would not be merciful if he allowed them to go unopposed. Draculea has spent his entire life playing the game of power, as did his father, and his grandfather, and many generations before them. He has been born and bred to it, and we must trust to his decisions."

 

Nicolae turned, throwing his arms around Simion and burying his face against the older man's stomach. He had lain this way many times with Draculea, but this was different. Then he had caressed his lover--now he was as a child seeking solace. Simion knew this, and treated him as such, petting him comfortingly. The boy whispered, "We will have war."

 

Simion sighed. He stared off, as if already seeing the carnage that was to come. "Yes," he agreed sadly, "we will have war."

 

 

---

Chapter 37: Forboding

 

Note: In this case, a comode is a small cabinate built to hold a chamberpot.

 

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-seven

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

A week later

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Foreboding

 

They sat in the library, the two women working on bits of embroidery, as usual. Nicolae was holding a book, staring at the pages. Only that--he never turned a page, his eyes never moved. It was silent until Beta heaved a deep sigh.

 

Nicolae did not seem to notice, and this irritated her. He is usually so attentive to my needs, she thought sulkily. Now he scarcely notices me. She sighed again, more pointedly. It could be nothing more than a bid for attention. Lena looked up, her expression sardonic, but Nicolae seemed oblivious. At last Beta said, “Nicolae?”

 

He blinked, and turned on her a gaze that was vague with distraction. “Yes, Sister?”

 

“Nicolae, I will ask you again--what became of the entry rug? The servants have washed it until the threads are frayed, and still it is stained. Did you and Draculea muck out the stables, then scuff it with your filthy boots?”

 

“No, Beta. I told you--something was spilled.”

 

“Something? What, Nicolae? Did they roll a leaking wine barrel through the hall?”

 

His voice was sharp. “Beta, do not plague me about this.” Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Nicolae, snapping at her? And of course, he could not bear it. Contrite, he said, “I’m sorry, Beta. I didn’t mean to be harsh, but I’m worried.”

 

“Why should you worry, Calugarul?” Lena asked. “You do not go to war. You remain here--with the women.” She felt a secret satisfaction at the hurt look in his eyes. No, Nicolae would not go to battle. The idea was foolish. He was a scholar, not a warrior.

 

“Ah, but of course! You worry about the prince. Yes, if he should die, things would be hard for you, wouldn’t they, librarian? Such rich patrons are not easy to come by.”

 

Lena knew what had happened while she was away--she made it her business to learn everything. While she might not be loved by the servants, she was adept at bribery and bullying, and it hadn’t been too hard to learn the details.

 

Beta, as usual ignoring the distress that Lena’s words caused her brother, stood up, saying pettishly, “All these preparations for war are quite wearying. I will have a nap, I think.”

 

“Yes, Your Highness,” Lena said, sarcasm lacing her voice. “Why, you scarce closed your eyes last night with your great worry.” Beta had slept like the dead, her mouth open and issuing unladylike grating noises.

 

Nicolae looked concerned. “Beta, if you cannot rest, you must speak to Simion. He has a medicine that can ease you into slumber. You must not be weak or vexed, lest you conceive, and the child suffers.”

 

Lena started to speak, then changed her mind and instead picked viciously at a line of tiny stitches she had somehow set crookedly. Draculea had not ‘visited’ Beta for almost a year, but it had been made clear to Lena that she was not to mention it.

 

Oh, Draculea still came to her room on occasion--the show of a normal marriage was maintained. When he did, he would pass a half hour or so drinking wine, perhaps chatting idly with his wife. He did not touch her. While Beta was more than content with the arrangement, Lena seethed.

 

Two years. Two years, and still their position was not assured, all because of the doe-eyed young man watching Beta with such pathetic concern. If only he would die, but he was most disgustingly healthy.

 

Direct physical action was out of the question--Lena was a physical coward. She had considered an assassin. After all, she had extorted a substantial horde of silver and gold coins from the merchants she recommended to Beta. Payment would be easy, but there were risks. She knew that if his lover were killed, Draculea would tear down the very gates of Hell to reach the murderer. If he did find the killer, he might not dispatch him on the spot. The dungeons of Castle Draculea were deep, the torture rooms well equipped, and a man would tell all that he knew, under the right persuasion. There must be a way. War provides so many opportunities.

 

Abul did not worry over much for her own safety. She was confident that if the Turks triumphed, Beta would be spared. High-born ladies with rich relatives were ransomed, not killed, and Beta would make sure that Lena was protected as well.

 

Lena realized that she had been musing, and Beta was staring at her expectantly. “My lady, I crave your leave to remain here. I wish to finish this bit of work.” Such a thing would never have been allowed of any other maid, by any other lady, but Beta merely nodded, and left.

 

Nicolae got up and restlessly began to straighten the already neat books, shifting them minutely. Lena watched him, pretending to take a stitch now and then, calculating the best way to torment the young man. At last she said, in a falsely contrite voice, “I’m sorry, Nicolae. I shouldn’t tease you like that.”

 

He turned toward her, his expression surprised, but hopeful. “It’s all right, Lena.”

 

She shook her head. “No, it’s too bad of me. I know why you are so distressed. You fear what could happen to Beta, should the Turks overrun the castle.”

 

His hand fell away from the shelf as he took a step toward her. “Lena, don’t you think that she should be sent away? She could stay with her brother, at Castle Varga.”

 

“Oh, I think not, librarian. It is not so far that the safety would be greater than it is here, and it is not so well fortified as Castle Draculea.” Besides, Beta hates her sister-in-law. She would not be able to stand living under the same roof with a woman who held more authority over the household than she. “She is as safe here as she could be anywhere in Wallachia.”

 

“Yes,” Nicolae agreed. He spoke to Lena, but his thoughtful look made it seem as if he were thinking out loud. “The walls are high and thick, and the river is at our back. The gates are strong, and even now the carpenters and smiths work to make them stronger still. Each hour brings more stores, in case there is a siege. Draculea has promised to leave a goodly number of his best men here when he goes into battle. Surely we will be safe.”

 

“We can but pray to God,” she said with mock piety. Now to see if I cannot put a bit of fear into your sweet existence, boy. “Though I am afraid that the Turks will be implacable. I hear that the sultan was enraged.” At Nicolae’s sharp look she nodded, and shrugged. “Yes, I know what happened, but I will not tell Beta. I do not care to deal with hysteria.”

 

She laid aside the embroidery and folded her hands in her lap. “The second eldest envoy survived the trip, but died when he was brought before the sultan. I understand that the younger one--Rahazad, was it? He will live, but he is... damaged. I suppose the sultan will have one of his eunuchs strangle him, as a gesture of pity. They do not countenance the feeble. It was a high price to pay for pride, and both our countries will continue to pay for it." Straightening her sleeve, Lena said casually, “The Turks were here for such a short time. Did you see much of them?”

 

Nicolae’s voice was strained. “No, not much.”

 

“I am rather surprised. I hear that they are adept in seeking out the most physically pleasing. Since there were no women in the castle, that would have been you.”

 

“I stayed in my room or the library. There was no good reason for me to meet them.”

 

“No? I would have thought Draculea would have wanted to display you. We all know how proud he is of his... library.” Lena watched with satisfaction as the blood mounted in Nicolae’s cheeks. He makes it so easy, taking everything to heart. I wonder... I believe I can frighten him into fleeing, and he would not survive long without Draculea’s protection. I could be free of him. “Have you heard the latest news?”

 

Nicolae nodded, looking troubled. “They did not wait long. Three villages were attacked before the soldiers could come to their aid.”

 

“Aye, well, that is the way of war. The innocent and helpless suffer... and suffer... and suffer. Bad enough that they slaughtered the villagers, but what they did to them before...” She shook her head in feigned distress. “Children spitted on spears. Infants torn from their mothers’ arms, their brains dashed out on the ground, then the mothers ravished beside the tiny corpses. All this done in the sight of their captured or dying menfolk.”

 

Nicolae crossed himself, thinking that he must increase his prayers, petitioning for all who had been struck down with their sins still heavy upon them. Without the Last Rites, their time in Purgatory would be long. “God’s ways are sometimes harsh, and hard to comprehend. May He grant us strength to accept.”

 

“Pah! There is no understanding of war. And as to God, it seems to me that war is more from the will and folly of men. If women ruled we would have peace.” She scowled. “We would have peace now, if the Church had ordered Draculea to seek it. He has always obeyed the Holy Father. But the Church fears losing Its lands and revenues, and It is willing to sacrifice Its faithful to retain Its earthly kingdom. After all, " her voice was bitterly ironic, “the faithful can always produce more souls for them.”

 

“Lena, you are in peril of committing blasphemy!” Nicolae gasped.

 

She sneered, “I must remember to mention it in my next confession.” She considered. “You should go, librarian. Leave the castle. Perhaps you would be safer in your old monastery.”

 

“I cannot. I cannot leave Elizabeta alone now. She will be so troubled when the prince leaves for battle.”

 

Huh. You would give her your own fears, Calugarul.

 

“Perhaps if she came with me...”

 

“You know she cannot. She must encourage her people by demonstrating her confidence in Draculea.” The truth was that Beta had begged to be allowed to remove herself to the court of France, or perhaps Germany, until the conflict was done. The opulence and ease of one of the more powerful courts would have suited her and Lena well. Draculea had informed her coldly that he would not have it known that his wife did not trust him to protect her.

 

“She would want you to be safe, though she will not mention it. She fears to offend you by seeming to doubt your courage," Lena continued. *As if she considers the feelings of anyone save herself or me. Lena moved closer. “You should leave. Hae you any idea what will happen to you if the castle falls?”

 

He cast his eyes down. “I will die. I fear death, but my soul belongs to God.”

 

“I suppose you would die... eventually. But as I have told you--the Turks desire men as well as women. The only question is this--if the troops find you, will they turn you over to their officers, or keep you for themselves? If they keep you, I have heard that some captives have been taken by more than a hundred in succession.” She seemed to think. “They usually die at some point, though that does not necessarily stop the abuse.”

 

She watched as Nicolae, pale, sat down heavily. “But do not fret. Their officers will surely not allow a choice morsel like you to remain in the hands of the rabble. Yes, you will only be required to service the highest ranking officers, perhaps only a dozen or so. Of course they will have more exotic tastes, and be harder to please. When they grow tired of you...”

 

She shook her head. “No, they will not kill you then. You will still fetch a fine price on the slave block, especially since you will have been well trained by then. Or perhaps they will make a gift of you to the Sultan himself! Oh, what an honor that would be, Nicolae! Though he would most likely castrate you. How else could he allow you in his harem? But then, a favorite eunuch can become quite powerful.”

 

Nicolae sprang up, covering his mouth, and rushed to the little commode that Draculea had provided for his comfort. He jerked it open and emptied his belly into the glazed earthenware pot therein. Luckily it had been emptied of slops earlier.

 

Lena watched, well pleased. “Oh, I am sorry if I distressed you, but I feel you should know the truth. You must be warned, so that you can decide on your best course.” She gathered her work and left the shivering boy. It should not take much more.

 

A week later

 

“He is quiet of late, Simion. When I ask him what troubles him, he only smiles and speaks of something else. When I tried to press him last night...” He smiled almost reluctantly. “he silenced me with kisses.”

 

“He knows you well, Domn. He has not confided in me, either, but I think it is only natural care. He knows that the battle you join tomorrow will be fierce.” Simion’s eyes were grave. “He does not want to think you might fail. I try to assure him.”

 

Draculea sighed. “I wish I could allay his fears, but there is a chance...”

 

“You will return triumphant, Lord.” Simion’s voice was firm.

 

Draculea smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Faithful Simion, unwilling to admit the chance of my failure. I am grateful, but a prince must see the world as it is, and know his own limitations. I may not return.”

 

Simion’s voice was intense. “Let me go with you, Domn! Let me fight beside you, as I have before.”

 

Draculea’s hand tightened. “I would permit it, if not for one thing. This time I must leave behind that which I hold most dear. I need you to stay with Nicolae,” Almost as an afterthought he added, “...and see to the protection of the castle and my wife.” Simion did not fail to notice the way Draculea had ordered his charges.

 

Draculea hesitated. “Simion, you know what the Turks are like, what they are capable of. If rumor of what Rahazad tried has reached the sultan’s ears, Nicolae...” He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were bleak. “If I fail, and they come to the castle, you must...”

 

Draculea, the strongest man Simion had ever known, the man that the world believed incapable of an emotion softer than rage, could not complete the thought. Simion gripped his hand and said gently, “I understand, Master. We will have a few hours warning. To please me, he will drink wine if I suggest it will soothe his nerves. The draft I gave him when he was hurt will ease him beyond danger. No pain, no fear--only sleep.” He half drew the knife that hung at his belt. “I will follow him, quickly and cleanly.”

 

“Thank you, Simion.” He embraced the older man. “I can go into battle now with a measure of peace.”

 

Simion dared to return the embrace, and thought what he could not speak. For love of you, my prince, and for love of Nicolae. I could have envied him, but not when he means so much to you. I know that you care for me as much as your nature will allow, and I am content. I can take my pleasure well enough with others, but my heart and soul will always belong to you.

 

Draculea released him. “I must go forth at dawn. One more night. I will have at least one more night with my love.”

 

“Yes, my lord. Love him well. Whatever rest you may lose, it will matter little. Being with him will give you strength.”

 

Draculea took his evening meal with the officers who would accompany him, eating only because he knew that he must show no weakness. Beta sat at his right, and Nicolae at his left. Beta ate well, but Nicolae only moved the food about on his plate. The boy excused himself early and Draculea remained not much longer.

 

He opened the door of his room to find it lit by many candles, with a lusty fire leaping on the hearth. Nicolae was bending over a bathing tub in the middle of the room. His feet were bare, and he had removed his shirt. He set aside the bucket he had just emptied, then dipped his hand in the water. “It is a pleasing temperature, Domn.” He lifted his hand, wiping it across his chest, and the light glistened on his wet skin. He held out his hand. “Come, master. Let me serve you tonight.”

 

Draculea shut the door and went to him. He stood quietly as Nicolae began to undress him. Nicolae opened and removed Draculea’s shirt, then sank to his knees before the prince, holding out his hands. Draculea put his hands on Nicolae’s shoulders and lifted first one foot, then the other, allowing his lover to remove his boots.

 

Draculea’s hands still on his shoulders, Nicolae slowly untied his lover’s lacings, then pushed down his breeches. Draculea stepped out of them, and was naked. Nicolae looked up at him, and his voice was teasing. “My lord, what must I do to persuade you to wear drawers?” His hands slid up his Draculea’s thighs. “Would you prove the Turks’ claim that you are a savage?”

 

Draculea’s grip tightened, and he pulled him upright, pressing against him. “You make me feel like a savage--a heathen with no though but my own pleasure.”

 

“Not so, Prince.” Draculea shivered as Nicolae ran his hands up his sides, skimming his ribs. “You think of me. You always think of me.” He pulled away gently. “Please, Domn, else the water will be chilled.”

 

Draculea stepped into the water, and let his hands glide down Nicolae’s chest. His fingers came to rest on the boy’s dark copper nipples, and he rubbed softly. “Join me.”

 

Nicolae lifted each hand to his lips, kissing them in turn. “Not tonight, Domn.” He muted his refusal with a promise. “When you return.”

 

Draculea sat in the steamy water. Nicolae knelt beside the tub. Cupping his hands, he trickled the warm water over Draculea, then picked up a lump of soap. He smiled as he worked it between his palms, creating a thick, fragrant lather. “Domn, do you recall when we traveled from Castle Varga? Do you...”

 

“The spring? Yes, Nicolae, I remember. How could I forget?” Nicolae’s hands moved over Draculea’s body, more caressing than cleansing. “When we were done, you lay on the grass and would have slept there, under the stars.” He reached up and touched Nicolae’s cheek. “You were still so shy, yet you invited me to lie with you. I wish I had.”

 

“No, my love. Things progressed as they had to. You must have no regrets, as I have none.” He rinsed away the soap. When Draculea stepped dripping from the tub he wrapped the prince in a large, thick cloth, patting and rubbing to dry him. Then, smiling mischievously, he took the ends of the cloth and tugged Draculea, still wrapped, to the bed. He turned suddenly, swinging Draculea around as if he were in a sling, and let go, so that he fell back across the bed. Then he threw himself on top of his lover.

 

Nicolae lay atop him, bracing on his hands so that he could look down, and his expression became grave. “How long will you be gone?”

 

Draculea reached up to hold his waist. “I do not know, Nicolae. It will not take many hours to reach the battlefield, then...” He shrugged. “Who can say?” His hands tightened a little, his thumbs stroking over Nicolae’s abdomen. “Their force is large. It may be all day. I may not return until nightfall.”

 

Neither of them would admit what they both thought--that he might not return. Nicolae settled against him again, resting his head on Draculea’s shoulder. “I want to love you, Vlad. But later, before you go... will you hold me? When I am in your arms, I feel safe. Nothing of this world can touch me.”

 

Draculea gripped his hair, tipping Nicolae’s head back so that he could reach his lips. “Of course, Nicolae. I will always hold you when you are afraid.” He kissed the boy, then let his mouth trail down his throat. He paused for a moment, his lips against the warm skin, feeling the strong pulse of his blood. He knew that with a word or a touch he could speed that blood to a thundering pace, or calm it to a peaceful throb. He felt humbled by this power that the boy had granted him.

 

Slowly and gently, he began to touch Nicolae. Nicolae answered every kiss, every caress. They turned on their sides, Nicolae shifting till his head was toward the foot of the bed, and feasted on each other. When Draculea had drawn the essence from Nicolae, he pulled away, despite the boy’s protest that the prince had not yet reached fulfillment.

 

He made Nicolae lie on his belly, and carefully oiled and loosened his back passage, seeking out the tiny spot that made the younger man arch and cry out. At last Draculea mounted him, sinking into the accepting flesh. He almost wept when he heard Nicolae whisper, “I am complete.”

 

He took Nicolae slowly and tenderly. When the boy would have bucked, speeding the joining, Draculea pressed down on his hips, holding him firmly, and continued his steady strokes. Again and again he touched the pleasure spot buried so deep in his lover. When Nicolae was whining and shaking with need, he rolled them over onto their sides. Then he took Nicolae’s rigid, weeping cock in his greased hands and stroked him to completion. Only when he felt the hot surge of the boy’s sperm did he loosen his control, and finish with three hard, stabbing thrusts.

 

When it was done, Draculea held Nicolae, as he had promised. He even managed to sleep, his head on Nicolae’s chest, as the steady beat of his lover’s heart lulled him. Not moving, Nicolae lay awake, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, and prayed.

 

---

Chapter 38: Tragedy

 

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-eight

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Tragedy

 

The next morning, as the darkened sky turned pearl grey to the east, Nicolae left before Draculea was buckled into his armor. He slipped away to join the people who had assembled in the chapel. There Draculea would receive a final blessing from Bishop Alfred and Father Mircea, then would bid farewell to his household and go forth with their well-wishes and prayers.

 

Beta, looking a bit groggy, stood before the altar with the clerics. As princess, she had place of honor. Nicolae slipped to the side, standing near the font of holy water. The prince’s officers waited, standing between the pews. All were solemn, and silent.

 

The doors to the chapel swung open and Draculea strode down the aisle, his tread measured--dignified, but purposeful. Nicolae watched him, his eyes soft and wondering. He had seen Draculea before in the leather guards that he wore to spar with his men, but the sight of him in full battle dress was something else--it was awe-inspiring. Surely any Turk that does not flee before him is not brave, but a fool.

 

Looking neither right or left, Draculea came to the altar, and knelt. It was a tribute to his strength that he did not require assistance to do this in his heavy armor. After Bishop Alfred had intoned a solemn blessing and sprinkled him with holy water, he arose, again without assistance.

 

Making the sign of the cross, Alfred intoned, “Go with God, my son. You fight His battle, and you shall prevail.”

 

Mircea echoed the bishop’s gesture, and sentiment. He had wanted to go, also--not to battle, but to administer the Last Rites to those who would surely fall. Draculea had forbidden him, telling him that his place was at Castle Draculea, tending to the needs of his little flock.

 

Beta stepped forward now. She placed a hand gingerly on the cold metal that covered her husband’s arm, rose on her toes, and kissed his cheek. “Go with God, husband.” After a pause, her voice slightly flat, she said, “I love you.”

 

Draculea stared at her. “Thank you, Beta. Be assured that I love you fully as much as you love me.”

 

He started toward the doors, and his men began to step into the aisle behind him, preparing to follow. But Draculea stopped. He turned back and walked swiftly to the front of the chapel, brushing aside those who did not move quickly enough.

 

Nicolae had closed his eyes as Draculea began to leave. His head drooped, tears spilling down his cheeks, but he made no sound. He had clasped his hands, already beginning the first prayer, when he heard heavy footsteps approach.

 

A hand under his chin tipped his face up, and he opened his eyes to find Draculea looking down at him. Without a word the prince bent and pressed a fervent kiss to the boy’s mouth. He smoothed Nicolae’s hair off his forehead, then gently brushed away a tear, all the while staring deeply into his eyes.

 

Nicolae sighed, and gave him a trembling smile, putting his hands on either side of Draculea’s face. Then he reached up and returned the kiss.

 

There was thick silence in the chapel. Finally Draculea stepped away from Nicolae. He turned an ironic glance on the stunned Bishop Alfred, then went back up the aisle without further hesitation.

 

When he was gone, Nicolae went to Father Mircea and said quietly, “Father, will you hear my confession?”

 

“Of course, Nicolae,” he said, his voice gentle.

 

“Beta,” Nicolae caught his sister’s hand as she began to move away. “Make confession, too.”

 

“Perhaps later, Nicolae. I want my breakfast.”

 

“Sister, please. We do not know what today will bring, and our souls should be made clean.” When she frowned, his hand tightened, and he said in a low voice, “I do not ask for much, Beta. Do this, for my sake if not your own.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, very well! Let me go first, then. It will not take long.”

 

As the priest and girl entered the confessional, Nicolae turned to Lena. “And you, after her, Lena.”

 

Abul’s voice was cold. “Not I, librarian.”

 

Nicolae looked distressed. “But Lena, you must not risk dying unshriven.”

 

“See to your own soul, boy,” she said harshly. “It may be required of you before the day is out.”

 

“Lena, please...”

 

Beta was already emerging from the confessional, muttering her allotted Hail Marys and Our Fathers under her breath. She paused beside Nicolae, saying testily, “Satisfied?”

 

He sighed with relief. “Thank you, Beta. Perhaps you can persuade Lena to do the same?”

 

Beta shrugged. “I cannot direct her devotions, Nicolae.”

 

With no further words she swept out... following Lena. He frowned, but took his place in the confessional box. Father Mircea said, “Well, Nicolae, you can hardly have much to forgive. I heard you only yesterday.”

 

Nicolae put his face in his hands, and was silent for a long moment. At last, voice muffled and not looking up, he said, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have lied to you, and to God.”

 

Mircea closed his eyes. He only hoped that the boy would not be too severe in castagating himself. “Tell me, my son.”

 

Nicolae cleared his throat. “I... I have not made a good confession for over two years. I have taken communion with sins still on my soul.”

 

Not wanting to hear what was nothing less than the boy ripping his own heart out, but knowing that he must, Mircea said, “What are these sins, Nicolae?”

 

“I have lusted for one of my own sex, Father. I have lain with him. I have fornicated in ways deemed unnatural by The Church.” His voice dropped. “He is wed. I have made him commit adultery.”

 

“Nicolae, no one can force another to dishonor their wedding vows. It is a choice.” He paused. “Can you tell me the name of this person?”

 

As he had so long ago when he first confessed to Mircea the new longings that so confused him, he said, “No, Father. I can confess only my own sins. He must look to the care of his own soul.”

 

“Nicolae,” Mircea said carefully. “Who has this relationship hurt?” Silence. “If it is as I think, not even the wife of this man you love has suffered. And it is love, isn’t it, Nicolae? It is not just base, animal lust. Your heart is taken, not just your body?”

 

“Oh, yes, Father!” His voice was firm.

 

“Then be at peace. Eight rosaries tonight before you sleep.” He paused. “Besides your usual prayers.” Again, as he had so many times, Mircea spoke the words of absolution, smiling at the relief and gratitude in the boy’s voice. He shook his head as Nicolae went directly from the box to kneel before the altar and begin his penance.

 

Mircea sat back, thinking, Alfred must have left the room, else he would be berating the boy. Huh. He has little room to chide others, with the five bastard children he supports, along with their three mothers.

 

Mircea smiled. I thought he would choke on his beard when the prince kissed Nicolae. Men do kiss dear friends and comrades, but that... No, that was the parting kiss of two lovers. Mircea closed his eyes and offered up his own prayers. You may punish me when I come to judgment, Lord, but I cannot condemn them. Bring Draculea home safe, Lord, because I think that Nicolae will not survive without him.

 

While Draculea’s force was fewer than the Turks, they were fighting to protect their land, their homes, and their loved ones, and they were led by a man so fierce and powerful that they could not help but be heartened.

 

Draculea led the initial charge, mounted on Lucifer. The great beast had been restive as they neared the battleground, prancing and snorting eagerly. He knew that they were going to war. He had been born and bred for this, and he had missed it during the late peace. He quivered with excitement, waiting for the call to battle. Draculea raised his sword, the trumpets blared, and the horse leapt into action.

 

The huge black stallion raced into the front line of the Turks. In seconds he was rearing and plunging, squealing with rage. He lashed out with his teeth and iron clad hooves. Skulls were crushed, chunks of flesh ripped away. The horse alone would account for more than a dozen kills before the day was done. And his rider...

 

The Turkish officers had tried to downplay Draculea’s power and presence, telling their men again and again that the name Son of the Devil or Son of the Dragon was due only to his membership in the Order of the Dragon. But the big man in the gleaming armor fought like a demon, wielding a huge sword that seemed too large for even two men.

 

The closest he came to being injured was when a lucky mace blow knocked him from his saddle. There was a moment of danger while he struggled to his feet, but his men closed around him, protecting him until he was upright and had found his sword again. When his sword was knocked from his hands, he snatched a spear from a Turk and used it to spit a charging foe, lifting him into the air, before he retrieved his sword and fought on.

 

The battle raged through the morning and afternoon, into the evening. Thousands died, and uncounted men were wounded. The Turks sent wave after wave of soldiers into the fray hoping to overwhelm the Wallachians, but it was like waves breaking on a rocky shore. The forces of Draculea never faltered, never gave ground. They advanced, and the ground behind them was littered with corpses, severed limbs, and the brains and entrails of the unfortunate. So much blood was spilled that the ground grew spongy, and the men ended up fighting in scarlet-brown mud.

 

Finally the Turks broke, and ran. Some surrendered. Those who had died in battle were more fortunate than they. There were plenty of sturdy spears, and Draculea once again demonstrated why he was known as The Impaler. The battlefield soon grew a gruesome forest of spitted bodies.

 

Finally, smeared with blood and filth, Draculea stood in the midst of the carnage as his men slaughtered the remaining enemies. He raised his sword and cried, “God be praised! I am victorious!” Then he lowered his weapon slowly, looking up at a sky that seemed to blaze, and whispered, “Nicolae...”

 

A horseman was sent to bear the good tidings to Castle Draculea, and they began to gather up the casualties for the trip back.

 

Simion was pacing in the courtyard when the messenger arrived. The young soldier slid from his sweating, trembling mount, and fell into Simion’s arms. He gasped, “Sir, we are victorious!”

 

Simion resisted shaking him. “What of Prince Draculea?”

 

“He is well. Our lord is unharmed, and triumphant. He will return soon. But sir, we have many who are sorely wounded.”

 

“Yes. The danger is past, else I would not dare leave my post. I will get my supplies and come at once.” He turned the messenger over to the other soldiers, and went to collect his medicines.

 

The Turks knew they were going to be defeated hours before they battle ended. They formed an insidious plan to exact revenge. A soldier broke through the lines and made his way back to Castle Draculea, slipping through the forest. When he neared the walls, he loosed an arrow, aiming it over the castle wall. The men Draculea had left to protect his home were alert, and their archers immediately took aim on the spot from which the arrow had come. The Turk fulfilled his mission, but he died bristling with well aimed shafts.

 

Simion was informed. Closing the case that contained his herbs, drafts, and a goodly supply of bandages, he hurried to the courtyard. Lena had been there when the message was brought, and followed closely, curious. Simion approached the arrow, handing his case to a stable lad to be loaded on a cart. He eyed the parchment tied to the arrow, then untied it, and opened it. He read the message.

 

At first he frowned, then he gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Fools!”

 

“What is it?”

 

He glanced at the woman, surprised and irritated. “It is nothing but a desperate, futile ploy, meant to hurt and panic us. It says that the prince is dead, killed in battle.” He crumpled it into a ball. “I received word not an hour ago that he is well, and triumphant. There can be no mistake.” He threw the parchment to the ground. “Say nothing of this to anyone. It is better that no one know of this until the prince has returned to prove the lie.”

 

The cart rolled out the gate, Simion sitting in the back and tearing a sheet into strips. Lena's eyes glinted as she watched them till they were out of sight. When they were gone, she bent and picked up the parchment, smoothing and studying it. A slow smile spread over her thin face. “Oh, how sad. I think Nicolae will take this hard.”

 

She rolled the parchment up again, tied it to the arrow once again, and went into the castle. Father Mircea had persuaded Nicolae to return to his library. Lena found him there. He sat at the largest table, staring at the wall.

 

She went to him, schooling her expression to be anxious. “Calugarul, look!” She showed him the arrow. “This came over the castle wall not five minutes ago. I cannot find Simion, and someone must see what this is. Please...”

 

Apprehensively, Nicolae took the arrow and untied the message. He unrolled the parchment, and read. Lena watched avidly, and was gratified to see the color drain from his face, and his eyes grow huge and wounded. “Is it bad news, librarian?” Unable to speak, he handed the page to Lena. Lena pretended to read the message, and cried, “No! Oh, my poor lady, so young a widow. And you, Nicolae.” Her voice was sly. “You have lost your patron, and protector. Let me advise you. When the Turks take the castle, choose the most powerful and offer yourself to him, lest the common soldiers rend you to bits in their passion.” She gave him a sorrowful look. “If only there were some way you could escape this fate. I must go and be with Beta.” She left, repressing a chortle.

 

Nicolae remained where he was for a long moment, staring in horror at the message which had torn his world apart. “Vlad.” The single word was a bare whisper, forlorn and lost. I should be crying, but I cannot. I have no tears, I am empty.

 

He thought of what Lena had told him about the Turks, and he shuddered. I might live, but if I did, it would be even worse. How could I bear it if they did the things that Vlad has done, but with nothing but lust and hate, no love? No, it would be better to die. He closed his eyes. I am dead already, though I still breath. Why should I wait for what will come, and suffer? He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him, then took up a quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote. When he was done he carefully blotted the parchment, then folded it and tucked it in his shirt. He picked up the fatal message, left the library, then hesitated, gazing up the stairs toward Beta’s room. His mouth tightened a bit.

 

Nicolae went to the chapel and found Father Mircea sitting in the front pew. He sat beside the older man and said, “Father, I must ask you a question. It is very important.”

 

“Ask, Nicolae. I will answer if I can.”

 

“If a person is murdered, if they have made a good confession, and performed their penance, will they go to heaven?”

 

Mircea nodded kindly. “Most assuredly, Nicolae.” The boy sighed, obviously relieved. He patted Nicolae’s knee. “You need not fear, boy. I do not think you will die today, but if you do, your soul is clean.”

 

“If a person takes their own life, though, Father?”

 

Mircea frowned. “Suicide is a mortal sin, Nicolae.”

 

“Even... even if the person will die anyway, and in great and terrible pain?”

 

“Yes, Nicolae, even then. Death is meted out by God alone. Man cannot usurp that power without endangering his soul.” He suddenly noticed the boy’s pallor. “Why do you ask me these things?”

 

“I am sorry, Father.”

 

“Nicolae, what is wrong?” He noticed the parchment in the boy’s hand and took it. Nicolae neither tried to prevent him, nor tried to aid him. The priest read the message, then gasped, looking back at his young friend.

 

Nicolae looked back at him with dull eyes and said softly, “I am so sorry, Father.” He suddenly grabbed the priest, lifting him as he stood.

 

“Boy, what are you doing?”

 

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. I have despaired.” He wrestled the protesting priest toward the confessional. Mircea struggled, but Nicolae, though inexperienced, was young and strong. He shoved Mircea into the box and quickly shut the door. “I have planned murder.” He had the cord that had bound the message to the arrow, and he used it to bind the handles of both sides of the confessional together. Mircea threw himself against the door, and could not budge it. “My love is dead, and I must follow him.”

 

“Nicolae!”

 

“I have not hurt you, Father?”

 

“I... no. But Nicolae...”

 

“Can you give me absolution?”

 

“Boy, you know I cannot! Please, be sensible. Open the door, and we will pray together.”

 

“Bless you, Father, but it will do no good. You may pray for my love’s soul. Pray for Beta. She confessed only this morning, and her time in Purgatory will not be great.” Mircea cried out in horror, but Nicolae continued with almost eerie calm. “I cannot help Lena. She would not confess, and I cannot save her from the Turks without risking damning her soul. Try to protect her. And... and pray for me? Who knows, perhaps God may forgive me... someday.” He went up the aisle, ignoring the priest’s entreaties, his step firm.

 

Nicolae went first to Simion’s room. Most of his stores were gone, but he located a few precious things. One of them was the sleeping draft.

 

He went to Elizabeta’s room. Lena frowned at him, thinking, Huh. I do not know if his remaining means that he is a brave man, or a coward. She gave Nicolae a warning look, but the boy shook his head, telling her silently that he would not tell Beta about the message.

 

Beta was sorting through a small pile of lace. She glanced up at Nicolae absently, and said, “You have news, Brother?”

 

“No, Beta.” She looked up at him, curious. His voice, always soft when he spoke to her, was peculiarly tender. “I only wish to spend a little time with you.”

 

“Yes, well, I am rather busy.”

 

Nicolae walked to the table that held the wine carafe and glasses. “Just take a glass of wine with me? My nerves, I fear, are unsteady. It will make me feel so much better if you and Lena will join me.”

 

“Oh, very well.”

 

Turning his back to them he poured two goblets of wine, then glanced back at the women. Lena had gone to Beta and leaned over her, their heads close together as they debated the merits of a swatch of Venetian lace. He slipped the parchment twist from his sleeve. He poured a small measure of powder into one glass, then emptied the rest into the other. Picking them up, he swirled the crimson liquid gently, then brought it to the women.

 

He handed one glass to Lena, and the other to Beta. When Beta looked at him questioningly he said, “There was enough for only two drinks. I should not have wine. I have allowed my habits to become lax of late.”

 

The two women drank. Lena finished her goblet in two quick drafts, then set it aside. Beta sipped her's more daintily. Nicolae watched with some apprehension. She only drank about half of the wine before setting it aside. He frowned. Would it be enough? And it had to be soon, else someone was likely to release Father Mircea, and learn of his plan.

 

Soon Lena was yawning hugely. “My lady, I think I must rest. I am unaccountably weary.”

 

“Yes, Lena.” Beta yawned more daintily, covering her mouth. “You may take the bed. Nicolae, you must go.”

 

“Not yet, Sister.” He watched as Lena stretched out on the bed. She began snoring, almost immediately. “Just a few moments more. How do you feel?”

 

Beta blinked, looking a bit dazed. “In truth, Nicolae, I feel odd. My head swims.”

 

“The room is too warm and close. You need fresh air, Beta. You have taken no exercise for a long time.” He took her hands, pulling her upright. “Come, I will walk with you.”

 

She whined. “I do not wish to. Let go, Nicolae, and let me lie beside Lena.”

 

“Soon, Sister. But come with me just this little while. Please?”

 

“Oh, very well!” she grumbled. He led her out into the hall.

 

When she would have turned toward the stairs leading down to the ground floor, he urged her in the other direction. “No, Beta. It would not be safe to go out into the courtyard. We will walk on the roof of the castle. There you will be safe.”

 

“Feh! I will most likely catch a chill.”

 

“No, Beta. I promise you that.”

 

He had to help her up the stairs, because she was swaying by now. “Nicolae, I think I should go back to my room. I... I am really quite dizzy.”

 

“Soon, Beta, soon. Come to the back wall. The breeze is cool and refreshing there, and the view is magnificent.” He half carried her to the low wall at the back of the roof. “Do you see, Beta? The mountains rise all around, and the forests seem to go on forever. Can you help but feel the presence of God in the face of such beauty?”

 

“Yes, I am sure. I want my bed, Nicolae.”

 

She gave a small cry of surprise as Nicolae gathered her into his arms. Always before she had been the one to offer physical intimacy. Nicolae had humbly accepted whatever absent embrace or petting she had seen fit to offer him. She looked up at him, and was alarmed at the his expression. It was so gentle, but sorrowful, and there was a strange brightness in his eyes. “You will rest soon, Beta.”

 

“Nicolae...”

 

“I know that you would have wished for Lena to come with you, but she would not go to confession. I could not condemn her to meet God with her sins still black upon her soul.” He moved suddenly, climbing up on the wall, lifting her with him.

 

“Dear God, Nicolae!” Her panic fought with the strange heaviness which weighted her limbs, yet made her feel light headed. “What have you done? What are you doing?”

 

“Hush, Sister, it is all right. I spoke to Father Mircea. You are innocent, and your soul will fly to God. Will you speak for me when you are in heaven?”

 

She beat at him feebly. “Nicolae, why are you doing this?”

 

“I alone am left to see that you do not suffer at the hands of the invaders.”

 

“They will ransom me, you fool!”

 

He was shaking his head sadly. “Draculea is dead.”

 

“What do I care? I did not love him.”

 

There was silence, save for the wind whistling around the two young people perched on the wall, high above the rushing river. At last Nicolae said softly, “Poor girl. Your grief has made you mad. Do not fear, Beta. I will be strong for us both.”

 

As the girl began to struggle more strongly, Nicolae lifted his face to the sky and murmured, “Father, we come.” Closing his eyes he whispered, “Vlad, I come.”

 

...and he took a step backward...

 

Simion met Draculea halfway. The prince rode at the head of an only slightly diminished force. The well helped the wounded to limp along, while the ones who could not walk were piled in creaking carts. Draculea said, “Good, you got my message. You need not go on to the battlefield. We have brought all those who survive, and they can be best tended in the castle or village.” He smiled. “How did Nicolae receive the news?”

 

Simion looked abashed. “My lord, I did not tell him. I made haste to treat the wounded. But think of his joy when you stand before him.”

 

Draculea smiled, imagining the boy’s face wet again, but this time with tears of joy. “Yes. Let us hurry.”

 

Simion mounted one of the carts and began to bind wounds. Draculea paced an oddly calm Lucifer alongside. The great horse had suffered a few small wounds, but his hooves, clotted with drying blood and brains, proved that he had dealt more blows than he had received.

 

As he worked, Simion said, “The dogs tried one last ploy to put fear in our hearts, Domn. They sent an arrow over the walls with a lying message, saying you were slain. I left it wadded on the ground, like the trash it was, but perhaps you would like to preserve it as a memento.”

 

“You assured everyone that it was false?”

 

“No one else read it, so there was no need.” He frowned, tightening a bandage. “Well, no one of import. Abul was there, but I told her plainly that there was proof of its lie.”

 

“Lena?” Draculea frowned, feeling a tickle of unease. “If mischief can be done, that woman will find a way. If she has frightened Nicolae...” He trailed off, a sudden sense of alarm washing over him. “Simion, if the boy does not know of my triumph, and reads that filth...”

 

Simion froze, the same idea occurring to him. “No, my lord, surely not. I left the castle only an hour ago.”

 

“Much may happen in an hour.” Draculea set his spurs to Lucifer’s sides, and the great horse, even as tired as he was, leaped into a gallop.

 

Simion commandeered a horse from one of the officers, and followed Draculea. Though the horse was no match for Draculea’s steed, it was fresher, and Simion managed to draw near as they came to the castle.

 

Draculea knew that something was wrong as he came through the gates. There was both agitation, and a strange stillness over the castle. He was not greeted by the cheers that would have been normal on an occasion such as this. The men guarding the gate turned their eyes away.

 

He flung himself down from Lucifer and burst into the castle. A group of serving girls huddled near the door, clutching each other and weeping. When they saw him, their wails rose. Draculea took a step toward them, hoping to find out the meaning of the strange atmosphere, but he hesitated, and looked down.

 

The entry rug, the one that had been stained by the blood of the Turks, was stained now with water. It was almost sopping near the door, and the damp trail thinned as it led into the great hall.

 

Feeling a nameless dread, Draculea followed it through the great hall, to the doors of the chapel. There he hesitated. He had known no fear when he went forth to face the Turks, but now his heart felt swollen with terror. He thrust the doors open violently, and strode into the chapel.

 

At the front, Bishop Alfred, two of Beta’s maids, and a weeping Father Mircea looked up at him. Stretched on a bier before the altar lay Beta, or rather what had once been Beta. Draculea came forward slowly. She was drenched, her long hair trailing down the single step that led up to the altar, her clothes streaming. Her face was twisted in a last, petulant grimace, and Draculea thought numbly that if she were to lie in state, the ones who prepared her would be hard put to make her features pleasant again.

 

As he came closer, he said, “How? What was she doing near the river? She hated it.”

 

Father Mircea seemed about to speak, but Bishop Alfred intoned. “You must be strong, Prince. Your poor bride was most foully slain. But be at peace. Mircea tells me she had made confession earlier, and a murder victim bears no stain of sin.” His eyes hardened. “But the one who slew her was a suicide.”

 

Almost to the front now, Draculea caught sight of something small and dark huddled to the side, and his gaze was drawn there. He staggered, struck and wounded as no foe had ever done.

 

The black hair covered his face, but Draculea could not mistake him. He knew every curve of that body, every plain and angle, every square inch of skin. “No.” It was a whisper.

 

Simion who had come up behind him, flinched in horror. He reached to take Draculea’s arm, to offer what support and comfort he could. The big man shook him off and stumbled toward the still figure. When Mircea tried to stop him, he threw the priest off with no more effort than a man waving away a fly. He went down on his knees beside the still body, then reached out a trembling hand and pushed the hair back.

 

Draculea experienced a curious burst of memory. Images of the face of his beloved, in all its many moods, flashed before him. He remembered the panicked look when he had fled at Castle Varga, the quiet suffering after his father’s attack, the rapt devotion as he prayed, the tenderness as he held a servant girl’s child. He recalled the flash of bright temper when he declared his intention to have some say in his own life, the smile when he made a simple joke, the concern when Vlad had come from his drill, nursing bruises. He remembered that face burning with passion, glowing up at him, or turned, flushed and sweaty, to gaze at him over his shoulder as their bodies joined. But most of all he remembered how he had looked after love, when sleep overtook him, and he lay peaceful in Draculea’s arms.

 

That was the expression now. Tired, and peaceful, and very young. He was paler than Draculea had ever seen him, though, and there were lavender shadows under his eyes that told that he would not awaken refreshed from this sleep. Draculea touched his cheek gently, and jerked his hand back from the damp, cold flesh. “Nicolae.”

 

When his hand dropped, it touched something, and Draculea picked up the sheet of parchment. It was wet also, and the ink ran, streaking the paper with black, but he could still recognize Nicolae’s precise, elegant hand. My prince is dead. All is lost without him. May God unite us in heaven.

 

“Oh, Lord, no!” Draculea gathered the limp body into his arms, rocking it against his armored chest. He held Nicolae as he had so many times, but there was no stir, no response. Simion had to bite back a cry of pain when the prince desperately lifted the boy’s arms around his own neck, only to have them fall back.

 

Bishop Alfred, watching the scene with distaste, decided it was time to summon the prince back to his duties. After all, the boy had been only a plaything, and here lay the prince’s bride. “He has taken his own life. His soul cannot be saved. He is damned. It is God’s law.”

 

The bishop started when Draculea threw back his head and screamed in denial, even as he gently lowered the body once again. He lunged to his feet and lashed out. The font toppled, the heavy stone bursting apart as it struck, and the holy water flooded the floor. Before the bishop could react to this, Draculea had turned on him.

 

Pointing at Alfred, eyes blazing the pale blue of a candle flame when a lost soul passes by, he screamed, “Is this my reward for defending God’s church?”

 

“Sacrilege!” gasped Alfred.

 

Draculea scowled at him, and the cleric cringed away, lifting his cross in defense. There was an unholy light in Draculea’s eyes, one that caused more than physical fear. Glaring at the frozen bishop, Draculea snarled, “I renounce God! If he can damn one as innocent and good as my Nicolae, I renounce the hateful being. I shall rise from my own death to avenge his with all the powers of darkness!”

 

He had dropped his sword when he spotted Nicolae, but now he took it up again. He lunged over the altar and jabbed the blade at the cross carved into the stone wall. Such was the force of his grief and rage that the blade smote through the stone, sinking in easily a third of its length. He left it quivering there.

 

As he turned back the witnesses gasped in horror. Mircea and Alfred instinctively crossed themselves, and all others but Simion fled. Blood spurted from the stone, as if Draculea had thrust his blade into living flesh. It streamed down the wall and began to gather in a crimson puddle. Suddenly, though the day had been clear, thunder boomed overhead.

 

Snatching the communion chalice from the altar, Draculea held it beneath the grisly flow, letting it fill with the scarlet liquid. He raised the chalice high and shouted, “The blood is the life, and it shall be mine!” Then he threw back his head and drained the chalice.

 

Again there was thunder, as if the very sky would split. The blood from the cross increased, flooding down to wash against Beta’s corpse, thinning but little when it struck the water that had dripped from her garments. Bloody tears began to stream from the eyes of the Madonna, and all the other small icons and carvings. The very walls of Castle Draculea shook and groaned. Bishop Alfred fled in babbling fear, crossing himself even as he ran. Never again would he be persuaded to come within even a day’s ride of Castle Draculea.

 

As the Bishop hurried out of the chapel, Draculea screamed, the chalice falling from his hands. He ripped at his armor, slicing his hands as he tore it from his body, snapping the straps that held it in place. His entire body felt on fire, as if he was being burned from within. Simion shuddered when he saw that his master’s eyes were no longer cool blue, but blood red.

 

Draculea turned and staggered back to where Nicolae lay. He dropped to the floor and once again pulled the dead boy into his arms. Gently caressing the pale face, he whispered. “Do you see what I have done, Nicu? I have damned myself for you. Now you must return. I know it will be hard, little one. You are wandering in cold and dark, and it will not be easy to find your way back, but you must try. All you have to do is return to this world.” Draculea could feel himself weakening. “Just come back to this earthly realm, Nicu, and I will find you--this I swear. I will wait for you, Nicolae, no matter how long it takes for you to find your way home.” Darkness was closing in. He touched his lips to Nicolae’s cool mouth. When he sat back, blood was a vivid smear against the boy’s pale lips. “But you must come back.” As he slid into unconsciousness, Draculea murmured, “We belong to each other.”

 

Simion approached them slowly. He touched Draculea’s back, then his throat. Finally he cupped a hand before Draculea’s face, covering his mouth and nostrils. He looked to Mircea, his expression devastated, and moaned, “He is dead!”

 

Mircea, crossing himself over and over in a gesture he scarcely seemed aware of, whispered, “No, Simion, I doubt he is truly dead.”

 

“What do you mean, priest?”

 

“I will see to the burial of those other two poor creatures. Beta will lie in the Draculea crypt. Nicolae...” he closed his eyes in pain. “He cannot lie in consecrated ground, but I will not have him cast out into the rough wilderness. I will see him placed somewhere he can rest with a bit of dignity,” Mircea grimaced, “if he can rest at all. Then I will leave this place.”

 

As Mircea moved to begin his tasks, Simion caught his arm and said fiercely, “Tell me what you mean! My lord is dead! He does not breathe, his heart does not beat. I tell you, he is dead!”

 

Mircea gently pried Simion’s hand away, “And I tell you, Simion, that though he does not live, he is not dead.” When Simion would have protested this nonsense, he looked at the priest’s grieving face, and stopped. Before he left, Mircea said sadly, “God is not mocked. Do you think that He would allow Draculea to escape so easily?”

 

---

Chapter 40: Re-awakening

Child of the Night, Part Thirty-nine

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Reawakening

 

For a long moment Simion could only stand and stare at the two still figures intertwined on the now gore-flooded floor. Mircea returned in a moment with two shaking soldiers, bullying them along with threats of divine retribution if they neglected their duties through cowardice. Mircea gently disengaged Nicolae from Draculea’s embrace, and the soldiers carried the limp body away.

 

Draculea was now stretched out on the floor, his arms extended after the leaving men, as if still reaching for his lover. He looks so alone. Simion gathered himself. He stripped off the rest of Draculea’s armor, so that he would be able to lift him. He did not try to call for assistance. If they are such cowards that they will abandon him now, then curse them all, he thought fiercely.

 

It was not easy. Draculea was bigger than he, but somehow Simion managed to heft the limp body over his shoulder, and thus carried him upstairs to his room. There he laid Draculea on his bed, and once again examined the prince.

 

He frowned. There was no breath, no fog when he held a brightly polished piece of metal before his nostrils. He opened the prince’s shirt and laid his ear against his broad chest, holding his own breath as he listened. No sound, and the blood-smeared flesh seemed already to be cooling.

 

The priest said that though he does not live, he is not dead. I have heard of men who have taken fits and seemed dead, then awakened in their graves. He shuddered. That will not happen to you, my prince. I will sit beside you till you either awaken, or the rot sets into your flesh.

 

The water from the previous night was still there. In normal times that negligence would have earned someone a beating, unless kind Nicolae had pleaded their cause. Simion would have preferred hot water, but he would not leave Draculea, lest he be away when his master revived. Instead he stripped Draculea and washed him carefully, removing the blood of battle, and the blood of the chapel. His hands stayed steady, but inside he quaked. He was a brave man, but the grisly sights in the chapel had shaken him badly. All that held him steady now was his sense of duty--Draculea needed him.

 

When he was done, he covered Draculea with a clean sheet. He began to draw the sheet up over his head, then hesitated, looking at the pale, stern features. Finally he folded the sheet neatly down over his breast, pulled a chair up beside the bed, and sat down to wait.

 

Some time later there was a knock at the door. Simion did not respond at once. When it came again, he arose and went to the door. He was a little surprised--he would have thought that the castle staff and Draculea’s men would have fled by now. Most of them were a superstitious lot, and news of what had happened would have spread quickly, attaining even greater violence and eerieness as it was passed. I would not be surprised if by now they had Satan himself appearing in fire and smoke to present Draculea with a contract for his soul, to be signed in blood.

 

Outside there was a swarthy man--one who did not seem as nervous as Simion would have expected. Simion examined him closely. “Yes?”

 

The man bowed low. “Sir, we have caught a thief.”

 

“Why do you bother me with this now? You know the penalties.”

 

Again he bowed. “Yes, sir, but this case is different.” The man had a thick accent. So, this was one of the gypsies. While most people drove the gypsies from place to place, cursing them for thieves and scoundrels, Draculea had welcomed many of them into his service, and decreed that they were under royal protection. The gypsies did not forget such kindness, and were loyal to the prince. “A woman was caught in the stable, trying to steal one of the prince’s horses. Not a peasant woman, sir, nor yet a court lady. She is the personal servant of the dead Princess Elizabeta. She had a goodly quantity of silver and gold with her, and we fear she may have stolen it from the castle, though she claims it is her own, and offered to pay for the horse.”

 

Lena? I thought perhaps Nicolae had done away with her, too, but it seems I was wrong.

 

The man shrugged. “We would have executed her, but I remembered that...” he cocked his head and said consideringly, “that Prince Draculea was not fond of her. We thought that perhaps the prince would like to deal with her himself.”

 

Simion nodded slowly. “You did well. Yes, he will most definitely wish to tend to her if...” Simion shook his head slightly. “When he awakens. Take her to the dungeon. No one is to touch her, mind, without express orders. See that she has food and water, for now.” He gave a small, cold smile. “Garnish it as you wish.”

 

The man snickered as Simion shut the door. The fastidious Lena, so picky about her food and drink, would find it less than perfect now. If she could not handle the taste of spit, piss, and possibly shit, she could starve. He had a feeling, though, that she would not turn down whatever was offered for long--her desire to survive was too strong for her to allow herself to starve simply because a guard dirtied her food.

 

Simion sat back beside Draculea. I promise you this, Domn--If you do not awaken, I will see that her food holds more than what the guards gift her with. I have certain drugs that can kill as well as cure. For your sake, and Nicolae’s, I will see that she takes hours to die. She will think that her belly is full of broken glass, and her veins are full of acid, and I will stand and watch each shudder until the Devil comes to snatch her black soul to hell.

 

Simion sat and waited. The fire that had been built earlier burned down to embers, and the embers burned down to ashes. Occasionally he would hear distant footsteps, or whispering voices, but not nearly as many as one might expect in a castle the size of Castle Draculea. Not in a living house, in any case. I think that the same fate that has befallen our master has taken the castle. It is fit, since he is so much a part of this place.

 

The dawn came, and the day began to pass. Twice silent gypsies brought food to the room. They would place it near Simion, stoically study the still form of the prince, then leave. Simion knew that, though all the others had fled, the gypsies would remain until he told them that there was no hope for their master.

 

He ate, only because he knew that he must retain his strength, the better to serve Draculea. If Draculea was indeed dead... He had told his master what he would do in that case. He kept his knife at his belt, ready.

 

The day wore on. He knew that night was approaching when one of the gypsies came and built another fire on the hearth. This time the man approached Simion and waited patiently to be noticed. Simion decided that the man had enough sense not to bother him unless he had important information, and he gestured at him to speak.

 

“Sir, I thought you would wish to know. The master’s young companion has been buried below the castle. My men dug the grave, for the old priest would never have managed.”

 

“I thank you. So shall the prince, when he returns to us.”

 

The man shrugged. “It is not necessary, sir. It was our duty, and the men liked the boy. He was always courteous and kind,” he smiled grimly, “though he did plague us to learn his scratching. The priest said some words over the grave. It was not the full burial ceremony, but he blessed the boy, and said a prayer for his soul.”

 

Simion shook his head. “I knew that Mircea would do all that he felt he could. He is gone now?”

 

“Aye, after he laid the princess to rest.”

 

Simion’s voice held a touch of grim satisfaction. “So, she received full ceremony, but he buried Nicolae first. Good.” He waved the man away. “Two more days, friend. If Draculea has not come to his senses by then, we will bury him, and your people are released from fealty.”

 

He bowed, saying, “Sir, my people do not swear allegiance lightly. Should the time ever come when we are no longer needed by the House of Draculea, we will know.”

 

He left, and Simion turned his attention once again to his fallen master. Aside from his pallor, he does not look dead. He seems only asleep. Asleep, but not at peace. The look of calm he had achieved with Nicu is gone.

 

Simion closed his eyes, remembering his lord in all his many moods. He did not see the faint twitch of movement beneath Draculea’s eyelids, the subtle shifting that was so like that which accompanied a dream. There was a minute lifting under the sheet as long fingers spread slightly, and flexed. There were many infinitesimal motions, but the chest never rose, and the skin above his pulse points did not vibrate with the throb of flowing blood.

 

Draculea’s eyelids lifted. The eyes that stared up at the ceiling were as flat and cold as stone. Then there was a spark in their depths. Rage and grief flared, bringing the dead stare to life.

 

Simion had been slipping into a doze when he heard a scream that sounded as if it came from the pits of Hell. Even before he could open his eyes he felt a body collide with his own, knocking him from his seat and carrying him to the floor.

 

Simion fought frantically, but it was as if the thing on top of him had the strength of ten men. Cold limbs wound with his own, pinning him so that he felt as helpless as a child.

 

There was a low, inhuman snarl close above him. He opened his eyes to find a face both familiar and hideously strange hovering above his own. It was his master, Draculea, but something souless looked out from his eyes. He glared down at Simion. His well-cut lips wrinkled back like those of a wild dog scenting prey, and Simion moaned when he saw that the canine teeth had grown. They were fangs, near an inch long, the needle points glistening. “Nosferatu!” he whispered.

 

Simion was further shocked when Draculea agreed in a harsh voice, “Nosferatu.” Simion had thought that all that had been Draculea had fled, leaving only a fleshy shell, inhabited by a demon, but he could see that the essence of his master still remained, though he was not at that moment in control.

 

A large hand seized Simion’s hair, dragging his head aside and stretching his neck while the other hand ripped at his shirt collar. Simion used the freedom of his hands to try to fight, but the dread being ignored his struggles with near contempt.

 

Simion recalled the legends of the Nosferatu. These creatures awakened into their new existence with an obsessive desire to feed. Only those who had the greatest will in life retained a shred of sanity or reason beyond death, and even they were mad until they had their first sup. It seemed hopeless, but if he hoped to avoid slaughter, he had to try.

 

The mortal gasped, “My prince, mercy! Let me live, that I may serve you.”

 

“You may serve me beyond the grave, human,” he said thickly. He pressed his face to Simion’s throat. Though he did not breathe, he drew in great lungsful of air, enjoying the rich, warm scent of life. Simion could feel cool saliva against his skin, and the hard press of fangs above his jugular.

 

Simion, desperate, cried out, “Nicolae will grieve when he returns, if you kill me.”

 

The body above him stiffened. Draculea lifted his head and stared into Simion’s eyes, mouth slightly open. Simion watched in amazement as the fangs slowly, agonizingly withdrew, shrinking into the gums till they were of normal length. Draculea, voice still rough, said slowly, “Yes. Yes, he will.”

 

Moving slowly, as if every motion hurt him, Draculea crawled off of Simion and sat on the floor, his back against the bed. Simion sat up, rubbing his throat, resisting the urge to scramble away.

 

Draculea stared off, not looking at his servant. At last he said, “You should go. I cannot account for my actions now. I do not want to kill you, but...” He closed his eyes. “Simion, I burn. I feel as if I have not eaten for years, and I thirst as if I have never moistened my tongue with a drop of drink. Molten lead pours through my veins, and I know that only one thing can ease this torment.” He slid his gaze toward Simion and said quietly, “Leave, old friend. Flee, lest I lose control of the beast that has awakened inside me, and slay you.”

 

“Not so, lord. I bound myself to you many years ago, of my own choice.”

 

“You do not know what I would require of you to remain in my service. I free you. Go.”

 

“No, my prince. I know well what you need. Did I not witness your vow in the chapel? Have I not heard tales of the Nosferatu from my youngest years?” Simion pulled himself to his knees before Draculea, and drew his knife.

 

Draculea gave a humorless laugh. “Do you seek to shorten my suffering, Simion? Then you did not pay much attention to those tales you mentioned, unless that knife is pure silver. Even then you would be hard pressed to kill me, my friend.” Draculea bent his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, as if chilled. “The undead are not easy to dispatch.”

 

“Nay, prince. I do not seek to kill you--I intend to aid you. I can give you what you need now.” Simion slashed the blade across his left palm, the one closest to his heart, and dropped the knife. Blood began to flow thickly from the wound, and he brought his hands together, cupping them, before it could spill on the floor.

 

Draculea watched in amazement. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to throw himself on the man and take what he needed. But Draculea’s will was as steely in death as it had been in life, and he resisted, though it made him tremble with strain.

 

As the blood welled and pooled in his hands, Simion said, “I swore a blood oath to serve you, prince. This is but the next step.” He lifted his hands toward Draculea, offering them. “Drink, Maria Ta.” When Draculea hesitated he said softly, “Please, Vlad. Let me give you this gift.”

 

Draculea moved so swiftly that Simion flinched, but he did not lose a single drop of the precious blood. He felt cold, inhumanly strong hands grip his wrists. Draculea studied his face, and Simion nodded gravely. Slowly Draculea lowered his head.

 

The smell was driving him mad. He could feel the ache as his fangs began to lengthen again. He could sense the hot, sweet pulse of blood just below the skin of Simion’s wrist, and he could imagine ripping the flesh open and drinking from the crimson flood. But a pool of the life giving elixer was just below that throb, and it was being offered freely. Draculea bent his head lower, put out his tongue, and dipped the tip into the blood.

 

A bolt of heat and pleasure, something much more than the enjoyment of taste or the anticipation of satisfying bodily hunger, swept over him. He pursed his lips and sucked up a mouthful. It was warm, salty and sweet all at once--it was delicious. He swallowed and hastily sucked up another mouthful. The liquid traced a line of heat down to his belly. The sharp pain that had settled there eased almost immediately, and when the second mouthful joined it, a warm glow began to spread.

 

Draculea continued, eagerly sipping the blood till the liquid was gone. The wound had stopped seeping and all that was left was the film over Simion’s palms and fingers. The insistent edge of Draculea’s hunger and thirst was gone--now he was simply savoring the taste. He pulled Simion’s hands apart, not releasing his wrists, and began to lick the last of the blood away.

 

There had been a change. When Draculea had first gripped Simion his hands had been icy. Now... They were still not normal, but the flesh seemed to have warmed a bit. It is the blood, he thought. It warms him. I think that if he took enough he would be as he was--warm, with the color of life. But I fear that taking that much from a single victim would mean death. As he thought this, Draculea was licking his palm. Simion bit his lip at the cool, wet caress.

 

The heat of the blood he had drunk spread through Draculea's body, igniting a familiar fire in his loins. Now that one appetite had been sated, he found himself beset by another need. For so long he had shared this desire with Nicolae alone, but before that, Simion had often cared for him when his lust rose.

 

He moved to take one of Simion's fingers into his mouth, sucking it strongly. Simion drew in a deep breath as he felt the sharp edge of one fang, but Draculea was careful. He curled his tongue around Simion's finger, sliding it slowly in and out between his lips, staring at his servant. He released one wrist and let his hand drop to Simion's crotch. He murmured in approval when he found the warm bulge of his erection. Draculea was not the only one who found this sharing erotic. Draculea murmured, "I still hunger, Simion."

 

The older man reached up and touched his face softly, and said, "Then take what you need, my lord."

 

Simion began to unlace his breeches as Draculea turned back toward the small table beside the bed. The bowl of scented oil was still there. Had it been only two days ago that he had used it on his beloved, gently and patiently stretching him so that he could accomodate Draculea's lust-swollen flesh with ease and pleasure?

 

Simion was throwing aside the breeches when Draculea turned back. The prince spread the sheet that had covered him, needing only a few quick motions, then urged Simion over onto his belly on the floor. Simion spread his legs as he lay down, and Draculea moved between them, kneeling. As he spread the other man's buttocks he said quietly, "I'm sorry, Simion. I will not be able to hold back for long, I fear, and my flesh is still cool. It may be... uncomfortable."

 

Simion reached back blindly. His hand briefly gripped Draculea's forearm, and he squeezed. "I want this, prince, more than you can imagine. Let me help you in this way. I promise you that, in doing so, I take also what I need." He gasped as the first well-greased finger slid deep into him, but it passed over his pleasure spot at the first stroke, and the gasp became a moan of pleasure.

 

Draculea worked quickly, his touch hard, but not brutal. After only a few strokes he added a second finger, and a third followed quickly. It was a little uncomfortable, because Simion had not indulged for some months, but this was his beloved prince, and it was welcome.

 

Draculea took another portion of oil, anointing his rigid cock liberally, then stretched himself over Simion. The servant closed his eyes as he felt the slick, cool nudge of Draculea's cock at his back entrance. Then Draculea breached him with one long, smooth stroke, entering him fully.

 

It was a bit of a shock. The familiar heat was absent, but he was still as long and thick and filling as ever he was--and still as active. He began to thrust quickly, letting himself rest fully on the man beneath him, his weight carrying him deeper, and deeper still. Simion grunted with pleasure as the broad head rubbed over his special spot, sending waves of ecstasy through his body. He wormed his hands beneath his body. His palms were still damp with Draculea's cool saliva and his own warm blood as he gripped his own stiff prick and began to stroke himself.

 

Draculea grabbed his hips and pounded into him, striving against the man who writhed beneath him, pushing back to take as much of Draculea's cock as he could. Despite what Draculea had said, he did not falter, nor did he slacken. Simion cried out, spilling his seed as Draculea continued to fuck him. The blond man lay limp and shuddering as his prince continued to rut, never slowing. Draculea continued to strike the sensitive spot deep inside, and Simion, much to his own astonishment, found that he was growing hard again.

 

Simion quickly came a second time, and still Draculea stroked into him. When he felt his body weakly beginning to stir a third time, Simion pleaded, "Please, lord. I cannot do more. Take your pleasure of me."

 

In response, Draculea put his arms around Simion's waist, and reared back. He rose to his knees, pulling Simion with him, and reached around. One hand closed around Simion's cock. The servant's sex was tender, but still engorged. His flesh was slick with the seed that had alread been spilled, and Draculea's hand moved easily. Draculea's other hand closed over Simion's throat and squeezed. Simion gasped, but the grip did not tighten. Draculea held him there, immoble, in a grip that was almost gentle, but hinted at untold power.

 

Draculea squeezed and pulled firmly at Simion's sex while he pumped strongly into the man's anal passage. Suddenly he stiffened. As Simion felt a warm pulse of liquid in his bowels, he also felt Draculea's teeth sink into his neck, just where it joined his shoulder. He screamed with mingled pain and pleasure as his final orgasm, weak, but still stronger than he could have imagined, forced the last few trickles of sperm from his body. He fell unconscious.

 

When he awakened he was fully naked, stretched out on his belly in Draculea's bed. The prince lay beside him, and he was idly licking an aching spot on Simion's neck. Simion felt weak, and Draculea was warm against his side, his color high. He has drunk.

 

Simion listened to his own body for a while, sorting through sensations, and came to the conclusion that he was in no danger of dying--at the moment.

 

Draculea rested his head on Simion's shoulder and whispered, "I am sorry, old friend. I thought I could control myself."

 

"You did, Maria Ta," Simion said thickly. "If you had not, I would not have awakened."

 

Draculea's voice was grim. "Or you would have awakened, but you would have awakend as I did. I almost..." Draculea hesitated. He had been about to say 'killed'. Instead he said, "I almost turned you."

 

"But you did not." He sat up, a little painfully. Glancing at the prince, he saw that Draculea had retrieved and donned his breeches. Simion took hold of Draculea's wrists and turned them, examining his hands. "Domn, you cut your hands in the chapel. I saw you slice them on your armor."

 

Draculea looked. "Did I?" he said vaguely. The skin was unbroken now, save for a few old scars. He shook his head, as if it mattered little. Rubbing his knees, he said in a low voice, "I went to the chapel while you slept. Where have they taken him?"

 

Simion put his hand comfortingly on the prince's back. "I am not sure, but not far. Mircea said that he would see Nicolae decently buried. He could not have done it alone, and the gypsies will know where he lies. He is beyond any trouble of this world now, Domn, but you have things to which to attend." The look Draculea turned on Simion was sardonic, as if questioning that the servant would direct the master. Simion said simply, "Lena."

 

Draculea jerked, throwing his head up, eyes wild, much as Lucifer had when he had first scented battle. Simion watched in amazement as a red spark flickered in the depths of the prince's eyes. A soft, rumbling sound emanated from his throat. "Le-e-na." It was almost a sigh.

 

"We have her, Domn. She is held safe in the dungeon, awaiting your pleasure."

 

Draculea looked at Simion, and smiled. Simion flinched. There was something... wrong. The plains and angles of Draculea's face seemed subtly shifted. The brows were thicker, arched in peaks, the cheekbones highter, the jaw wider, longer. He smiled, and Simion saw that again the canine teeth had elongated and sharpened into fangs that would have shamed those of the most fierce wolf ever to have been taken down in Wallachia. He was still unmistakably Prince Draculea, but it was as if his features swam behind others--behind a face that could only be described as demonic.

 

His voice was soft. "Awaiting my... pleasure." And again, he smiled.

 

---

Chapter 40: Revenge Begins

Child of the Night, Part Forty

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

The Dungeon, Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Revenge Begins

 

Lena shivered, pulling her gown more closely about her. The heaped, musty straw, her only bedding, was filthy and vermin-ridden, but she would soon have to settle into it for warmth. They had taken her traveling cloak when they brought her down here. No doubt some gypsy bitch was draping it over her sleazy rags even now.

 

Damn. So close. Another few minutes and I would have been gone. I had enough money to make me welcome anywhere. I could have presented myself as a lady, found another position as a companion. It wouldn't have been as good as it was here, but it would have been at least as prestigious as the one I had with Varga.

 

The stone floor was damp and dirty, but there was not a chair or stool in the room, and her legs were beginning to ache. Reluctantly, she sat down, and leaned back against the rough wall. I cannot believe my luck! I was hoping that the false message would convince that fool, Calugarul, to flee. His suicide was an unexpected pleasure, but why did the bastard have to take Beta with him? It isn't likely that I'll ever find someone as weak-willed as she in such a position of power.

 

Lena was worried. She was sure that all they could have against her was the attempt to steal the horse, but that was a serious offense.

 

She sighed. Well, it was a good thing that Draculea had that fit. There was no proof that she had had any hand in the librarian's death, but Draculea was not notorious for his scrupulous need for physical proof.

 

From what she had overheard, though, the prince was either dead or in a deep stupor from which he was unlikely to recover. That meant that there would be a scramble to see who would inherit the throne. To the best of her knowledge there was no clear-cut successor. Different factions would back their favorites. It could be months before there were an official declaration. Her case would probably not be reviewed until it was settled, and she had to hope that someone would remember her. Otherwise she might sit in this pit for the rest of her life.

 

The door opened, and Lena looked sullenly up at the man who came in. He tossed her a lump of bread and thumped down two battered metal cups. One held water and the other held a thin, greyish fluid, with a few lumps floating in it. The dark skinned man smiled at her, and grabbed lewdly at his crotch, massaging himself. Lena spat on the floor. He laughed, stepped on the bread, and left.

 

Grumbling, Lena picked up the bread and brushed it off, then tried to pick off most of the filth. She hated to lose even those crumbs, but she wasn't desperate enough to eat it--yet.

 

Next she examined the cup of mystery fluid. Lena sniffed it speculatively. It smelled sour, but there was a faint aroma of meat. It must be some form of soup. She poked suspiciously at the lumps. They might be vegetables, she supposed, but she couldn't be sure, and there was a sharp smell that reminded her strongly of chamber pots.

 

She decided not to risk it, and poured it out in a corner, covering it with straw. The last time she'd refused to eat what she had been given, two of them had held her, one had pried her jaws open, and a fourth had poured the stinking mess down her gullet. She'd sicked it back up, and had her face rubbed in the mess.

 

Lena nibbled the bread, trying to ignore the occasional grit. She was careful not to look into the cup of water as she sipped it. If one of them had spit in it again, she didn't want to know. To think that only days ago I had the finest brandy and wine. I had my choice of hundreds of bottles--French, Italian, German. Now this.

 

How long had she been down here? More than a day, she was sure. Two days? It might have been longer, but she couldn't tell. There were, of course, no windows. The only light in the cell what filtered through the tiny barred opening in the cell door. She certainly couldn't tell by her feedings.

 

She finished the bread. After a few moments, she picked up the least offensive crumbs and ate them, too. It still wasn't enough. Her belly was going to start protesting soon. How hideously common.

 

She sighed. Well, she might as well school herself to patience. She'd have at least a week or two before someone came along to review her case.

 

Now, since the prince is out of power, that means that his men will also be out of power. I should be able to convince anyone who comes to take over that I should be released. Perhaps I can even keep a position here. That would be preferable. I almost have the servants trained to my taste. Simion won't stay around with the prince gone, and without him to balk me, I should be able to...

 

The door opened, and she tensed. It couldn't be another meal so soon, and she was suspicious of any other reason they might come to her cell. The gypsy who entered grinned at her, then hung a lamp on a hook near the door and stepped out. Lena was puzzled till the other man came through the door. He was so tall that he had to bend his head to pass through the portal. When he lifted it, and she saw his face, she gasped. "Prince Draculea! You, here? You live!"

 

Draculea's smile was sardonic. "I am, in any case, here. In that you are correct." Simion entered and placed a chair near the door. Draculea dropped into it. "Did you think I was dead, then, Lena?"

 

Careful, Lena, she thought. "My prince, there was a message sent over the walls, and then I heard such strange things about what happened in the chapel. I did not know what to believe."

 

"But you thought it best to steal one of my horses and flee?"

 

She lowered her eyes. "One thing I knew for sure, my lord. My lady was dead--cruelly murdered." If she had been looking at Draculea instead of pretending sorrow and despair, she might have noticed the hardening of his lips, and the spark of anger in his eyes, but she was too caught up in her subterfuge. "My only thought was that I no longer had a place here, and the murderer might seek my life also, so I fled. My lady had promised me the gift of a horse, and I did not think... I would have willingly paid, of course."

 

"Of course." He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "This false message--you knew it was false?"

 

"I... had no way to be sure, Prince. It seemed very real."

 

"But Simion says that he told you that he knew it was a lie."

 

She darted a sharp glance at the servant. "I knew that he could not have seen the proof. I thought that he had been deceived when he was told you had triumphed. It..." She trailed off.

 

Draculea finished the thought for her. "It did not seem likely to you. So, you hugged this terrible thought to your bosom? You told no one?"

 

"I did not want to be the one to spread panic through the castle."

 

"Then how did Nicolae come to believe that I was dead?"

 

Her eyes shifted. "Some servant may have overheard, and spoken to him." She could not stop the slight, contemptuous curve of her lips. "You know how close he was to the peasants."

 

"Yes, I know. They loved him, and looked after him. That is why one of the gypsies told me just now that he saw you enter the library carrying the message. Simion had discarded it, but it had been bound once again around the arrow."

 

He waited for her to reply, but Lena remained silent. Her mind worked feverishly, but she could not come up with a plausible explanation. At last Draculea said quietly, "You took it to him. You presented it as the truth. You made him believe I was dead, and he was bereft."

 

He stood and stepped toward her. Lena cringed back in the straw. "You knew how... fragile he was. You must have known how he would react."

 

"My lord, it was a jest. I was going to tell him shortly. I thought only of how great his joy would be once he saw that you were safe."

 

Draculea lunged. He gripped Lena's shoulders with hands that were like talons, and dragged her upright, slamming her against the wall. "Bitch! You knew! Perhaps you thought he would do no more than run away, but even that would most likely have meant his death, with the land in turmoil."

 

He pushed, and Lena's toes lifted off the floor. She was pinned, dangling. "When he killed himself you thought 'Why, so much the better!', but you did not expect him to take Beta."

 

Lena squirmed. The pain in her shoulders was crushing, but she did not want to show her distress to the prince. He wasn't one to be softened like that. "He murdered her!"

 

Draculea's face was agonized. "He thought he was saving her. He sought to spare her from the Turks by sending her to God, and he did it knowing that it would lay another sin on his own soul." His grip tightened. "He would have done the same kindness for you, Lena, dog that you are, but you would not make confession. He would not damn your soul." Draculea gave a bark of laughter. "Poor boy, he did not know that you had done that yourself."

 

He threw Lena back on the straw, and loomed over her. She touched her aching shoulder and was astonished when her hand came away bloody. There were rips in the fabric of her dress, puncture wounds beneath. He'd had no weapon--how had he done this? In the dimness of the cell she did not see that his nails were unnaturally long and sharp.

 

He wiped his hands on his breeches, as if her touch had befouled him. "You killed my Nicolae as surely as if you slit his throat, Abul."

 

"No, Prince, I swear! I had no way of knowing..." He took a step toward her, and she shrieked, "Mercy! He would not want you to kill me!"

 

Draculea stopped. His voice was low. "You are right, Lena. He would have pleaded for your life. But he isn't here now. He's dead. Give me a reason why I shouldn't tear out your throat."

 

Shuddering, Lena opened the bodice of her dress. Her bosom was small, but it was white and firm. She tried to give Draculea a seductive look. This should at least buy her some time. After all, this was what men wanted--a willing hole in which to bury themselves. She knew that the prince had been with women before he found Nicolae.

 

Draculea stared at her, then said slowly, "You offer yourself to me, Lena?" She nodded. "You are willing to give up your body, even if it will save your life for only a little while?"

 

"Life is sweet, Prince. I would do much to retain it."

 

"Life can be sweet, Lena. But it can be a burden, as well." He reached out and touched her breast. She winced. His hand was like ice. He cradled her breast, as if weighing an apple in his hand. He squeezed, and Lena cried out as his nails punctured her milk white skin. She looked into his eyes and saw how gravely she had misjudged him. He hissed, "Do you believe I would lie with you after what you did to my lover? Even though I know that, with the pain and disgust I could cause you, it would be a cruel punishment, I will not soil the memory of what I shared with my love in that way."

 

He let go, throwing Lena back into the straw, and resumed the chair. His voice was acid, "No, Lena, I won't fuck you. But since you seem to so earnestly desire to pay for what you have done, there are other ways." He glanced up at Simion. "Three of them--for now."

 

Simion stepped out of the room, and Draculea watched with cold eyes as Lena began to re-fasten her dress. She hesitated when three of the gypsies entered the room. They all stared at her. One of them, who had a certain air of authority about him, looked at Draculea questioningly. The prince nodded.

 

The man smiled, and spoke to the other two in Rom. They broke into gap-toothed grins and advanced, opening their breeches. Lena started to scream.

 

The man with his cock up her ass was grunting like a pig. The one who was raping her in the natural hole was quieter, but he thrust more fiercely. She was glad that the one who had thrust his prick down her throat had finished quickly--she had been sure she was going to suffocate, or choke on his bitter seed. Now he knelt beside them in the straw, stroking his sticky sex, speaking in his own barbaric language. She thought that he must be urging his companions on to greater efforts.

 

Draculea was watching, too, his face stony. Simion stood behind him, arms folded. They both observed, but neither made a move to pleasure themselves. Their expressions were impassive, but fierce lights flickered in their eyes.

 

The man in her cunny sighed and spilled his seed. They had been lying on their sides, so that both men could have access to her at once. Now he moved away, and the man sodomizing her quickly took advantage. He rolled her onto her belly and dragged her up onto her knees, so he could stab into her more deeply.

 

Finally he, too, climaxed, smacking her ass smartly as he shot his seed into her bowels. He pulled out with a laugh, and Lena moaned in dismay as her oral rapist, hard once again, moved into his place. This time he was not quick. He fucked her slow and hard, grinding into her narrow back channel, moving her this way and that to find the exact angle that would be most pleasing.

 

When he was done he pulled out of the moaning woman, poking a finger teasingly at her stretched, oozing ass. All three men bowed to the prince and left the room.

 

Lena saw a pair of boots step up beside her face. There was pain as a hand was set in her hair, and her head was dragged up. "I understand that you told Nicolae that he would most likely be raped to death if the Turks captured him. Really, Lena. You know, if the rapes are not accompanied by beatings, a victim can withstand a tremendous number without mortal damage." He let go of her hair. "Send in the next three."

 

She'd vomited when the one who'd sodomized her thrust his shit-, blood-, and come-smeared cock into her mouth. The man had drawn back his hand to slap her, but a sharp word from Draculea had stopped him. He grumbled, used her hair to wipe himself clean, then thrust it into her mouth once again, muttering words that she was sure were promises to cut her throat when the prince wasn't looking, if she did it again. Lena didn't.

 

The second group of men was replaced by a third, then a fourth. Sometimes her rapists grew hard again before their companions were finished--then they would have a second try at her.

 

She lost count of the violations. They took her in the cunny, the ass, and the mouth, seemingly without prejudice (though she thought vaguely that they seemed to prefer sodomy).

 

When the fourth group was done, Draculea said, "It is near dawn. That will be enough for now." She heard one of the gypsies question him, and Draculea replied, "No. Let her rest today."

 

He went over and squatted beside the woman, running his eyes over her dispassionately. Lena was smeared from head to knees with congealing come, which had become matted with straw and filth. The last few rapists, far from fastidious, had even been wrinkling their noses as they fucked her, and there were comments about the sloppy looseness of her ass and cunny.

 

"You are a mess, Lena. Would you like me to have your bathing tub brought?" She moaned. "No? But you are so fond of it. I remember how annoyed you were when I left one behind at Castle Varga. Ah, well, it would be a burden on the servants. We don't have many left, Lena. Most of them fled after my... after what happened in the chapel."

 

He stood up and spoke to the gypsy guard. "Sluice her down. Her stench is offensive. And give her some fresh straw. I'm going to be dealing with her, and I don't care to smell any more stink than I have to."

 

They left the room, and Draculea addressed Simion. "See that she's fed. Shove it down her throat if you must. I'm not having her die of starvation. Also, tend her if she needs it. I don't want her bleeding to death from some internal rip, either. I'll be back to deal with her again tonight."

 

"Yes, my prince. You will go to your room?"

 

Draculea turned haunted eyes on his friend. "No, Simion. I will go to Nicolae."

 

Simion's heart clenched as he watched the prince leave the room. Oh, my dear prince. You tear at your own heart by going there, but I know you can do no less.

 

Draculea made his way through dank hallways beneath Castle Draculea. The underground part of the castle was even more vast than the upper--filled with rooms that had not been seen by man for years, reached by doors and passage ways that could be found only by those who knew where to look for them.

 

In a dirt-floored room, in the deepest part of the underground, Draculea came to a place where the earth had been recently turned. It was heaped in the unmistakable form of a fresh grave. A simple stake was driven in at the head, with a board that bore the crudely painted legend 'Nicolae Calugarul'.

 

Draculea touched the sign gently, running his finger over the letters. There had been a cross, but he had directed Simion to remove it. He could not look upon the cross, much less approach it, without feeling that his blood was burning in his veins.

 

He knelt beside the grave and began to speak. "Hello, my love. I am sorry that I have been away from you, but there were things that had to be done. Things are much changed here at the castle, and they will change even more in the future."

 

"You must forgive me for having the cross removed. I could not come to you otherwise. Do not fear--I will replace this poor marker with something more suitable--something grander. I can give you an angel. Would you like that? An angel for my angel."

 

He hung his head. "You must not chide me for what I do to Lena, Nicu. The woman is more of a monster than I ever was, or am now. Whatever I do to her, it will not be enough. It will never be enough. I know that you watch me, but I beg you to turn your eyes away from this. Do not torment your gentle soul, my love, with this earthly punishment."

 

Draculea moved, stretching out on the damp, soft soil, face down. "I would call the name of God, but I have given up that privilege. Oh, Nicu. I am so alone." He pressed his face to the dirt, and cried. His tears were drops of blood. "Come back to me, my darling. No matter how long it takes, you must come back."

 

As the sun rose, Draculea closed his eyes and became still. His arms were curved, embracing the mound as tenderly as he had once embraced a warm, living body. He dropped into a sleep that was not sleep, and even then he had no peace, for it seemed that his soul wandered in darkness, calling plaintively for one who could no longer answer.

 

---

Chapter 41: Torture

Child of the Night, Part Forty-one

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Torture

 

It was quiet, so quiet.

 

Draculea opened his eyes. He had been awake for some time, perhaps an hour, but he had experienced an unfamiliar lassitude. It had seemed just too much of an effort to open his eyes, much less arise.

 

Suddenly the sense of weakness was gone. It did not seep away--it simply vanished, and Draculea felt as vigorous as he ever had. He sat up, brushing dirt from his tunic, and spent a moment listening to his body.

 

He'd done this before, particularly when he had been wounded in battle. He would sit quietly and concentrate, sensing how his body was functioning, seeking out unfamiliar pains, or numbness. He would feel the pace of his heart and breathing, checking for unnatural rhythms. Now... now there was no rhythm.

 

It was odd. Before, he hadn't been very aware of these things, taking them for granted. Now their abscence was disturbing. He hadn't realized that his pulse had been a gentle thrum at the edge of his hearing, and his own breath a soft whisper. Now the room he occupied was silent save for a scratching in one corner that hinted at the presense of a rat.

 

Draculea touched his still chest. *I don't feel warm, but I don't feel cold. Still, would I realize it if I did?* He thought about it, and drew in a deep breath. He did not exhale. He waited, and waited. Minutes ticked by. Vlad felt no strain. Finally he consciously made himself exhale.

 

Draculea stood. It was more than dark in the room. When he had arrived here there had been a torch burning in the hall that had offered dim illumination, but it had burned out long ago. Vlad knew that it must be pitch black, but somehow it didn't seem to make any difference. He could still see quite clearly.

 

He touched the rough name board once again, then looked around. He noticed a red glint off in the far corner, and he looked more closely. Yes, he'd been right. It was a rat--a fat brown one. They were controled in the upper levels of the castle, but they had free reign down here. This one was a bold creature. It was sitting on its haunches, watching him with every evidence of curiosity.

 

Again Draculea noted that he could smell, even though he did not breathe. He could smell the rat's scent: earthy and feral. Mingled with that animalistic smell was another that he would come to recognize as the scent of life, of blood, and that scent triggered something primitive in him.

 

He wasn't even aware of moving. All he knew was that suddenly he was in the corner and the rat was in his hands. It squirmed and cried out, its tone thin, almost like screaming. It was plump, but there were strong muscles and sinew under the layer of fat. Still, Draculea held it easily. He did not flinch or loosen his grip as the beast scratched and bit at him, its long, chisel-like teeth slicing into his hands.

 

Draculea brought the rat near his face. The scent of blood hit him again, and he felt the ache of his fangs extending. Without thinking, he brought the beast to his mouth and ripped at it. Blood spurted into his mouth.

 

It was foul. Simion's blood had been thick and rich, salty-sweet. This was thin and bitter, but he couldn't stop. He drank, kneading the rat's body to force out the last few drops as it went still. Then he threw it from him, so violently that it was smashed into an unrecognizable lump when it struck the stone wall.

 

Draculea bent, arms crossed over his belly as he felt cramps. He thought that he might spew forth his grisly meal, but he did not. Though revulsion was overtaking him, his body knew what it needed and held onto it.

 

The nausea passed. For the first time since this nightmare had begun he felt a little shaky. Vlad wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wishing for some way to rinse the distasteful flavor from his mouth. The hunger he'd felt upon awakening had abated. *I wonder if I can live off the blood of animals? The thought is disgusting, but it would solve many problems. There may not always be a more palatable alternative.*

 

He left the room and made his way out, moving toward the more populated areas. Lighted torches lined the hall farther on. He came to his treasury room, and was pleased to see that the guards were still there. They watched him with no surprise, and bowed to him respectfully as he passed.

 

Simion was waiting for him in the prison section of the underground. He bowed to Draculea and said, "Greetings, my prince."

 

"Simion."

 

Simion hesitated, then inquired, "Did you... sleep, my lord?"

 

Draculea shook his head. "Not as I once did, Simion, but I rested."

 

The servant nodded. He rubbed at his palm and said in a low voice, "Do you need...?"

 

"No, Simion, I have supped already." At Simion's questioning look, Draculea said, "And no, we have not lost a guard, though there is one less rat in this world." At Simion's grimace, Draculea shrugged. "If I can live off them at least part of the time, it's all to the good. I'm a warrior, Simion, so killing is nothing new to me, and this is survival. Still, if I slake my thirst every night with the blood of men... A wise predator does not kill off all his prey. He allows them to flourish, lest he find himself without."

 

"What have you planned for tonight, Domn?"

 

Draculea's smile was cruel. "I will need your services, Simion."

 

Lena had tried to escape when they brought her mid-day meal, making a mad dash, naked, for the door. The guard had caught her easily, and tossed her back into the straw. When she tried to rise and flee again, he had slapped her down, and reached for the lacings of his breeches. He had been stopped by a few sharp words from his companion. He had merely spat at her before they left.

 

*He must have ordered them to leave me alone. But why?*

 

The door to the cell opened again, and Draculea entered, two of the guards following him. Lena dragged more straw over herself. Draculea stopped a few feet away. "Why so modest, Lena? You have nothing that hasn't been seen by everyone here in the prison." He smiled, eyes glinting. "Surely you're not afraid you will raise my desires? Even if I wanted a woman, I would sooner mate with a snake than with you."

 

As much as she hated asking any man, and most particularly Draculea, for anything, Lena forced herself. "Do not give me to them again, prince. I..."

 

Her face twisted with obvious reluctance. Draculea noticed, and prompted her. "Yes, Lena?"

 

"I..." she spat out the words, "I beg of you."

 

"Such a meek and gracious request. No, Lena, you will not suffer that again."

 

"Will you release me?"

 

He laughed. "Oh, Lena! Perhaps there is more to you than I thought, if you can jest while in such a situation."

 

He was silent. Draculea knew that sometimes silence and guessing could be more effective than threats. He was right. Finally Lena said fearfully, "Then you will beat me."

 

Draculea shook his head. "No, no. Much too crude. And much too easy for a badly-landed blow to cut your punishment short." He gestured to the two men. Lena tried to scramble away but they caught her and forced her up onto her knees, each holding an arm. Draculea knelt before her, and drew a huge hunting knife, then held it before her eyes.

 

"Regard this knife, Lena. A wonderful weapon, don't you think? I used this on Varga." Lena flinched. "Come now, I'm sure you had your suspicions. I used it on him, but I did not kill him with it--that I did with my hands."

 

He lifted the knife, and she screamed. "Stop your howling, bitch. Save your breath for when you will have need of it." Draculea grabbed a handful of her hair, twisted it around his fist, then sawed it off close to the scalp. "A woman's hair is her crowning glory. Prostitutes and heretics have their heads shaved. I think it only appropriate that you do, also."

 

Lena bit her lip. Draculea was not gentle, jerking and hacking at the hair, whacking off thick chunks. She only cried out when she couldn't help it. When he was done Lena had only uneven tufts covering her skull, none longer than one finger joint. In one or two places there were raw, oozing patches where Draculea had jerked some hair out by the roots.

 

At last Draculea rose and left the cell. Instead of being released Lena was, to her horror, pulled out into the corridor. She managed to get her legs under her so that she could walk instead of being dragged. They walked for a good way, taking turns here and there. At last they stopped in a low room, lit only by one torch and several braziers of coals.

 

"This is a room you and Beta were not shown when Simion gave you the tour. It did not concern you--then." Draculea sat, and gestured to a second chair. "Sit, Lena."

 

She stepped toward the chair, then cringed back. It was covered with spikes: back, seat, arm-rests, leg-rests, and foot-rests. She had heard of such things, but never seen one. Draculea's voice was cold. "Sit." She tried to back away, shaking her head, but the guards forced her down into the chair.

 

The woman screamed as her flesh was pierced in more than a hundred places. Bars were fastened across her legs, wrists, and chest, forcing her back against the spikes. She tried to squirm, but that only worked the spikes in deeper. Finally she sat still, quivering. Blood began to trickle down, curling around the legs of the chair to puddle on the floor.

 

"It's a bit drab here, I know, but I'm afraid there will be no time to decorate it to suit your tastes. You see, it hasn't had much use in the last two years. Nicolae mellowed me."

 

Simion entered, carrying a tray which bore a basin of water and a folded towel. He placed it on a small table near the chair and bowed to Draculea. "I am sorry, Domn, but I couldn't seem to find any soap."

 

"Oh, I don't think that need matter."

 

Simion took Lena's chin in his hand and turned her head this way and that, like an artisan studying his materials before he sets to work. He clicked his tongue as he prodded an oozing patch. "Impatient, as always, master?"

 

"I haven't your skill, Simion."

 

Simion unfolded the towel, and Lena gave a thin shriek when she saw the razor lying on the white cloth. Even in the dim light, it's edge glinted wickedly. Simion said sternly, "Quiet, woman! How can I shear you properly if you insist on making that racket?"

 

"If you are still, he can do the job without cutting you," Draculea assured her. "You wouldn't want that. Scalp wounds bleed terribly."

 

Lena tried to jerk her head away. Simion said, "I suppose I'll need to use the heretic's fork if I'm to keep her still."

 

He picked up a device that seemed to be a pair of two double pronged forks, set vertically, end to end, and fastened on a strap. He shoved Lena's head back and strapped the device on. Her neck was stretched, with one fork against her chest and one dimpling the soft flesh just under her jaw. "There. Keep your head up, Lena, and keep it still. If you do not, the tines will pierce you. I doubt they would kill you, but it would be very, very unpleasant."

 

Simion took a dripping cloth from the basin and wet Lena's head, soaking the scant fluff that remained. The chilly water trickled down her naked body, and her nipples grew hard with the cold, and fear.

 

Simion took up the razor and said, "From the back to the front, that is the proper method." He set the edge of the blade to the nape of her neck, and began.

 

He shaved with short, firm strokes, working slowly and steadily. After each pass he would wipe the razor clean. Once he paused to strop it on a piece of leather, testing the edge against his thumb till it satisfied him. Lena did not squirm or fight, but she couldn't help shivering. The feel of that keen blade scraping over her bare skin--firm, yet delicate, was horrible.

 

At last Simion wiped her head and stood back to consider his work. Lena's pate was completely clean. Simion indicated a couple of new spots that seeped blood. "I am sorry, Domn, but I came upon these moles suddenly."

 

"It isn't your fault, Simion. The woman's hidden ugliness is physical as well as spiritual." Lena was weeping silently. Draculea sneered, "Tears of humiliation, Lena? Yes, a shaved head is a badge of shame for any woman. But be cheered, it is not as bad as it could have been. I could have had Simion shave your woman's hair, too. I understand that style is much favored in the harems of the east. But do you know why I did not? It would be hard for you to be held still for such a thing, even with many guards and straps. There was a chance that Simion, as skilled as he is, might slip, and cut too deep. I have no desire for you to bleed to death quickly."

 

He sat back in his chair. "No, that would be a relatively painless death. I understand that it is almost like going to sleep. You don't deserve anything that peaceful, Lena. Simion?"

 

"Yes, Domn?"

 

"Are you ready?"

 

"I have been ready since the moment I saw your Nicolae's poor, drowned body, Domn."

 

Draculea's face twisted in a spasm of pain. "Then show Lena your other skill with the blade."

 

Simion's hand flicked. Lena felt a warm liquid trickle down her neck and a soft touch on her shoulder, as if someone had tapped her gently. She twisted to look down. Blood was flowing down her neck and over her chest, like a thin scarlet ribbon. Resting on her shoulder, just where she had felt the touch, was a tiny white gobbet of flesh. When she felt the flare of searing pain an instant later she recognized it as her earlobe.

 

Far down the passage, two of the guards looked up as a scream rang out. One said to the other, "I hope they gag her. My ears will ache if I have to listen to that."

 

His companion shrugged. "Even if they don't, she won't be able to stay that loud for long."

 

In the torture chamber Draculea said calmly, "Lena is upset, Simion. You know how careful she is of her appearance, and now she looks... um, unbalanced."

 

"Yes? I can remedy that." The blade flashed again, and Lena felt another sting as Simion amputated her right earlobe. "There." He waited for the second scream to die down to whimpers, and looked at Draculea inquiringly.

 

"Nothing vital, Simion. None of the great veins. And leave her eyes. I want her to see what she becomes."

 

Simion nodded in understanding, lifted the razor, and began.

 

The guard down the hall had covered his ears a long while ago, muffling the screams from the torture chamber. Eventually, as his friend had promised, they died away to hoarse croaks.

 

Simion wiped his razor and set it aside, then washed his hands in the basin. The water turned pink, then red. Draculea examined the woman tied to the chair. Her breathing was rough and shallow, but it was steady. Blood dripped slowly into a growing pool under the chair.

 

Lena's body was cross-hatched with cuts: some long and delicate, barely splitting the skin, others short and deep. "Excellent work, Simion. I believe there is no patch of skin larger than my palm left unmarked."

 

"In front, Domn. For me to do the job properly you will have to have her strapped face down."

 

"Perhaps tomorrow. That is enough for today." He frowned. "I think perhaps you went a bit too deep when you removed her nipples. The bleeding still hasn't stopped."

 

"I'm sorry, Domn, but that area is rich in blood in any case. Recall how they stiffen and swell during arousal."

 

"You're right, of course. Still, I think the bleeding should be staunched. I don't want her to bleed to death while I sleep." He pulled a poker from one of the braziers and examined it. The tip glowed white hot. "Cauterization is in order."

 

Lena's throat was bloody, and all she did was moan when the burning metal touched her flesh once, then again. There was a sizzle, and a smell similar to roasting pork filled the air. Draculea examined the charred skin with some satisfaction. "Yes, that's done it."

 

He put away the poker and said, "I doubt she'll eat, and I don't want her forced. It would be too easy for her to choke. Give her wine, though, and make sure she drinks it. I don't want her to slip into the senseless state that comes with some injuries. I want to be sure that she's awake and aware when I come for her tomorrow."

 

Lena was unstrapped from the chair and dragged back to her cell. Draculea reached out and touched the seat of the chair. His finger came away smeared with blood. He lifted his fingers to his face and sniffed. Again there was the dark, rich scent that made his belly clench. He wiped his hand on his shirt, thinking, *I'd just as soon drink her piss.*

 

The hunger was back, though. He had a feeling that he would not have felt the desire so soon if his last meal had been human blood. He'd have to remember that. It seemed that the blood of beasts could sustain him, but it would not really satisfy him.

 

The others had left, save for one young gypsy, who stood at the entrance to the hallway. Draculea studied him. He seemed strong, and healthy. He beckoned, and the young man came to him, bowing low. "Would you serve me?"

 

"You gave my people a home when all the world drove us away. Yes, I would serve you."

 

"Would you give me your blood?"

 

"Yes, Domn. I would die for you."

 

"That will not be necessary." The young man stiffened as Draculea took hold of his shoulders. The prince gazed deep into his eyes and said softly. "Do not be afraid, my good servant. I only need a little of your strength. You will not die, and you will not suffer."

 

When the prince stroked his throat, the young man obediently turned his head aside, stretching his neck. Draculea bent and pressed his face to the gypsy's neck. There was a hint of sour sweat, and he felt stubble rasp against his lips, but that warm, sweet scent overrode it all.

 

Wanting to make it as easy for the guard as possible, Draculea reached between them and squeezed the man's crotch firmly. The gypsy groaned quietly. After a moment of rubbing, Draculea felt his response. A firm bulge grew under his massaging palm. He pushed his hand under them man's waistband and found his cock, stroking it till he felt the pre-ejaculate fluid oozing across his fingers. Then he bit the man.

 

Hot blood gushed into his mouth, and he sucked hard, swallowing great gulps of the delicious fluid. The man was whimpering, thrusting himself rapidly into the prince's tight grip. Then he cried out, his seed spilling over Draculea's busy hand. When he did, Draculea reluctantly drew back from his feast.

 

The man swayed slightly, eyes glazed. A thin trickle of blood ran from the two punctures in his throat, and his rough linen breeches were wet over his softening cock. Draculea handed the discarded towel to him. As the guard wiped himself clean, Draculea said, "See Simion about something for that wound. We do not want to risk poison setting in." He patted the man's shoulder. "Take tomorrow to rest. You have done well, and I am grateful."

 

His step firm, Draculea made his way back to the room that held Nicolae's grave. Once again he lay upon it, and spoke softly to his beloved until dawn brought unconsciousness.

 

She thought she had become used to the pain. She thought that there was nothing that could be done to her that would be more horrible than what she had already endured. She was wrong.

 

On the second night of her ordeal she was placed on the rack. She was stretched taut, then the restraints were tightened just a little more, and she was left alone. Whatever wounds had begun to scab over split open.

 

Occasionally someone would come and turn the gear another notch or two. She was sure that her limbs would part company with their sockets, but before that happened she was released and thrown in her cell again.

 

She spent the daylight hours drifting in and out of a troubled doze. Periodically she would have an uncontrolable spasm, waking herself up as her body jerked and quivered, muscles and joints screaming with pain.

 

When they took her out the third night she was offered her choice of the rack or the inquisitional chair. When she refused to pick, Simion began slicing off her fingertips, one at a time, till she chose the rack, reasoning that it would be less painful than the chair.

 

Draculea entered just as she was being strapped down. As Simion moved a small table near the rack, Draculea said, "I hope you haven't felt neglected, Lena. I had some work to do. Letters had to be written to the church and various officials and, as you know, I no longer have my scribe. Now, though, I can give you my full attention."

 

Lena looked at the table, running her eyes over the instruments laid out there, and lost control of her bladder. Draculea picked up a thumbscrew, saying mildly, "My, what a nasty bitch you are, Lena."

 

He didn't speak to her after that, prefering to concentrate on his work. The room was silent save for the woman's groans and strangled screams. She had long ago ceased pleading for mercy.

 

Simion stood nearby, watching. Like most royals, Draculea had always employed men who were trained in dealing pain, and he had not participated himself. Still, he had watched enough to have a working knowledge of the tools, and he used them very well for an amateur. Oh, it wasn't difficult to use the needles, or the small pot of boiling oil, but it took finesse to tear at the flesh with the spider or cat's claws without causing the victim to lose consciousness. The pan of hot coals under the opening that exposed Lena's ass helped with that.

 

Finally Draculea paused. Lena was looking at him, her eyes gleaming dully from the mass of cuts and scorches that marked her face. "What, Lena? Do you have something to tell me?" He leaned closer. "You must speak up, woman. My hearing has grown more acute of late, but still you must make some sound for me to be able to understand you."

 

Her voice was a rasping whisper. "Kill me."

 

Draculea smiled. "Do you know, Lena, I don't have to do that? It is within my power to hold you beyond death for years, not just days. Perhaps even for centuries, even unto eternity. I could keep a form of life in your carcass and while away decades in pleasant pursuits like this."

 

He noted the horror in her eyes, and shook his head. "But as Simion has pointed out, I am impatient. Yes Lena, I will kill you." He put down the pincers he had been using and asked Simion, "How many hours till dawn?"

 

"Four, I think, Domn."

 

"That should be enough. Bring her to the courtyard." He left the room as the guards were untying her.

 

Lena was dragged through the corridors, up to the first level of the castle, then through the great hall to the courtyard. It was well lit by many torches, and some two dozen of Draculea's gypsy servants stood near the gate.

 

As she made her way to the spot she noticed that there was a comfortable chair sitting a few yards from a small, but deep, hole. Draculea was waiting beside it.

 

When she was brought to him, he looked at Simion. "You inspected it yourself?"

 

"Aye, Prince. It is to your specifications: sturdy ash, and half again as long as a man." He circled his thumb and forefinger. "No broader than that at the end, but as wide as my forearm at the base."

 

"Perfect. Bring it in." Two of the men came from the stables. Between them they carried a long wooden pole, its fresh peeled surface gleaming in the moonlight.

 

Lena wailed, "No!"

 

"What? Did you think it would be something simple and clean, like beheading? I suppose it would be suitable to cast you into the river, but I told you that I have a more personal justice in mind. Not all the rumors you spead about my life before I met Nicolae were false, Lena."

 

The woman was lifted and held horizontal, dangling by her arms and legs. Even though she was weak from her days of torture, she still managed to struggle. It was no use. Her legs were spread wide.

 

Draculea lifted the pole and moved closer, placing the blunt tip against the lips of Lena's sex. "Come now, Lena. I made sure that the end is no sharper than that toy that you delighted in ramming into Beta. Surely you can take it into your own body."

 

He pushed hard, and Lena stiffened. He continued pushing till almost a foot of the staff was buried in her body, then he stood back.

 

Some of the gypsies grabbed the base of the pole and manuevered it over to the hole. They heaved, and the men holding Lena's body pushed up. The end of the pole slid into the hole, and slowly it swayed upright. The men gathered to hold it while some of them quickly filled the hole, tamping the dirt to make it firm.

 

When they stood back the pole swayed a little with the woman's thrashing, but not much. Draculea had done this sort of thing many times, and he knew how to do it properly.

 

The prince went to his chair and sat, crossing his legs comfortably. He watched. His handsome face was set in a blank mask, showing no emotion as the woman who had killed his lover slowly sank lower on the spike, the weight of her own body impaling her.

 

It would have been over in only a few minutes if the stake had been sharpened, but Draculea had ordered it left blunt. Thus it took over three hours for the spike to force it's way through Lena's womb and up into her vitals. She stopped screaming long before it did. By the time one could see a rounded knob pressing against the soft expanse under the remains of her breasts, she had been reduced to a slight trembling of the limbs.

 

At last she was still. Simion asked Draculea, "Shall I go check, Domn?"

 

Draculea shook his head. "No, Simion. There is no need. My new state has enhanced my senses. Her heart no longer beats. If she had a soul, it has fled to its dark master."

 

He stood up and kicked a little dust over the thick puddle of blood and bodily fluids that had collected at the base of the pole. "Leave her there."

 

"For how long, master?"

 

"Till her bones fall, and the dogs fight over them. Then throw what is left in the river."

 

Simion nodded. "That will make a fitting end to this."

 

Draculea was looking toward the east. A faint brush of color showed along the horizon, a hint of the coming dawn. He turned bleak eyes on his friend. "An end? How can this be ended until Nicu is in my arms again? No, Simion. This is only the beginning."

 

With that Draculea began to make his way back into the castle, down to the darkness that had become his home.

 

 

---

Chapter 42: Looking Forward

Child of the Night, Part Forty-two

The Year of Our Lord, 1462

A week later

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Looking Forward

 

Draculea sat in the great hall, sprawled in a chair before the fireplace. He held a goblet of wine and gazed into the fire that leaped on the hearth. Occasionally he touched the goblet to his lips and licked the film of wine from his mouth. He did not drink. No food or drink but blood had passed his lips since he had reawakened in his bedroom.

 

Simion came in, pausing at the entrance. The cavernous room was lit only by the flicker of the flames. Shadows and dust gathered in the corners. Without the diligence of the castle's former staff an air of neglect was settling in. It would not be long before the castle looked deserted.

 

Simion approached slowly and was gratified when Draculea looked up at him. Since Lena had died, the prince had spent most of his waking time brooding, scarcely seeming to be aware of his surroundings. He would sit for hours in the library, in his room, or on the roof--places where he had spent time with Nicolae. Simion had watched him running his hands over Nicolae's scrolls, clothes, and books. The boy's rosary had been buried with him, or Simion thought that the prince would have caressed it also, even if it had burned the flesh from his bones.

 

Simion had feared that the prince's waking times would become little different from his sleeps. There had been times lately when Draculea's gaze rested on Simion with such blank indifference that it chilled his soul, but now he seemed to be coming back to himself, at least a little. Simion bowed. "Domn."

 

Draculea gestured at the chair beside him. "Sit, old friend. You have news?"

 

Simion took the offered seat. "Yes, Domn. It is as you anticipated--you have been declared slain. They claim that you died from the wounds you received in the last battle. They even have 'witnesses' who tell of how you battled on, refusing aid, till you dropped, your sword buried in the vitals of a Turk."

 

Draculea grunted. "At least they did not have me die in bed. And the succession?"

 

"Your second cousin, Teodore, has been crowned. Since you had no issue, he was most immediate to the throne."

 

Vlad nodded. "He will be a competent ruler, if not a brilliant one, so long as he has the support of the Church." He cocked a sardonic eye at Simion. "I assume that he does?"

 

"Oh, yes, my lord. Bishop Alfred himself champions him."

 

"Understandable. Alfred has always been good at recognizing where the power will lie. What of the castle?"

 

"Good news there, also. Alfred has declared that Castle Draculea is cursed. The new prince will choose another royal residence, far from here. We will be left in peace, at least officially."

 

"That is good. If Teodore had come here... Well, I would not enjoy killing one of my own bloodline." Draculea stared into his goblet. "Am I mad, Simion, to believe he will return?" He looked back up at the older man and said, his voice quiet, "Even if it IS madness, it is something I cannot deny."

 

Simion thought. Draculea was not a man to suffer insincerity, even if it was meant to comfort. "No, my lord, I do not think it is mad, nor foolish. The Hindi have believed in rebirth for centuries, and they had formed a civilization while we had not yet learned to tan hides or till fields."

 

"It is a comforting thought," Draculea mused. "To be given a chance to right what went wrong in a previous life."

 

"It is not quite so straightforward, my lord," Simion cautioned. "Each soul follows its own path. Not all are reborn as mortal man. Some, who have not fulfilled their potential, are forced to spend their next lifetime in the body of a beast, and must hope to advance with their next death. The rebirth does not necessarily respect the former body's sex." He studied Draculea. "Could you love Nicolae if he were reborn as a woman?"

 

Draculea stared at Simion. The idea had obviously never occurred to him. At last he said slowly. "If it were still Nicolae, the flesh he inhabited would not be so important." A faint smile curved Draculea's lips. "He was biddable as a man, but I fear he would be a headstrong woman." He sighed, the smile fading. "I fear he will be a long time coming, Simion."

 

Simion touched Draculea's hand. "Perhaps, Prince, but you have the ability to wait for him, if you will. You just must school yourself to patience. It may be several lifetimes before he can return. It may be longer."

 

"You have chided me about impatience before, Simion. Now I will have no choice." He set aside his goblet. "But I will need finance for this long wait. I know that my treasury was well filled when this happened. Do you think there is any danger that Teodore, or more likely Alfred, will attempt to retrieve it?"

 

"There is always that chance, lord. I think, though, that they will try to be discreet. They will not send a large group of men, because it would cause comment that they would be hard put to answer. I think we can handle any small number. It might even be better if they DID send a few treasure hunters. Their dispatch would warn others off."

 

"I doubt that they will come at night, but the gypsies will keep watch for them. Make sure that they are taken care of messily. A few examples should be effective. Well, the funds that I have should last a long, long time." He smiled grimly. "I will not have many expenses now, I think."

 

"You will not receive income from your lands now, Prince. That will go to the false prince, and we cannot touch it. I think it would be wise to begin investing. The gypsies can almost assure safe traffic, if we should choose to trade. They always know the safest routes. The bandits usually ignore them, because they see them as fellow rascals, and the government officials ignore them because they believe them too be too poor to be valuable victims."

 

Draculea nodded. "Look into it, Simion. I trust your discretion--you know more of the workings of commerce than Stefan did."

 

"There is no hurry, my lord. We are well situated, and I can take time to consider the best course."

 

"Time." Draculea sighed. "Yes, I have plenty of time." He looked at Simion thoughtfully. "But do you?"

 

"Domn?"

 

"How long do you have, Simion? How long will I have you to aid me, care for me, give me companionship?"

 

Simion bowed his head slightly. "Who can say? One of the gypsy grandmothers read my palm once, and foresaw a long, long life. She said that the line that foretold my years on this earth scarcely had an end, running into the line that circles my wrist. I must say that, though I know the Rom know many things hidden to others not of their race, I cannot put much stock in their ability to predict the future, save in the vaguest way."

 

Draculea stared at his friend for a long moment, then said slowly. "I've lost Nicolae--I don't want to lose you, too. I had expected for us to grow old together, Simion. Now it seems that I will not grow old."

 

"I will stay with you for as long as there is breath in my body, Domn. You know that. But all things must die." Draculea gave a harsh bark of laughter, and Simion smiled wryly. "Yes, I suppose that you do give the lie to that. But I am not you, lord. I can see no way around this problem, so there is no reason to worry about it."

 

"Simion, what else do I have to occupy me, save my grief? At least this is something practical. I'll think on it. Now, how does the search for a sculptor fare?"

 

"I've sent a letter to Signor Vittelli. You were pleased with the portrait he did, and I think he may be able to recommend a sculptor who will please you. I've also sent out word that we need a good block of marble. There are several dealers within a day's ride. When they notify me of a possibility, I will inspect it personally. It was white marble that you desired?"

 

"Yes, of course. The purest you can find. If you have no luck with that, try alabaster."

 

"That might be more difficult. The alabaster pieces are usually smaller. You did want it to be life-sized?"

 

"Yes, or a bit larger."

 

Simion had been examining Draculea, then said bluntly, "Have you eaten?"

 

Draculea grimaced. "The rat population is smaller."

 

Simion shook his head. "Lord, I know that you hesitate to take blood from your followers, but you should not deny yourself. The rats' blood may keep you going, but you do not thrive on it. You need HUMAN blood. Your gypsies are willing to give you what you need, and if you do not want to turn to them..." He shrugged. "I have experienced your needs, lord. You can take sustenance without taking life, and the villagers are as much your people as the gypsies. It is not wrong to take what you need to survive."

 

Draculea looked thoughtful. "No, I do not thrive on the blood of animals. Simion, I have a thought. It seems that different blood has different strengths. Human blood is more enriching than the blood of vermin. I think perhaps that the blood of the higher animals would impart greater or lesser strengths. So, Simion, what of MY blood?"

 

"Your blood, my prince?"

 

"Yes." He smiled. "Don't give me that look, Simion. I do have blood of my own--I learned that when one of my meals, more fiesty than the rest, gashed my hands. I bled. Granted, it was thick and slow, but I bled. I think that the more blood I consume, the closer my own blood will resemble that of a mortal man. Have you noticed? After I have fed, I am warmer--I have some color. Once I take in the blood, it mingles with mine. What strengths does it gain?"

 

He brought his hand to his mouth. Simion winced as he watched the razor sharp fangs slice into the pale flesh. As Draculea had claimed, he bled. But also, as he claimed, it oozed sluggishly, almost as thick as syrup. And the color was wrong--too dark. Draculea cupped his hand, letting the liquid pool in his palm. He dabbed a fingertip in it, as if testing the warmth. Then he leaned forward, extending the finger to Simion.

 

Simion stared at the red smear on the white flesh. He looked into Draculea's face. Vlad said nothing. This was an invitation, not an order. Simion bent forward and licked the blood from Draculea's finger.

 

There was a burst of taste, like rotten salted meat, and he felt his gorge begin to rise. Then it was gone, and a sweet, exotic flavor, rather like spiced wine, spread through his mouth. It brought a sense of warmth that traveled down his throat to his belly.

 

Draculea slid that hand back into Simion's hair, holding him, then brought his cupped hand to the other man's mouth. Without hesitation, Simion bent and drank eagerly. There was only a few swallows--the cut healed quickly. But by the time he had licked Draculea's palm clean, the warmth had suffused his body, and he had felt a faint stir of lust.

 

Draculea released him, letting his hand trail down Simion's cheek. "Old friend, you look refreshed." He sounded a little surprised. "You have looked very tired of late. I have worried, because I know that you have been working in the day as well as keeping me company at night."

 

"I felt weary," Simion confessed, "but now... Domn, I feel as if I have had a week of leisure. I confess that I felt low when I came to you this night, but now I feel... It is hard to describe, lord. There has been a twinge in my left leg the last two years, a reminder of that time I was careless with Lucifer. I do not feel it now."

 

"Good." He stood, clapping Simion on the shoulder. "We will remember this, Simion. When you are weary, or when you feel age and wear creeping up on you, come to me. This may not be a tonic to keep away all ills, including age, but I think it may be something very like that."

 

He started out of the room. "I think I'll ride Lucifer, if he'll still have me. He must be near mad with restlessness by now."

 

Draculea walked out to the stables. They were near empty now. Where there had been more than two dozen horses, there were only two now--Lucifer and Simion's mount. It was just as well--the grooms had fled with the rest of the servants, but the gypsies worked well with horses. Both of the remaining mounts were fine beasts, and the gypsies saw their care as a pleasure rather than a chore.

 

He hadn't realized how much noise there had been in the stable at night, but without the shift and stamp of the horses, and their occasional whinnies, it was strangely quiet. Lucifer's stall was in the middle of the stable, in the warmest, snuggest part. As he approached, he saw Lucifer's head appear over the door of his stall, and he smiled. The animal had learned long ago to recognize the tread of his master.

 

As he approached, Draculea saw the large ears of the horse flicker, then lay flat against his skull. The horse stretched his neck, and Draculea could see his nostrils flare as Lucifer scented him. The ears flickered again, and Lucifer stamped, tossing his head with a shrill sound that wasn't quite a whinny. It held a warning note. Any of the grooms who had heard that sound would have given the stallion a wide berth until they were sure that he had calmed down.

 

Draculea went on, walking slowly, speaking as he came closer. "Yes, old friend. It is I, but I'm not entirely as you once knew me. I'm still your master, though. I've lost what I hold most dear, and I face the possible loss of all else. I'm not ready to give you up yet, Lucifer. You're still mine. I'll teach you that, if I must."

 

The stamping increased as he came closer. The shrill cries became enraged screams as the horse reared and twisted. He struck out, and his hooves crashed against the door, knocking boards free. Draculea stood before the stall, speaking softly. Gradually the animal's agitation quieted till he was only shifting restlessly. Draculea caught his eye, and held the contact, whispering.

 

Finally Lucifer made a questioning noise and stretched his head out toward the creature that looked and sounded like his master, but did not smell or FEEL like him. His muzzle nudged Draculea's shoulder, hard enough to make him stagger back a half step. He knew that he was taking a risk. It would be easy for Lucifer to rip a chunk of flesh from his neck or face. It could even kill him, if the horse managed to tear one of the larger veins, but Draculea did not move.

 

Lucifer sniffed him questioningly. His ears flickered again, and he sniffed Draculea's face, his breath warm and moist. Finally the horse made a satisfied grunt and started to impatiently nose his hands. Draculea stroked him. "Yes, old friend. I am restless, too."

 

Draculea opened the stall door, letting Lucifer out. He didn't bother with the saddle or tack. Instead he gripped the coarse, black mane and sprang up onto Lucifer's back. The moment that he settled, Lucifer bolted. As Draculea had thought, the great horse had been going near crazy. The gypsies cared for him, but none were bold enough to try to ride the animal, so Lucifer was starved for exercise.

 

It was not too different from the night rides Draculea had taken before Nicolae had come into his life. He flew down the road, Lucifer's iron-shod hooves thundering. Now and again the horse would release a squeal of pure excitement, and the sound ringing through the night might have been a banshee scream. At least this was what the peasants, cowering behind bolted doors thought.

 

They had heard whispered rumors of what had happened at the castle--tales embroidered by the superstitious wenches and varlets who had fled after 'the time of blood and thunder'. The prince, the lord of the castle, was dead--many had seen his body. He was dead, and yet he rode the night once again.

 

There was a difference between this ride and the one's that had come before. Before, Draculea had stayed on the road, he and Lucifer expending their ferocious energy in a straight run. This time, though, the peasants shuddered as they heard the great horse outside their cottages, moving just beyond their thin walls. And some of them...

 

Some of the young men and young women, the youths and maidens... Some of them shivered with more than fear. They heard more than the stamp and snort of the mysterious horse. They heard... did they hear? None of them discussed it with anyone--parent, priest, or friend. But there was something.

 

It might have been their imagination, fired by the tales they'd heard, mingled with the folk tales passed down by their elders. The close, frightened atmosphere in each home could inspire flights of fancy.

 

But several of the young people thought that they heard a voice, a soft, seductive, persuasive voice, telling them that there were things in this world of which they had never dreamed, but that they could see them, if they were willing.

 

 

---

Chapter 43: Routine

Child of the Night, Part Forty-three

The Year of Our Lord, 1482

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Routine

 

Simion poked the logs on the hearth till they blazed steadily, then put the poker back in its stand and held his hands out toward the fire. He glanced around the great hall. The glow of the fire added to the light of the few candles he'd brought barely illuminated the corners. The dust and cobwebs were not so very noticeable in this dim light. I'll have to start building a fire in here during the day instead of waiting for sunset. It takes too long to drive off the chill, now that winter has settled in. I'd best check the supply of wood, too. The gypsies have been good about that, but it never hurts to be cautious. I do not want to run out during the deep snows. My lord does not mind the cold, but I most certainly do.

 

Fires were lighted in very few rooms of the castle these days. What would be the sense of it when they were seldom occupied for even the briefest moments? The kitchen was kept warmed, as the gypsies used it, preparing food for themselves and Simion. The great hall was, because Draculea often sat there with Simion. Simion's room was, because Draculea insisted that Simion was not to deny himself whatever creature comforts the prince could still provide. Other than those, the rooms were allowed to lay chill and neglected.

 

No, not all of them are neglected, Simion corrected himself. Draculea had not asked him to, but Simion had taken it upon himself to keep the library and the prince's former bedroom as they had been before tragedy overtook the House of Draculea. These were the rooms where Draculea had spent the most time with his beloved Nicolae, and they were where he went when he wanted to feel close to his lost love.

 

Simion did not flinch as the cold hand dropped onto his shoulder. He had become used to his master's silent movements. "Cold, my friend?"

 

"Only a bit, my lord. The chill will soon be gone."

 

"I have told you, Simion, that you are not to neglect yourself. We are still not sure that the blood will protect you from all ills."

 

Simion bowed his head, acknowledging the prince's directive, but said, "Daily I become more convinced that nothing but dire violence will truly harm me, lord. Even my small wounds heal more quickly than they did before." He smiled slightly. "And I seem to be escaping the more subtle violence of the years."

 

"Yes." Draculea ran his hand through Simion's hair. There was no gray in the thick ash blonde mass, despite the fact that the man was now in his mid-sixties. "Yes, age has not touched you these past two decades, and I think it will not, if we continue." He gripped, and shook the man's head gently. "I think we may be sure, now. I would say 'God willing', but I doubt if He would listen to my voice."

 

Simion laid his hand lightly on Draculea's wrist, the gesture of physical affection easy and familiar. "Shall I send one of the men to you?"

 

"Not tonight." Draculea released Simion. I think it is time to take that little sweetmeat I have been observing in the village. She should be ready to meet me."

 

"The Tedesko girl?" Draculea nodded. "She is to marry soon, is she not?"

 

"In a day or so, I think," Draculea said negligently. He smiled. "Her husband may find her a bit wan and disinterested on their wedding night."

 

Draculea went out to the stables and saddled his horse, one of Lucifer's grandsons. Lucifer himself had died years ago. Draculea had tried to preserve him but the great beast, though obeying his master in all other things, would not drink his blood. Draculea had even tried soaking lumps of sugar in his blood, but the stallion had refused them. Lucifer had lived long, losing little of his vigor and none of his spirit, but he had died more than ten years ago. One night when he went to the stable Draculea had found Lucifer lying in his stall. The great heart had simply--stopped. There would never be a horse to match him, but Tempest resembled him greatly, both in look and temperament. The only real difference was that he was a bit smaller than his grandsire, and a white star bloomed on his forehead.

 

Draculea rode from the castle, headed for the nearby village. His nerves were thrumming with anticipation. It had been some days since he had drunk from a human, and he found his mouth watering at the thought.

 

The Tedesko girl, Anna, was just nineteen. A union had been arranged between the eldest son of a local merchant. It was a good match--better than any for which her widowed mother could have hoped. The boy, Lucian, had been sent away to school at an early age, and had only recently returned from university in Budapest.

 

Draculea had been curious about the man who was to wed the girl he had selected. He had spent some time outside his father's house, searching the minds of those within. That was another skill that came with his new state. He could sense the thoughts of the mortals, when they were unguarded, and this young man's mind was very open. He would have few secrets in his life.

 

Draculea was interested. Lucian was not overjoyed with his arranged engagement, but he was not angered by it either. He thought that every man needed a wife, and Anna would do as well as any other. She was comely enough, biddable, and seemed intelligent enough to keep from disgracing him. Draculea thought with amusement that the young man's attitude was not too far from his own when he decided to consider Elizabeta as a bride.

 

They will remain in the village after the marriage, he thought as he neared the town. Perhaps I'll have a chance to visit him, too.

 

Draculea had found, through experimentation, that he did not need to eat every day, and that human blood could sustain him longer than animal. If he drank from a human, he need not feed more than once a week, and he need not draw enough blood to prove fatal to his victims. This had been important--he knew that the peasants were likely to flee the area if he took too many.

 

In fact, Draculea had not killed any of his honest subjects. He felt no such restraint in dealing with the bandits who had once again begun to roam the countryside once they thought the prince dead. He had killed the first one less than a month after he had begun his new existence.

 

He'd come upon the thief during one of his midnight rides. As he passed down the road he had caught sight of movement in the trees, movement that he recognized as human. He dismounted in a flash and had reached the scene in an instance. He could hear the crash of someone stumbling away through the bush, but for the moment he turned his attention to what lay on the ground.

 

It was the body of a young man, scarcely more than a youth. The torn belt about his waist, the kind that usually held a money pouch, told Draculea what had happened. The boy's throat had been cut and his head lay in a pool of gore. His pale hair was full of leaves and twigs, and eyes that might have once been brilliant blue were dull and filmed. Draculea lifted the boy's hand. It was still warm, but limp. He released it with a sigh--he knew death. "Such a waste," he murmured. He turned cold eyes toward the depths of the forest, in the direction of the rapidly fading sounds.

 

The bandit crouched in the midst of a thicket, trying to muffle his gasping breaths. There was no sound of pursuit, but it was better to be safe. He had thought himself safe when he took the foolish traveler. Ah, that had been a stroke of luck! Travelers were not as plentiful as they had once been--they knew that the roads were not safe, now that Prince Draculea could not keep watch over them. The bandit had been thrilled when he found this lost lamb wandering. He'd expected no more than a few coppers and perhaps a change of clothing, but the boy had been carrying a heavy purse.

 

He opened it now, and drew in a hiss of approval. Silver--at least twenty pieces. He could buy himself a horse with this, and still have enough money to live comfortably for a month. He was thinking of this when the cold hand closed over the back of his neck.

 

He didn't scream. He was a tough man, hardened by a life of violence, and he did not frighten easily. He had run only because it seemed prudent. When he had realized that he was discovered, he had not known if it was by a single man or a group, so he had retreated. Now it seemed that it was a single man, and he had been foolish enough to follow.

 

He pulled his knife, so recently cleaned of the boy's blood, and twisted, stabbing back at his capturer. He felt satisfaction as the blade sank deep, his fist coming to rest against the stranger's body. He expected a scream, and quick release. Instead there was a quiet curse, and he received a cuff to his head that half stunned him.

 

He was turned, the knife being ripped from his hand, and he found that he was in the grip of a tall, pale, dark-haired man. Could he have been mistaken? Had he indeed missed his thrust?

 

No. To his astonishment he saw that his knife was sunk deep in the man's side, buried to the hilt. The man's shirt was black and the night was dark, but still he should have been able to see the blood flowing from the wound. There was none. As he watched the man used his free hand to withdraw the weapon. The bandit saw that there was... something on the blade. The stranger examined the knife, his expression disdainful, then flicked it away, his gesture contemptuous. The knife struck a tree, sinking several inches into the hard wood. Then he turned his attention back to the bandit.

 

The bandit struck out, battering at the man's face and gut. The blows seemed to have no more effect than a child's swats. When he struck the man in the belly he felt liquid smear his hands. Had he wounded him after all? But it was cold, and thick...

 

The stranger allowed the bandit to fight for a minute, then struck him again, almost casually, bringing him close to unconsciousness. Finally the bandit felt fear. This was not natural. Why hadn't he heard this man approach? Why hadn't the knife wound killed him? It should have been fatal for any man. Any... MORTAL man. Suddenly he remembered the strange stories that were whispered about this area.

 

"Do not kill me," he gasped. "I have money."

 

"Money you took from that poor boy you slew?" The voice was as cold as his ice blue eyes.

 

"What does it matter? It is money, and I give it to you. Here..." He pulled the bag from his bosom, jerking it open. "See? Much silver..."

 

With a snarl the stranger struck his hand, knocking the bag away. The coins spun off into the darkness, glittering in the moonlight. The stranger paused, looking at his hand, his face taut with pain.

 

Draculea stared in consternation as the reddened flesh as a blister bubbled up on the back of his hand. So. I heard that silver was anathema to the undead. It seems that tidbit was truth instead of legend. I'll have to remember this.

 

He turned his attention back to the murderer and said quietly, "These are my lands."

 

"I am sorry, m'lord, I didn't know. Spare me and I will go. I will never return."

 

"You think this will suffice, after what you have done?"

 

"I--I didn't mean to kill the boy. He fought. All he had to do was give me the silver, but he fought."

 

"Liar. You would have killed him anyway."

 

"Please, do not turn me over to the villagers. They will kill me for this."

 

"I have no intention of turning you over to them. As I said, these are my lands, and I am the law here. That boy was on my land, so he belonged to me. Don't you know that poaching on royal grounds is punishable by death?"

 

The tall man crushed him close, and the bandit thought that he would try to strangle him, or break his back. But the strong hand on his neck jerked his head back. The man bent forward, and the bandit felt a rending pain in his throat. There should have been a hot gush of blood down his chest, but there wasn't.

 

Instead he felt the man's mouth against the pulsing wound, and he heard greedy gulping sounds. He realized with horror that his attacker was drinking his blood. Death came quickly, but not before the bandit realized, to his terror, that he was meeting his end at the hands of something not of this world.

 

Draculea did not restrain himself that time--he drank his fill. He drained the man. The wound itself was dry when he finally stopped. Draculea lifted his head from his feast, licking the last of the blood from his lips. He shook the man, none too gently, and the body flopped loosely. Dead.

 

My first kill. Oh, not really that. He had killed many during his previous life--hundreds in battle, thousands, if you counted the executions he had ordered. But this was the first victim to fall to his blood lust.

 

This raised a question. What was he to do with the man? Had he just created another of his own kind? Some of the stories claimed that those killed by a vampire also joined the ranks of the undead. Somehow that had never made sense to Draculea. If all who were killed by vampires became vampires themselves, wouldn't there soon be too many vampires for any population of mortals to support? Surely becoming Nosferatu involved more than this?

 

There was one way to be sure. He tossed the man's body up over his shoulder and carried him back to where Tempest waited in the road. He laid the body across his saddle and rode back to the castle. There he carried the corpse into the basement. He would not have it contaminate his sleeping chamber, but there was a small, secure room close by. He unceremoniously dumped the body in it, then bolted the door and went about his business.

 

For two weeks he checked the body two or three times each night. There was never the least change of position, and soon it began to putrefy. He showed it to Simion, saying, "Well, now we know that I need not fear to finish one of them off. There is a way to make others of my kind, I am sure, but simple killing is not it. Have that removed."

 

The body was tumbled into the river. From that time on Draculea did not hesitate to kill the scum who preyed on his people.

 

The widow's cottage was on the edge of the village. All was quiet--no lights shone in her cottage, or the ones nearby. There was a small shed behind the building, but it was empty save for one small, plump cow. It was tethered in the single stall, with its bucket and a churn nearby. Another night Draculea might have used the animal to slake his thirst--he'd found that cow blood was a bit better than that of rats or rabbits, but tonight he stalked better prey. The cow was paralyzed with terror, but when Draculea untied it, it scampered away. Vlad tied Tempest in its place, then went to the cottage.

 

Like most of the humble village homes, there were no windows, but Draculea could sense where the girl's bed lay. He stood outside, laying his hands against the thin wall that separated him from Anna. He had been considering Anna for some time. Her personality was pliable, her mind suggestive, and he had no doubt that he could have her without much effort. Still, a vigilant husband would be an annoyance, and now was the time to claim his due.

 

He reached out with his mind, speaking to the girl on the other side of the wall. Anna stirred in her narrow, chaste bed, hearing the soft voice in her mind, thinking it a dream. She had been hearing the whispers in the dark for almost a year. The mysterious voice wound itself around her body, and her mind. It offered her experiences and sensations so different from what she could find in her simple life. Tonight it said that she could finally claim these gifts, if she would only come.

 

Her mother slept on, not hearing when Anna rose from her bed, unbarred the door, and slipped out into the night. There was one, though, who noticed. Lucian was a suspicious man. He had noticed a distance in his betrothed. Her thoughts often seemed to be far away, and the only thing he could imagine was that she had another lover, and she yearned for him. Lucian was proud, and he would have none of another man's leavings, so he had set himself to watch the girl. Tonight he thought that his suspicions would be confirmed. What else but a lover's tryst could lure her from the shelter of her home so late at night? He would watch, and wait, and catch the couple in their illicit congress.

 

He watched as Anna made her way around the cottage. Moving stealthily, he left his place of concealment to follow her. She entered the small, open shed in back of the house. It was dark inside, the pale moonlight not reaching back into its depths, but he could see the shadowy silhouette of a man waiting for her.

 

Anna moved toward the stranger, ghostly in her white gown. She stood before him. Lucian heard nothing, but he had the sense that they were communicating somehow. The man lifted his hand to touch her face. He put an arm around her slender waist and drew her close, pushing aside her thick, fair braid with his free hand. He did not kiss her, as Lucian had anticipated, but instead bent and pressed his face to the pale column of her throat.

 

They stayed like that for several long moments. At last he rose from the kiss, releasing her. Still silent, she swayed, then turned and began to make her way to the cottage.

 

Lucian was puzzled. Was that all? What had it been--a leave taking? A final, farewell meeting? He puzzled too long on this, and Anna had come to the corner of the cottage before he could think to find cover. He drew himself up sternly, ready to confront her with her infidelity. He would allow her to speak first, then crush her feeble attempts to explain such a betrayal of trust.

 

But Anna did not speak. She brushed past him, as if he was not there, and Lucian saw that her brown eyes were dull and blank. He had heard of people who could rise and walk without regaining their full senses, but he had never expected to encounter it. Anna calmly went back into the cottage, and Lucian heard the bolt fall across the door again.

 

He felt confused. What to do now? When he looked back at the shed, he saw that the stranger had not yet left. He stood beside a larger, shifting shadow that had to be a horse--his horse, and the Tedeskos would never have been able to afford such a beast. Lucian's wide mouth firmed in determination. He would at least have the satisfaction of facing his rival.

 

He approached the shed, ready to leap aside if the stranger should hear him and try to escape on his horse. The man did not notice, but the horse raised its huge head, staring at Lucius and snorting. The man continued stroking the sleek black neck, murmuring to his mount, as Lucian neared.

 

Lucian halted several feet away from him. Surely he had heard Lucian's approach? Why did he not react? At last the man turned his head slightly, and Lucian saw a sliver of his profile. "Well, boy? You have something to say to me?"

 

The cool arrogance of his tone stung Lucian. "I wish to know what business you had with Anna."

 

The man gave the horse a final pat, then turned to face Lucian. "It needn't concern you."

 

"No? She is my betrothed."

 

He nodded. "Yes, you'd be Lucian, then." He cocked his head, studying the boy. "Well, Lucian, you've grown. I haven't seen you for eight--no, nine years."

 

The young man was bewildered. Why wasn't this man explaining, apologizing? "I do not know you."

 

"We have never been introduced, that's true enough. But I know you, Lucian. We spoke together before you were sent away to school."

 

"I... I think not. I would have remembered."

 

"The memories are there--you simply choose to ignore them. We spoke late at night, in the dark."

 

A memory, faint with the passage of time, faded with his determined efforts to forget, drifted back. A voice... his voice, echoing in his mind. His father had found him struggling with the bolt at the front door. When Lucian had told him that the prince wanted him to come out and play, the older man's face had gone white. The next day, though his mother wept, Lucian was sent away to school.

 

The man was continuing. "You forgot me, did you? I didn't forget you, Lucian."

 

There was something about his voice, something that seemed to make his thoughts drift. Lucian shook his head, trying to clear it, and said, "Have you dishonored my betrothed?"

 

"Do you mean have I lain with her? No, Lucian, I have not. You cannot use that excuse to break your pledge."

 

Lucian felt he should be indignant, but there was no heat in his voice as he said, "I do not seek to break our engagement."

 

"No? But you are not over-anxious to fulfill it, either. Do not worry, Lucius. When you go to her on your wedding night, you will be the first to take her flesh. She will stain the bridal sheet, though perhaps not," he smiled, and there was a touch of cruelty in his expression, "as copiously as she might have before this night. No, I took nothing from her that you might miss."

 

He moved toward Lucian. The boy thought to step back, but he didn't. There was something in those eyes that held him. The soft voice seemed to curl around him, stroking him. "I'm glad that you came, Lucian. I suppose I would have come for you eventually, but I like the idea that you have come to me."

 

"I did not come to you."

 

"Believe that if you wish." He moved closer.

 

Lucian found that he was trembling. "I will go."

 

"No." The man reached out and touched his cheek. His fingers were cool. "No, you will stay here with me, for a little while."

 

"What do you want?" Lucian whispered.

 

"Nothing that you cannot safely give. First I want what I took from your betrothed..." his hand slid down Lucian's throat, "then I want you."

 

"Who are you?"

 

"Does it matter?" He ran his hand over the boy's shoulder. "I have told you, Lucian--you know me, though you might not want to admit it to yourself. Who am I?"

 

Lucian knew. He remembered from his childhood, and he remembered the tales of the village elders. He whispered, "Draculea..." The other man smiled, sharp teeth glinting white in the dimness. Lucian jerked away from the man's touch, turning to run.

 

He did not get far. The man caught him before he could escape the shed.

 

Draculea dragged the struggling man back into the shed. He slammed him hard against the rough wall, grabbed his hair, and jerked his head to the side, exposing his neck. He'd drunk well from the girl, but the hunger was so seldom fully satisfied, and he could not resist. The boy was young and strong, and his blood would be rich with his fear and what Vlad sensed to be his incipient arousal.

 

The boy still struggled, but he could not escape. Vlad sank his fangs into the tanned throat, exulting in the first hot gush of blood. He drank deeply, relishing the salt-sweet flow, but stopped himself long before the youth's life was in danger.

 

Lucian groaned as the prince lifted his head, and he let his head fall back in unconscious invitation. Draculea laughed softly and said, "No, no more of that, boy. But you can provide other delights."

 

He threw the boy down on a clean pile of straw. The boy rolled over, blinking up at Draculea, and the prince paused for a moment, admiring him. Lucian's hair was as golden as Anna's, made even brighter by the contrast to his tanned skin. His eyes were as green as new leaves. He was not like the man that Draculea loved, but he was desirable.

 

Lucian tried to rise, but the prince fell on him, driving him back down into the fragrant straw. Draculea claimed his mouth in a rough kiss. When he found the boy's teeth clench, he squeezed his jaw till they reluctantly parted, Lucian gasping at the bruising pain. Then his tongue swept into the depths of his reluctant lover's mouth. Lucian gagged at the taste of his own blood, even as a fire ignited deep in his belly.

 

He tried to throw the prince off, to no avail. He felt a hand slip inside his shirt, rubbing and pinching at his nipples, which grew hard under the peremptory caresses. Lucian jerked his head away, panting harshly, and moaned, "No!" A warm hand settled over his crotch, squeezing and he was dismayed to find himself hard under the rough palm.

 

Still he protested. Draculea made a sound of dismissal. "You don't even know what you want, boy." He ripped open the man's trousers, shredding his drawers, and gripped his rigid cock, stroking it firmly. "You have to be shown." Draculea jerked the clothing off, leaving him naked from the waist down, then opened his own breeches, exposing his engorged sex.

 

He flipped Lucian over on his belly and gripped the man's firm, white buttocks. Lucian cried out again and tried to scramble away, but Draculea looped one strong arm around his waist, holding him. "The more you struggle, the more it will hurt, boy. Relax, and I can make it pleasurable for you." Lucian's answer was to fight all the harder. Draculea grunted. "Very well--rape instead of seduction."

 

Vlad would have preferred a willing partner, but the boy's will was a bit stronger than he had anticipated, and he did not have the time to lull him into acceptance. He hadn't expected to have such an opportunity, and had brought no oil with him. He suspected that Lucian was still a virgin to this manner of sex, and he did not want to take him completely unprepared, but the boy would not stay still enough for him to prepare him orally.

 

He cast his gaze around the shed, and his eyes fell on the churn. He stretched and managed to dip his hand over the rim. Vlad smiled, feeling his fingers slip is a soft, greasy paste. "Well, Lucian, it seems that your intended is a bit of a slut--she did not clean her churn." He scraped up a thick, pale yellow blob of butter. "That is to your advantage tonight, though. I will not have to take you dry."

 

Lucian shuddered as he felt the slick paste being wiped down his crease, then cried out as a thick finger breached his anus, probing deep. Draculea worked the finger in and out briskly, growing harder as he realized how very tight and hot the boy was. He quickly forced a second finger in. Ignoring Lucian's pleading groan, he pushed and wriggled his fingers, spreading them to loosen the tiny, muscular ring. "I told you, boy--relax, and the pain will fade. Here..." he crooked his fingers, feeling, and found the small bump. Draculea caressed it, and this time Lucian's cry was of pleasure, mingled with shock. "Yes, boy, it can feel good." His movements gentled a bit. "I did this for my lover so many, many times." He rubbed the special spot again and again, till Lucian was weeping with sensation and confusion.

 

Draculea pulled his hand free. Before the boy could react, he moved up behind him, pressed his slick cockhead against the loosened hole, and thrust. Lucian threw his head back. He did not cry out this time, but his green eyes were wide with shock, and his breath nearly stopped. Draculea took him with hard, quick strokes, driving his prick to the very limit in that hot, tight ass. This was not love making--it was rutting. There was no more tenderness than when a stallion mounted a mare.

 

He came quickly, spilling his seed into the boy's molten core. Lucian collapsed onto the straw, shuddering and whimpering. Blood smeared the white globes of his ass, trickling thickly from the crease. The first time he had seen this had been the second time he had lain with Simion after he had risen. He'd been near distraught, certain that he had hurt his friend no matter how Simion had protested that he was in no pain, save for a pleasant ache.

 

Simion had told him of what he had seen in the great hall--the single bloody teardrop. He had caressed Draculea with quick assurance and, sure enough, the essence that spurted from the prince's sex had been as bright and red as if he had sliced open a vein. It seemed that it was merely another aspect of his new state.

 

For a moment he considered simply mounting Tempest and leaving. Instead he closed his pants and sat back beside the trembling boy. He was more vulnerable in this state, and Draculea knew that he could influence him now. He took the boy's still erect sex in his hand and began to pump gently, speaking to him. "Listen to me, Lucian. You are dreaming. When we finish here you will go back to your home. You will move quietly, so that none know that you have been out." With his other hand he gripped the boy's chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. He poured all his will into the gaze, and Lucian's pupils dilated till his eyes seemed black rather than green. "You will do this for me, Lucian."

 

"Yes, master," he whispered.

 

"Sweet boy." Draculea smoothed back the sweaty, tangled hair. "You will clean yourself, and hide all traces of what has passed between us." His hand moved smoothly.

 

The boy moaned and thrust up into his grasp. "Yes, master."

 

"This will seem a dream to you, but you will remember." Draculea bent and took Lucian's cock into his mouth, sucking strongly. The young man thrashed, making a thin, keening noise as he spilled his seed down Draculea's throat. When the last drop was drunk, the prince released him, licking the last pale drops of his seed from his lips. He petted the softening flesh. "I doubt that your Anna will be willing to do this for you, Lucian. You will want more, but you will not be sure of what you want, or who you want."

 

Draculea pulled the dazed man to his feet and helped him to dress again. Again he looked deeply into Lucian's eyes, planting the suggestion--no, the order. "You will not remember with your waking mind, but if I desire you again, you will come at my call." He stroked the boy's face. "Who do you belong to, Lucian?"

 

Lucian's voice was faint. "You, my lord. I belong to you."

 

"Go."

 

Draculea watched as the soon-to-be-bridegroom staggered from the shed and made his way toward his own house. Then he untied Tempest and led him out into the cool night air. He mounted, then tugged affectionately at the horse's mane. "A good night, Tempest. A very good night."

 

Feeling as close to peace as he had been able to get since he had ridden to that fateful battle, Draculea made his way back to the castle.

 

 

---

Chapter 44: Horizons

Child of the Night, Part Forty-four

The Year of Our Lord, 1502

Castle Draculea, Wallachia

Horizons

 

Draculea's eyes opened slowly. I've become accustomed to waking in darkness. When did that happen?

 

He'd found after his change that his night vision had become very acute, but this blackness was total, and he couldn't see anything, even a few inches above his face. He put up his hands, resting his palms against the satin covered boards above him.

 

Simion had provided him with a simple, but elegant, coffin. It was made of highly polished oak with brass handles, and it was lined with white satin. He'd spent his first time inside it in what was very like a restless doze. He'd awakened feeling scarcely rested.

 

The second time, just before dawn, he had stalked around it, unable to force himself into it. Then he had turned and begun scooping loose soil from Nicolae's grave into the casket. When he had a layer an inch or so deep, he'd climbed in and lay down. He had pulled the lid closed, then dug his fingers into the soft grit beneath him, and had gone to sleep.

 

Now Draculea pushed on the boards. A rim of light appeared. Simion saw to it that there was always a torch in the hall outside his chosen resting place. Vlad could never bring himself to sleep in the bed he had shared with Nicolae. He had only agreed to accept the coffin after Simion had tactfully suggested that this would lend a bit more dignity to Nicolae's repose.

 

Vlad sat up, brushing dirt from his shoulders, and turned, resting his elbows on the coffin's rim. His gaze went immediately to the statue.

 

In the dim light of the underground room it almost glowed, milky white. Most of the castle was slowly smothering under dust and cobwebs, but this was as clean and pristine, as the day it had been set in place more than forty years before--Draculea saw to that. Each day either he or Simion carefully washed it, wiping every fold and crease that had been carved into the great block of white marble.

 

Vlad stood, stepped out of the casket, and went to the statue. He sat at its base and stared up at it. The statue was over six feet tall, the slightly spread wings rising several inches over the slightly bowed head of the angel.

 

Draculea studied it. The marble hair lay on broad shoulders. There was an enveloping robe, but somehow the sculptor had managed to suggest a strong, straight body. The angel's arms were open, palms flat in a gesture that was gentle and somehow accepting.

 

Draculea reached up and touched one cool, hard hand. "Good evening, my angel. Have you slept? I know that you wander, Nicolae, but you must rest sometime." He threaded his fingers through those of the statue. "You always tried to do too much, and I doubt if you have changed."

 

He lifted himself, resting his cheek against the marble hand. "Is that what you do, Nicu? Do you watch over the lost and helpless in your travels? Do you whisper words of encouragement and comfort?"

 

Simion came to the room's entrance and hesitated when he saw his master. He had witnessed this before, but it was never any less painful. He could not make out the exact words, but he knew what Draculea was saying.

 

"Yes, it would be so like you, my love." Vlad stood, pressing close to the statue. He leaned in, staring at the angel's face...

 

...or where the face should have been. It wasn't completely blank. There were shallow, shadowy depressions where the eyes would have been, a vague ridge that might have been the beginning of a nose, a bare line where the mouth should have been. The sculptor had been almost offended when the prince had directed him to leave the face unfinished. He protested only once, though. The prince's expression had been as cold and hard as the marble he had carved. The artist had taken his generous pay and had gone.

 

Draculea pressed his cheek to the stone face for a moment, then turned his head so that his mouth brushed the forever sealed seam of the statue's lips. His voice was a bare whisper. "Why not me, beloved? Why can't you speak to me?"

 

Simion watched as Draculea pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, then wiped the statue's cheek, cleaning away the red streak of his tears. Then he wiped his own cheeks, put away the stained cloth, and turned to Simion. He walked over to the doorway.

 

Draculea paused before his friend. He reached out and silently gripped his shoulder, then passed on into the corridor. Simion followed behind his master.

 

Draculea paused at a dark intersection, glancing down the side hallway. He darted suddenly to the side, and Simion heard rapid scrambling, and a shrill squeak. Then there was a soft, slurping sound. Simion waited, a faint look of distaste ghosting over his features.

 

He didn't like it when Draculea limited himself to animal blood. Oh, it wasn't a personal disgust. He knew that blood was necessary for his master to survive, and rats would have done well enough--in an emergency. But Draculea had an ample supply of human... donors available. The gypsies saw it as an honor. He could wipe the memory of it from the minds of the villagers, leaving them with nothing but vague, disturbing feelings.

 

No, he didn't like it for Draculea's sake. Vlad was a prince. Even had he not been born to the Draculea line he would have been a prince. He deserved more than what he allowed himself these days.

 

It had been years since Draculea had taken human blood, and the effects were beginning to show. Though he seemed only a little less strong, Simion had noticed changes. There were fine lines around his eyes now, and gray in his hair. Simion was worried. Human blood always seemed to rejuvenate the prince, but was it possible for him to take himself too far, beyond the healing power of the blood? It never occurred to Simion that his own existence might be endangered by Draculea's refusal to take his proper unnatural nourishment.

 

Draculea emerged from the shadows of the side hall, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He moved a little more briskly, but Simion could see the torchlight glinting on threads of silver in his hair. He is allowing himself to die a little at a time, pining for Nicolae. At this rate he will never survive till the boy is reborn. Simion thought this without a hint of doubt that it would happen--he was as sure as his master.

 

They had entered the great hall, then made their way to the library. Nicolae's portrait, painted by Senor Vittelli almost forty years before, was hung in the center of one wall As Simion entered, Draculea was pulling a chair up before it and sitting down--in his accustomed place.

 

He needs something to occupy him while he waits. Draculea had, in life, been an active man, well involved in the affairs of his country. He needs...

 

"Travel."

 

Draculea turned his head, looking at his friend. "What, Simion?"

 

"Travel, Domn. You should travel." Draculea snorted, turning his attention back to the portrait. Simion came to stand near him. "You have seen some of the world, but there is so much that you have not, Domn. Before, you were limited--you could not go far, because the ropes of your duty held you. Now they have been cut, and you are free."

 

Draculae laughed shortly. "Oh, aye, Simion, free as the air. Yes, I can travel. Of course, I will only be able to travel west, and I must race so fast that I outstrip the rising of the sun, staying always in darkness."

 

"Not so, prince. The sun is not fatal to you--we know that."

 

The lesson had been a fearful one. Draculea had been on one of his night rides. In fact, he had been visiting Lucian. He'd become rather fond of the young man he had debauched before his marriage. It amused him that Lucian always protested, but always came at his summons, and experienced as much pleasure as any of Vlad's bed partners ever had.

 

That night Draculea had used him long and well, taking him on the floor of his front room while his wife and children slept only a few yards away, forcing him to choke back his cries of passion and release, lest they hear.

 

Vlad had emptied himself twice into the man's ass, and that had been all he had intended. He had then taken a leisurely meal of the man's lust-heated blood, leaving him mewling with the combined pain and pleasure. But as he rose to go, Lucian had tottered up onto his knees, wrapping his arms around Draculea's thighs, and burying his face against the vampire's spent cock.

 

He'd never done this with the human before, and the hot licking and sucking was too delicious to pass up. He enjoyed it for a long while. When he came, though, he pulled the man violently off his cock, spilling his bloody issue across his chest. His seed and his blood seemed to be the same now, and he was not going to let this mortal drink either. That was reserved. True, he allowed Simion, but Simion was special, and he no longer drank his friend's blood.

 

In any case, it was much later than he had planned when he left the village. He could see what seemed to be a rim of fire along the eastern horizon.

 

For a moment he had stared at it, and he had thought that this might be a way to end everything. If he simply didn't go back to the castle...

 

But what of Nicolae? When he returns, and I am not here... No! I cannot abandon him!

 

He'd set his heels into Tempest's sides, and they had flown toward the castle. The sky was turning gray as he approached. He could see Simion pacing outside the gates, gazing down the road anxiously.

 

The sun broke over the horizon before he reached the gate. The first rays struck him, and he heard Simion calling to him with frantic worry. But...

 

It wasn't fatal. Oh, it wasn't pleasant at all, but it wasn't exactly painful either. There was a sudden buzzing sensation on his skin, and an abrupt draining of energy. Tempest stamped to a halt at the gate, and Draculea slid off, almost falling.

 

One of the gypsies took the horse's reins as Simion ran toward his swaying master. "Domn! Hurry!" He had a cloak, which he threw over Draculea's head, shielding him. With the sun blocked, Draculea felt a little of his strength return. He held Simion's arm, letting his friend lead him into the cool, dim interior of the castle. Simion did not remove the cloak until he had Draculea in his underground sleeping room. Draculea had immediately crawled into his coffin and gone to sleep. The next night he seemed to have suffered no ill effects. So, while sunlight might not be fatal, it was far from healthful for him.

 

"Simion..."

 

"We have wagons, and a good carriage--a noble's carriage. It will be easy to carry your coffin. If you believe that that would be too conspicuous, then we could use a big trunk. A wealthy man is expected to travel with a lot of luggage."

 

Draculea studied the other man, then said slowly, "You have been thinking of this for some time, haven't you?"

 

Simion bowed his head. "Domn, it makes good sense on so many levels. I have set up business agreements in other lands--France, Italy, Germany. They do well, so far, but it is always prudent to have a present eye in business dealings. It keeps one's partners honest. Your investments have begun to pay off, but they must do well if you are to have funds sufficient for the time you may have to wait."

 

"Practicalities, Simion? This wouldn't have anything to do with what I'm sure you see as my melancholia?"

 

Simion examined Draculea shrewdly, and used the tact he thought most likely to succeed. Keeping his voice mild, he said, "So it does not trouble you that Nicolae will return to an old man--on sunk so far in his brooding and memories that his flesh has begun to fall away, along with his spirit?"

 

Draculea sat up abruptly, glaring at his retainer. Simion continued calmly, "A room grows stale if it is not aired, water stagnates if it is not refreshed, and soil loses its fertility if it is not turned and enriched. You yourself have spoken of men who let the juice of life be sucked from them by walling themselves away from the world. Though you take your pleasure now and then, lord, this castle has become as sterile and lifeless as any monastery."

 

Draculea looked at the portrait again, then his eyes drifted to the door, and Simion knew he was thinking of the grave in the cellar. There was no sarcasm in his voice when he spoke. "But what of Nicolae, Simion?"

 

Simion knelt beside the chair, putting his hand on the prince's arm and gazing earnestly into his face. He was about to say something that might have earned another death, but he had to. There was no other way. "It is only his dust that is here, my lord. Your gypsies will watch over his bones for as long as need be, and none will disturb his rest, but he will not rise from the grave, as you have done. He will be reborn, and who can say where?"

 

Draculea lifted his head sharply. "My God," he whispered. He smartly slapped himself on the forehead, groaning. "Simion, I have been blind! You are right, of course. Souls enter this world in every land, and who can say where Nicolae may slip through? It would be like him to find some poor creature in a backward culture, just so he could try to help those around him." He nodded. "You're right. I've been letting myself get soft, just sitting here, waiting. I've always been a hunter as well as a warrior, eh, Simion?"

 

Simion smiled. "Yes, my lord."

 

Draculea stood and began pacing. "I'll have to rely on you to make the arrangements. I'm afraid I've let myself become... hm... disaquainted with the world outside my own small domain." "Where would you wish to go first, my lord?"

 

He waved his hand negligently. "It hardly matters, does it? I have a feeling that I will see much of the world before I'm done. You choose."

 

Simion stood, cocking his head thoughtfully. "If we leave soon, we can reach Italy before the end of spring."

 

"Italy? Rome, Venice... One of the cradles of antiquity. Yes, Simion. That sounds interesting. I'll see it by moonlight. I have a feeling, though, that I will find that the mortals are not much different in any part of the world." He clapped Simion on the back, and his voice was a little lighter. "I hear the Italians are very fond of garlic. Do you suppose it will affect the flavor of their blood overmuch?" He wrinkled his nose. "I've always found garlic distasteful, and lately it is positively offensive. Rank herb."

 

Simion shrugged, his mind busy with plans. "The peasants attach some mystical significance to it, lord, I'm not sure what."

 

"Come to think of it, I have seen garlands hanging on doors and windows in the village the last few years." He shook his head. "I couldn't even avoid the smell by holding my breath because..." He smiled.

 

"Because you do not breathe. How inconvenient." They both laughed, and Simion sat at a table, beginning to compose a letter to their business contacts in Rome.

 

---

Chapter 45: Trysting

 

Notes: My information about Italian Renaissance gardens was obtained at http://www.arts.monash.edu.au/visual_culture/projects/diva/kent.html. Information on 'midnight gardens' from http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Pointe/1406/gardenmidnight.html. Please understand that the aristocratic concept of a garden was much different then than it is now. Our idea of a private garden generally only encompasses a few flower and/or vegetable beds, with paths and an ornamental birdbath if we are being extravagant. Back then a nobleman's garden could encompass acres of land, with areas both carefully cultivated and deliberately left wild.

 

Orti Oricellari--'Garden of Oricellari', Immediatamente--immediately, perdonillo--forgive me, poco un dolce--a little sweet,

 

 

Child of the Night, Part Forty-five

The Year of Our Lord, 1516

The Villa Rucellai, Outside of Florence, Italy

Trysting

 

Simion finished folding the last of Draculea's shirts and tucked it away neatly in the dresser, then closed the drawer. He nodded in satisfaction. They had traveled a great deal since they'd first left Castle Draculea, and he never felt entirely comfortable till he had all his master's belongings squared away in each new location.

 

Simion looked about the room with a critical eye. He'd spent his entire life in service to royalty, and though the prince (being a warrior) was used to rough surroundings, Simion himself thought that the prince deserved only the finest. He could find nothing to criticize here. Signor Cosimo Rucellai's villa, while not rivaling that of the Medicis', was quite sumptuous, and the room provided for Draculea fit his position.

 

Simion was still a little tired from the ride to the villa, and he decided that he deserved a bit of relaxation. He went into the hall and glanced around. There was a footman seated at the midpoint, and he stood quickly, looking to Simion inquiringly. Many of the better appointed houses kept a man or maid stationed on each floor for the convenience of the family or guests, to save the tedium of seeking out a servant when they needed some errand run or chore performed. Simion beckoned, and the young man hurried over. "Yes, Signor?"

 

Simion smiled at the title. While he was also technically a servant, the other man was acknowledging that he stood higher in the domestic caste. Servants could be just as snobbish as the nobility. "Your name?"

 

"Adamo, Signor."

 

"Adamo, bring some wine, please."

 

The young man was used only to curt orders, and he blinked at the courtesy, then nodded eagerly. "Yes, Signor, immediatamente. Does the Signor wish to have the wine cooled? Signor Rucellai keeps a few bottles in the spring for the pleasure of his guests."

 

"That would be pleasant, but you need bring only a goblet. The prince himself does not drink much wine."

 

The footman hesitated. This was not for Draculea, then, but for the manservant himself? In such a case he would usually have fetched a drink from the keg of rough, new wine shared by all the household servants, but now he wasn't sure.

 

This Simion was obviously not a common servant. He had been given his own, small room near his master's, instead of being required to sleep in the common room with the footmen of the household. Actually, Adamo was not envious of this privilege. The sleeping room was crowded enough as it was. He examined the older man shyly as he thought, I would not mind sharing a bed with this one, but with the others in the room, what good would it be?

 

"You think much, Adamo."

 

The boy blushed. "Perdonillo, Signor. I go." He bowed and hurried off, his pace almost a trot.

 

Simion shook his head, smiling, as he shut the door. That one is susceptible, I think. It will be easy to make sure, and I will enjoy the task. The boy was in his late teens, but small and slender, with fine, light brown hair and clear grey eyes--unusual for Italy, even this far north.

 

Simion sat on a small love seat, and rested his hand on the large trunk. Draculea's two gypsy servants, who cared for the horses and carriage, had carried it to the room, refusing the help of the household's servants. Rucellai's steward had been reluctant to have such rough men in the house, but Simion had told him firmly that the prince's luggage was to be handled only by the prince's men, and while they were on the subject, no maids were to come to Draculea's room--for any reason, unless summoned. Simion would be attending to the prince's needs, including tidying his room. The maids were torn between gratitude at having their duties lightened, and hurt pride that they were not to be allowed to serve royalty directly.

 

He tapped softly on the polished surface. Sometimes his master dozed, and sometimes he slept deeply, and Simion was never sure if Draculea would hear him. "I think I may have found a playmate for you, Domn--young and tender. Before you rise I will see if my estimation is correct."

 

While Draculea had been outraged that Ernestu had dared to try to force Nicolae into his bed, Simion often steered willing partners to his master, usually after sampling them himself. While Draculea was still perfectly capable of finding bed partners, if he was going to be living in close quarters with others for any period of time, it was safer and more convenient to let his friend arrange things. Simion had a keen sense of who would welcome advances and who would shy away--he was seldom wrong.

 

There was a tap at the door, and Simion called, "Come." Adamo entered, and shut the door behind himself. He brought a fluted glass, one of delicate Venetian design, to Simion and presented it, eyes properly downcast. Simion accepted it, and the boy waited for him to taste it and give his approval. Simion sipped the ruby liquid. It was excellent--the Italians had a flair for wine. He nodded his approval. When the boy started to turn away he said, "Stay a moment."

 

Adamo paused, and said anxiously, "I have done something wrong, Signor?"

 

"No, boy, not at all. Do your duties permit you to spend a little time with me?"

 

"I... yes, Signor. I am at your service for as long as you desire."

 

"Good. Go and bolt the door."

 

Adamo blinked, but he obeyed readily enough, then returned to stand beside the other man. Simion touched the seat beside him. "Sit, boy." When he hesitated, Simion said, "Is your reluctance because of distaste, or do you fear to trespass beyond your station?"

 

"Distaste? No, Signor!" He seemed surprised. "It is only..." He waved at the seat. "To use Signor Rucellai's furniture..."

 

"You will not contaminate it, Adamo. No one will know, and even if they did," he shrugged, "I bid you do it. You may even say that I ordered you. You have been told to obey me?" He nodded. "I do not order you, but I invite you, Adamo. Sit with me." The boy sat gingerly on the edge of the seat. Simion was gratified to see that the lad did not put great space between them.

 

Simion sipped the wine, enjoying the taste. "Are you happy in your master's service, Adamo? Do not fear to answer honestly--nothing you say will leave this room."

 

"Yes, Signor, quite happy. There is great room for advancement. I will be head footman in a few years, I think. If I am diligent, and fortunate, I may be chosen to be trained to serve one of the young gentlemen personally."

 

"No complaints?"

 

"Not with my master, Signor. The household..." his voice trailed off.

 

Simion casually put his arm around the boy. Adamo did not flinch, or even tense. "Are the other servants hard on you? It is not unusual for jealousy to be turned against one so fair as yourself."

 

"No, Signor, they treat me well, but..." he sighed. "I am lonely."

 

"The other men-servants are not friendly."

 

"None are friendly enough, Signor." He glanced sideways at Simion, lowering dark lashes significantly.

 

Simion stroked the boy's hair, and held the half full glass to Adamo's lips. The boy sipped daintily. When Simion withdrew the glass, he licked his lips slowly, and Simion felt his breeches tighten across his crotch. Setting aside the glass he said softly, "Would you like for me to be your friend while I am here, Adamo?"

 

"With all my heart, Signor."

 

Simion unlaced his breeches, opening them, then drew the boy's warm, steady hand down to the gap. When Adamo slipped his hand inside to grip Simion's hardening cock, the older man began to untie the footman's laces. In a moment both men were exposed. "Slowly, Adamo," Simion whispered, as he began to stroke the boy's slender, half hard prick. With his free hand he gripped the boy's chin and kissed him.

 

Adamo had not expected that. In his previous encounters there had been no kissing--that was something he thought was reserved for women. Still, as Simion slipped his tongue into Adamo's mouth, and he felt it stroking over his own tongue, hot and wet, the boy found that he liked it very much.

 

Simon tasted the wine, and the boy's own fresh flavor. Adamo's response to the kiss was clumsier than the skilled motion of his hand, and Simion found that charming. This one will be perfect for you, Master. He is beautiful and knows a little of life, but is not yet jaded.

 

Before long the boy gasped and trembled, coating Simion's fingers with his seed. He did not flag in his caresses, though, and soon Simion himself reached fulfillment. He sat back, content to let the boy bring a wet cloth from the room's wash basin and clean them both.

 

When their garments had been rearranged Adamo bowed. "I thank you, Signor. Not every partner has been concerned with my pleasure. If you no longer require me..."

 

"Do not be in such a hurry, Adamo. Sit again." The boy sat, clearly puzzled. He was not used to his partners wanting him to remain once he had satisfied their desires, not since his initial explorations with his cousins. Simion stroked his cheek. "You are a sweet little thing. How old are you?"

 

"I will be nineteen soon, Signor. I know I seem younger." He sighed. "It is a problem. No one takes me seriously."

 

"As you grow older it will be less of a problem and more of a blessing, child. Did you truly enjoy what we did together?"

 

"Oh, yes, Signor! I hope you will find more time for me before you go."

 

"It is clear that you are no virgin, Adamo, but how much experience have you had? Have you been with many men?"

 

The boy shrugged, a peculiarly Italian gesture. "Who can say? Many for a monk, few for a whore. Enough to know what I like."

 

Simion rubbed a thumb over the boy's soft lips. "Do you use your mouth?" He let a hand slide down Adamo's back, and one finger slid under his ass, probing gently at the cloth covered crease. "Your ass?"

 

The boy said, "I have done both, Signor." He frowned. "Though it has not been so very pleasant the times that I was mounted."

 

Simion squeezed his arm. "Much depends on your rider, Adamo. One who is too selfish or brutal can indeed make the act unpleasant, but it does not necessarily have to be so. You know of my master?"

 

Adamo nodded. The entire household knew of Simion's master--Prince Vlad Draculea, though no one knew much of him. He had been welcomed some dozen or more years ago into Italian society, and was a much sought after guest. His pedigree had never been completely traced, but it was assumed that he was a minor royal in the Wallachian monarchy. The few ambitious nobles who had sent questions to the Wallachian court had received only vague references to a branch of the current king's family, fallen into obscurity.

 

No one denied his high station, and he certainly traveled and lived like a blue blood. His carriage and horses were the finest--his chosen residences small and often isolated, but plush. Since he was of the upper class, his eccentricities, which were many, could be overlooked.

 

It was rumored that he never appeared in public before sunset. No one knew whether this was for some reason of health or merely a whim. He did not dine with others, either, and he would not enter a room that held a mirror. If he had been hideous this would have been understood--many less than beautiful patricians did not care to be reminded of their physical flaws. But it was said that he was not old, and that his appearance was pleasing to the eye. Adamo had been very curious, but he had not caught a glimpse of the noble visitor--none of the household had. He had arrived at the villa that morning just as dawn was breaking, and he had been swathed from head to foot in a hooded cape. And as to his accommodations...

 

The prince's servant had refused the large, sunny room at the front of the villa, instead choosing a smaller one at the back. It had only one window, and he had requested (nothing so direct as a demand, but it was fulfilled without delay) heavy double draperies.

 

These peculiarities, far from alienating people, drew them. The aristocracy viewed them with approval. After all, they could do whatever they liked, simply because they wished to. What better measure of worth was there?

 

"It is said, Signor," Adamo said slowly, "That the prince is a handsome man."

 

"Quite true, Adamo, and he is a lusty man. I think he could show you how pleasurable that particular act can be. Would you be willing?"

 

Again the boy peeked at Simion through his lashes. "Will he like me, Signor?"

 

"Oh, yes, boy. Most assuredly."

 

Draculea was not in the best of moods when he awoke. He rapped sharply on the lid of the trunk and listened as Simion unlocked it. He disliked this precaution, but he knew that it made good sense. The lock could not keep him in if he wanted to escape, but it might very well foil the curious or the greedy.

 

The lid lifted, and he stood up, stretching. It was more habit than anything else--he thought that he would have to lie cramped for a very, very long time before he became stiff. He glanced around the room, noting the well covered window, as he brushed grit from his clothes. "Good evening, Simion."

 

"Good evening, Domn. I have your clothes laid out for you. If you wish, I can have water brought."

 

"Perhaps later, Simion. I am eager to meet my host and his other guests."

 

As he began to dress, Simion said, "Had we come a few years earlier you might have met the Medicis, but they were ousted when Florence reverted to a republic."

 

Draculea shook his head, sighing. "What is the world coming to, Simion? The masses thinking they are wise enough to rule themselves..."

 

Simion shrugged. "Not all people have good rulers, Domn. Perhaps if more leaders studied the writings of Machiavelli they would not be in such a rush to take their fates into their own hands. Many want the fruits of self-determination, but few want the responsibilities."

 

As Simion helped Draculea don his boots, the prince said, "Have you given them any explanation for my appearance?"

 

"I told them that you were attending to business nearby, and would arrive this evening. Claudio has your horse waiting in the woods--you need only to ride up to the front of the villa."

 

"Good." He went to the window and opened the drapes, gazing out into the night. It looked out on a smooth expanse of lawn toward a small woodland. Draculea was pleased to see that there was only a sliver of moon. No light escaped from the house. Even had the windows not all been draped for the night there would have been little illumination--the candle and firelight did not pierce the darkness for many feet. "There should be no trouble in reaching the trees unnoticed." His keen vision detected a faint movement at the edge of the forest. "Yes, I see Claudio."

 

He threw open the window. Before he climbed out Simion said, "My lord, you need not seek companionship tonight, unless you wish."

 

Draculea paused, looking at Simion. "Yes?" He smiled. "What have you found for me?"

 

"Poco un dolce."

 

Draculea laughed. "My good friend! You take such care of me. Thank you, Simion. Will I see this sweetmeat tonight?"

 

"I think not, Domn. He has not yet reached a station exalted enough for him to be allowed to wait on the household intimately. I may find a way to bring him under your eyes before the evening ends, and you can decide if he is to your taste."

 

"And your tone says that he will be. Thank you, Simion." Draculea swung his leg out the window, sitting on the sill, and visually measured the distance to the ground. One story--not far, and the landing would be on grass, not cobbles or stone. He sprang out and down. Draculea landed lightly, sinking into a crouch to absorb the shock. Almost before his downward motion ceased he pushed off and ran, sprinting toward the woods.

 

Simion watched him go. He could do this only because his master's blood had gifted him with a weak version of his powers. No one else would have been able to see the black clad figure racing across the shadowed lawn.

 

"Twelve years. He took twelve years to paint the chapel's ceiling. Cities have been built in less time. And the artist used drunkards and laborers as models for the saints. I wonder that the pope did not have the rogue thrown into prison, or even excommunicate him, for such sacrilege."

 

Draculea nodded gravely to the elderly contessa who had been monopolizing his company most of the evening. His hand strayed down beside his chair, out of her sight, and he gestured at Simion, who came to him swiftly. When the old lady paused to draw a breath, Draculea said, "Fascinating, Contessa. You're quite right, of course. Simion, I wish to present my gifts to Signor and Signora Rucellai. Fetch them."

 

Simion bowed, and their eyes met in understanding before he left the room. The contessa bent his ears for a few moments more till Simion returned. Everyone had heard of his errand, and conversation in the salon quieted in anticipation. Draculea rose and went toward the door to meet Simion... and the young footman. Since there were to be two gifts, Simion had the perfect excuse to bring the boy into the salon--it would not be properly respectful of the gifts, or those who were to receive them, for a servant to seem to juggle them.

 

The gifts were nicely arranged on small velvet pillows--pink for the lady and wine red for the gentleman. Draculea first took the lady's gift from Simion. It was a cut glass bottle of perfume--the golden liquid seeming to shimmer. Draculea presented it to her. "My lady--a scent to enhance your beauty. It contains ambergris, and was distilled from the blossoms of an entire field of roses. Pearls were ground to dust and mixed with the perfume, so that they may add a greater luster to your skin when you choose to use it."

 

She murmured pleased thanks, unstopping the bottle. Immediately the room was filled with the scent of roses and spice. Draculea watched as she delightedly allowed her ladies to sniff the stopper. His nose wrinkled at the heavy aroma, but that was the sort of fragrance fashionable these days, and he was not trying to please himself.

 

Next he went to the young footman to get Signor Rucellai's gift. He gave the boy a swift appraisal, and was pleased with what he saw. His only indication was a quick glance at Simion, but his friend knew that Draculea approved of his choice. The boy did not look up as the prince took the gift from the pillow and presented it to Rucellai. "I understand that you are a writer, as was your father before you, and his father before him. May this be of use to you, and a reminder of my esteem." It was an inkwell. When Signor Rucellai took it, he knew by its weight that it was solid gold. It was decorated with enamel work and small gemstones--garnets and opals.

 

Rucellai studied it with satisfaction. "It is magnificent, Prince Draculea. I am honored."

 

Draculea smiled, and many of the guests noted a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I have loved someone who took joy in writing, Signor. I would have given such a gift to my dear one, had not death robbed me." There were murmurs of sympathy. Few people were as romantic as the Italians, and the thought of this handsome, proud man's tragedy touched the guests.

 

The conversation continued for awhile longer--the men discussing weighty matters of politics and finance while the women gossiped about fashion and certain people who were not in attendance. Finally the guests began to excuse themselves to make their way to their beds. Or in some cases, thought Simion, watching the flirtation between a very married lady and a younger gallant, to the beds of others.

 

Signor Rucellai spoke to Draculea. "Prince, I have something I think will interest you, since you are forced to forgo venturing forth in the light of day. I have turned part of my grounds into a midnight garden, dedicated to flowers that bloom only at night and plants that are pleasing to the eye under moonlight."

 

Draculea's interest was piqued. "I have heard of such things, Signor, but never seen one. I would be most grateful."

 

The two men said good night to the few remaining guests, and Rucellai led Draculea outside. As they left, he bid Adamo (who had remained shyly in the background, awaiting orders) to remain at the door. The household was being secured for the night, and he did not wish to be forced to call a servant to unlock the door when they returned. Simion followed the pair, a few paces behind, like the faithful servant that he was.

 

"My garden is my greatest joy, Prince," Rucellai said as they walked. "I have even taken the conceit of naming it--Quarrachi. My grandfather gave the peasants permission to use certain parts of it, and I have continued the tradition." At Draculea's raised eyebrow, he smiled. "Yes, I know. I have been berated by some of my peers for giving the lower classes 'ideas', but truthfully, I benefit. The people were grateful for my grandfather's generosity that the parish voted to keep and maintain the garden's beauty and refinement at their own expense." His eyes twinkled. "I have to spend very little on gardeners. It is an excellent business tactic."

 

"I will show you only my moonlight garden now, as it would take some time to view the entire estate. You are, of course, welcome to wander as you wish. I have fruit trees of all kinds, exotics, fragrant herbs, statuary that has been collect through generations of my family, fountains, pools, a hedge maze..." He sighed. "I love my time here. I wish I could retire to the country, but politics and business will not allow it." He shrugged, smiling wryly, "Dwelling solely in the country is a bit suspect. As they say, the country makes woods... worthy men are made in the city."

 

Draculea was enchanted by the artfully arranged nocturnal garden. It had been more than half a century since he had seen a blooming flower, and he did not realize how much he had missed this till he saw the masses of phlox, evening primrose, and columbines. They were all open, the petals in shades of cream, lavender, and pale pink almost glowing in the dim moonlight. An arbor was covered with fragrant honeysuckle and wisteria, the latter plant dripping clusters of blossoms that looked like bunches of grapes.

 

"There are plants that look their best by moonlight." Rucellai indicated a fern like plant whose leaves were silvery white. "That one has a most charming name. The peasants call it Dusty Miller."

 

They spent a little time admiring the garden, then Rucellai said, "I must retire, as I am expecting to meet with some of my estate managers tomorrow. Please, Prince, stay as long as you like. A servant will remain at the door to await your convenience."

 

"I thank you. I wish to spend some time exploring the maze we passed on our way here. It looks fascinating."

 

"Have a care." Rucellai laughed. "Some of our ladies have lost themselves in it, and required rescuing."

 

Draculea smiled. "I trust my own sense of direction."

 

Rucellai left Draculea and Simion at the entrance to the maze. After his host had entered the house, Draculea said, "I have a fancy to meet my little playmate under the benevolent eye of the moon, Simion." He looked down the corridor formed by the tall hedges. At the end, where it branched off, stood a tree whose thick foliage had been clipped in the form of Rucellai's coat-of-arms. "Mazes like this always include open areas for relaxation and contemplation."

 

"Shall I send the boy to you, Domn?"

 

Draculea studied his friend, then said slowly, "No, Simion--bring him to me. He seemed quite young, and a bit in awe of his betters. He may be easier with someone along who is more familiar to him."

 

Simion watched Draculea disappear into the maze, then went back to the house. Adamo was waiting outside the door, and he straightened as the older man approached. Simion noticed that the boy's eyes moved past him, and he looked disappointed when he saw that Simion was alone. He bowed to Simion, then said, "I am to wait for the prince?"

 

"No, boy. You are to come with me. He is waiting in the maze, and he is most desirous to make your acquaintance."

 

Adamo glanced back at the door behind him, and Simion knew that he was thinking of the beating he would receive if it was learned that he had left the unlocked door unattended. Simion waited to see if his desire would override his doubts, and it did. He followed Simion toward the maze.

 

As they walked the boy said hesitantly, "Signor Simion, the prince is a very great man."

 

"Yes, but he is still a man." They stopped at the entrance to the maze, and he turned to the boy, putting his hand on his arm. "Are you afraid, Adamo?"

 

"N-no, Signor, not really. But I have never been with such an exalted person before. I am worried..."

 

"You think that you might not please him?" The boy nodded. Simion stroked his hair. "So very young. You have only to be willing, child. And do not fear--my master believes in affording his partners as much pleasure as he may. He is not a selfish lover." They went into the maze.

 

It was a fantastic construction, with hundreds of yards of pathway winding between neatly trimmed box hedges that rose more than a foot higher than the head of a tall man. Occasionally, at the turns, they came upon antique statues, or trees clipped in the forms of cardinals, animals, and mythical creatures. There was even one that Adamo told Simion was supposed to be Cicero. Simion said, "I would have thought that the servants would not be allowed here, except to tend it." Adamo shrugged, smiling, and Simion thought Of course. He has been in service here for some years, and what boy could resist exploring a place like this, even if it was forbidden?

 

They turned a corner, and the path opened out into a small patch of smooth, green grass. In its center, Draculea sat on a low marble bench. Simion led Adamo over to the prince, and they stopped before him. The boy stood quietly, his eyes fixed humbly on the ground, waiting to be instructed.

 

Draculea examined the boy. He was quite beautiful. It was surprising that he had not been placed as a page boy in some noble house, but had been relegated to the more servile position of footman. He had no doubt that someone would soon notice his charms, and he would, indeed, rise in the world of domestic servants. "Look at me, child."

 

The eyes that were raised to him were of such a pale gray that they looked almost silver in the moonlight. His skin was pale, and his features were almost as delicate as a girl's. Draculea reached out and touched his cheek. Though he was approaching manhood, he had apparently not begun to shave, for there was only the faintest trace of down, as soft as peach fuzz. "You know why I have summoned you here?" He nodded. "You may speak, Adamo. You need not hold to proper silence when we are alone."

 

"Yes, Signor." His voice was almost a whisper. "You... you seek comfort."

 

Draculea smiled. "Indeed." He gripped the boy's waist and drew him between his spread knees, then urged him to sit. Adamo found himself perched on one firm thigh, with Draculea's arm about him.

 

Draculea petted the boy's face, and Adamo shivered. He said quickly, "It is not that I do not enjoy your touch, Signor, but your hands..."

 

"I know. The chill is part of my condition, like my aversion to sunlight. Fear not, it is something peculiar to myself, there is no danger to you, and I will be warmer soon."

 

As he spoke, one hand had moved up to stroke his throat, and the other gripped the back of his neck, massaging firmly. Despite the coolness of Draculea's touch, Adamo found himself beginning to relax under the gentle, rhythmic touches. Draculea's voice was low and soothing, and it lulled him even further. "Simion tells me that you have not enjoyed taking a man into your body. I think I can help you find how wonderful that act can be. Are you willing?"

 

"Yes, Signor," he murmured. "Very willing."

 

"Sweet boy." Draculea brushed cool lips against his cheek, then his lips. "Simion and I share many things, Adamo. We would like to share you. Have you ever been taken by two men at once?"

 

"I... no, Signor."

 

"Does the prospect frighten you?"

 

"No, Signor. It excites me."

 

Draculea chuckled. "Good." He slid his hand up into the boy's soft hair, pulling his head forward. "Kiss me."

 

Adamo bent forward and touched his mouth to the prince's. When he would have pulled back Draculea held him there, licking at the seam of his lips till they parted and allowed him entrance. The probe was soft and cold, but still exciting. The boy felt his cock begin to stir. Draculea sensed the quickening of his blood, and he pulled back as saliva flooded his mouth.

 

Adamo made a soft murmur of loss, but Draculea began to kiss his throat, and he sighed happily. Simion watched as Draculea sucked and nibbled at a small patch of skin, drawing the blood to the surface in a passion bruise, just like any mortal lover. The boy was beginning to squirm and moan, and the front of his breeches was tented over his erection.

 

When the boy at last became bold enough to slide his arms around Draculea's neck, holding him, Vlad knew that he was ready. He whispered against the smooth skin, "Adamo, there will be a little pain now. Only a little, and then it will be very good, and you will have rendered me a great service. Do not be afraid." He sank his fangs into the boy's throat.

 

Hot, salty-sweet blood immediately filled his mouth. The boy stiffened, moaning, but did not struggle. Draculea stroked his back and hair soothingly as he fed, and even his small protests stilled. Draculea took only as much as he needed, not wanting to weaken the boy over much--he might want to sup from him again before he left. When he was done he licked the wounds, as he had found that this speeded the healing. By morning there would be only a bruise and two small punctures that might be mistaken for insect bites. When he was done the wounds no longer seeped.

 

Draculea slid his hand inside Adamo's shirt, his fingers finding the hard thrust of his nipples. "You see, Adamo?" he whispered. "My touch is warmer now, is it not?"

 

"Yes." The boy arched to his touch as he lightly pinched one firm bud. "Ah, Signor, so warm."

 

Draculea pushed him off his lap. He swayed just slightly, and Simion gripped his shoulder to steady him. "Simion, disrobe the boy."

 

Simion removed Adamo's garments, slowly revealing each portion of his slim, pale body for Draculea's pleasure. When he was done he ran his hand down one smooth flank, saying, "He is more perfect than Signor Rucellai's Greek statues."

 

"Prepare him for me, my friend."

 

Simion removed a small bottle from his pocket. When Adamo looked at it curiously he said, "Sweet oil, to ease the way." At the boy's frown he said, "What? Adamo, what have your other lovers used."

 

"Nothing, Signor." He hesitated. "Well, my cousin spat in his hand and used it to slick himself before he entered me."

 

Simion shook his head. "No wonder you have not enjoyed it before. This will be different. Lie across the bench on your stomach." Adamo positioned himself beside Draculea. His hard cock was trapped between his body and the cold, smooth marble, and his rump jutted temptingly. Simion parted the pale buttocks and dribbled a stream of oil down the crease, then coated his fingers. He began to stroke the length of the deep valley, pausing at the top each time to massage around the tiny pucker of his asshole.

 

Adamo shivered with pleasure. No one had ever caressed him like this. His other lovers had mounted him as quickly as possible, not caring if he was ready, and had pounded their way to their own fulfillment. More than once he had been left with a sore and bleeding ass, forced to stroke himself to climax if he wanted release. When the first greased finger slipped inside him he felt only pleasure, and he wiggled, rubbing his cock against the stone.

 

Draculea rubbed the boy's back as he watched Simion work the second finger into Adamo's anus and begin spreading his fingers to stretch him. "You are doing well, Adamo. If you are patient, I think Simion will find your special spot."

 

"My special spot?"

 

Draculea laughed softly, "Oh, boy! You have a great discovery before you. Simion?"

 

"I will try, Domn." He pushed deeper, curving his fingers and feeling along the boy's internal walls till he found the small nub he was seeking. Adamo squirmed, giving a soft, surprised cry. "There, boy. That is a pleasure denied women--only men may know it."

 

"Then I thank my fate that I was born a man. Oh, please, Signor, again!"

 

Simion rubbed the same spot again and again. The boy moaned and began to push back, trying to drive the probing fingers deeper. "He is ready," said Draculea. While Simion pulled free, Draculea unlaced his breeches and freed his cock. It jutted from the open slit, thick and leaking. In the moonlight, the boy could not see that the fluid, instead of being clear, was blood red.

 

"Up, Adamo, then bend over." Adamo obeyed, bending at the waist to present his ass. Draculea squeezed his ass cheeks. "I will mount you now, sweet boy. Simion?"

 

"Lord?"

 

"Adamo has a pretty mouth."

 

"Yes, lord."

 

"Wait till I am seated."

 

Simion went to stand before Adamo, opening his breeches and freeing his own member. He had become aroused while caressing the boy, and was very ready. He watched as Draculea moved closer to the boy, fitting the dark head of his cock against the glistening, well-opened hole. Draculea pushed slowly into the boy, hissing in pleasure as he was encased in hot wetness. Since he had passed over he found the internal heat of his mortal lovers even more intense, and this boy was exquisitely tight.

 

Adamo whimpered, but it was not with pain. There was only the slightest ache, and it was overwhelmed by the delicious feeling of fullness. When the prince's cockhead passed over that sensitive place inside he jerked slightly, his cock twitching with pleasure. When Draculea was buried to the root he paused, and Simion stepped closer to Adamo.

 

He placed the boy's hands on his hips to help him balance, then held his cock toward the boy's mouth. Adamo licked at his glans, then took half of Simion's cock into his mouth and began sucking. Simion's eyes closed in pleasure as his young lover began to bob up and down.

 

Draculea began to fuck the boy slowly. He used full strokes, pulling back till only his glans was still inside, then sliding forward till his groin pressed against Adamo's round ass. He looked across and watched as his friend enjoyed the boy's eager oral attention. Simion held Adamo's head and thrust shallowly. He did not want to risk choking the boy, but Adamo was proving quite skilled at this art. He managed to take the older man completely, easing the rigid prick down his throat again and again.

 

Simion was the first. Adamo drew his climax from him, and easily swallowed Simion's thick spurts of semen. He would have kept the softening prick in his mouth, sucking him back to hardness, if Draculea had not waved his servant away. His voice thick, he said, "I think you need to be away from his teeth now, my friend."

 

Simion understood and pulled free of Adamo's mouth, but gripped the boy's shoulders to help support him as Draculea began to pump more strongly.

 

Adamo embraced Simion, leaning into his sturdy body as Draculea's thrusts increased in speed and power. Vlad pressed on the small of the boy's back, causing him to lift his hips a fraction. His cockhead rubbed across the sensitive spot, and Adamo gasped. He had found the angle now, and Draculea hit the spot with every thrust. Soon Adamo was mewling with pleasure as waves of heat and ecstasy washed over him. The prince reached beneath him and caressed the boy's quivering member as he drove into him. In a moment, the young footman was bucking helplessly, his seed spraying the grass.

 

When he felt the hot wetness on his palm Draculea stabbed once more into the sweet tightness that encased him and came, flooding the boy's back channel with seed that was only a little cooler than that which the boy had known before. When he had emptied himself, he withdrew gently. The boy's knees gave way, but Simion had hold of him, and helped him to sit rather than fall.

 

Simion used a cloth he had brought to wipe Draculea, then, as the prince rearranged his clothing, he sat on the grass beside Adamo, urging him over onto his belly. He parted the boy's pale buttocks and used the cloth to wipe away the bloody traces of Draculea's passion, not wanting the boy to be frightened later.

 

Draculea squatted beside Adamo, studying the boy's face. Adamo was smiling faintly, his eyes dreamy. He seemed drugged with pleasure, and Draculea's influence. Draculea caressed his cheek. "Simion, see that he gets back to the house and safely to bed. Leave the window open for me."

 

Simion nodded. He knew that his master could scale almost any wall as easily as a lizard. "You wish to wander a bit more, Domn?"

 

Draculea stood. "This one is too sweet to drain, Simion, so I will feed elsewhere. Those woods nearby should hold plenty of game." He ran his eyes over the pale length of the youth's body. "I want him to stay lively while I am here."

 

Simion watched as Draculea left the open space, striding into the shadows between the hedges without hesitation. He had no doubt that his master would unerringly find his way to the outside. He got Adamo's clothes and touched the boy's shoulder. "Up and dress, Adamo. You have done very well tonight." Again he looked toward where Draculea had disappeared. "You have given sustenance in many different ways."

 

---

Chapter 46: Meeting

 

Notes: rout--a fashionable assembly, or large evening party, musicale--a program of music performed at a party or social gathering, dross--Waste matter; any worthless matter separated from the better part; leavings; dregs; refuse, forint--the basic unit of Hungarian currency.

 

 

The Year of Our Lord, 1698

Budapest, Hungary

Meeting

 

"Not tonight, Roland, please."

 

"What have I told you to call me?"

 

The dark haired young man sighed. "I'm sorry--Rock. But you told me that I would have tonight to myself."

 

"It's Saturday." Rock examined his black velvet jacket critically. He thought that he saw a bit of wear in the nap at one elbow. He needed to replace it, and he certainly wouldn't get the money for that by letting his little brother lie about on his ass.

 

"But you said that when I turned twenty I could choose one other night a week besides Sunday to rest. You said that by then we'd have enough money saved to invest in a tavern. How much do we have?"

 

Rock thought of the small handful of silver he had in his purse. He'd always meant to put away part of Rill's earnings, really he had, but there was rent, and food, and clothes... He had to dress nicely if he was going to approach the wealthy gentlemen to offer his brother's services. Then he had to buy drinks occasionally in the taverns and bawdy houses, or the other pimps would lose respect.

 

It was hard enough as it was, promoting Rill properly. There had been others who'd thought they could take the boy into their own stable, and he'd had to correct those notions, and that brought on another expense. Besides the usual payoffs to the local authorities he'd had to add a little to help them look the other way when he'd protected his property. That ate up profits.

 

"Not enough, not nearly enough, laddie." He leaned down and ruffled Rill's dark curls. Rill was a bit slow, and it usually didn't take much to coax him into doing whatever Rock told him was best. "Come on, now, don't sulk. You know that you don't have much of your prime working years left. It won't be long before the fancy gentlemen aren't interested and the fees drop. Once that happens you have to make up the amount in volume, and that wears a person down so quickly. I want you to go out on top, Rill, while you're still taking on nothing but the elite. I don't want you to end up on your knees in an alley, sucking off the carters and porters when they get their pay. No, by then we'll own the tavern in front of the alley, and if the whores want to use it, they'll pay us."

 

Rill's full mouth still drooped. "Maybe if you worked, too..."

 

Rock's face hardened, and his voice grew cold and dangerous. "You saying that I don't work?"

 

Rill realized he'd made a mistake. He should know by now not to suggest that Rock should be doing any of the actual fucking, or, God forbid, manual labor. "No, Rock, I didn't mean..."

 

"You think what I do for you is easy, laddie-buck? I suppose you think all I do is loll about in the houses and taverns, swilling drink and talking big?"

 

That's exactly what you do. "No, but..."

 

"If it wasn't for me, where would you be? I'll tell you..." Rill bit back a sigh, knowing that he had to be careful. When Rock reached this stage there was always the chance that his temper would slip. He was careful not to hit Rill in the face, because he knew it could cut back on their profits, but he wasn't shy about putting a few marks on his ass or back. Some of the customers liked that.

 

"If it wasn't for me coming back for you, you'd be either starved or worked or beaten to death on the farm. That was if our prick of a sire hadn't sold you into 'prenticeship, where you'd have had the same. If I didn't work hard to find you the right sort of customers, you'd be letting anyone with a few coppers ride your ass, and all of that would go for bad food and a worse room." He waved around their quarters. "Look at this! Finer than any in our family has ever had. No fleas, no rats, not even a mouse. And clean. I don't make you clean it, do I?"

 

"No, Rock."

 

"No. I have that slut across the way keep it nice for you. I put food in your belly and clothes on your back."

 

All with money that I earn on my back, or knees. Oh, God, he's getting wound up. If he moves on to how he protects me...

 

"And do I let them mistreat you? No, I don't. There was that one who would have paid gold, gold, if I'd let him take a crop to you, but I refused. If it wasn't for me another pimp would have snapped you up the second you came to the city. You'd have been locked away somewhere and they would have sent the men in, one after another, till they broke you. I've seen it done, lad, and most never really recover, sad little sluts. And I don't make you service a dozen or more each night, I only..."

 

There was only one way to stop him. Rill lifted himself and, hooking his arm behind his brother's neck, brought himself close to Rock's flushed, angry face and murmured, "Yes, brother, yes. I'm sorry. I'm ungrateful."

 

Rock gripped his chin, hard. Rill didn't wince, and he didn't struggle. He gazed up into Rock's hot blue eyes, making his own dark ones as liquid and pleading as he could. It was a whore's trick--one Rock himself had taught him, and it worked. He closed his eyes as Rock kissed him, making his lips soft and trembling, parting them quickly at the first touch of his brother's tongue. Rock had been so irritated with him the first time he'd kissed him like this, and Rill had spit afterwards. He'd shaken the thirteen year old boy till his teeth chattered, hissing that he had to 'learn, dammit! Learn your craft.'

 

After a few moments of soft licks and sucks, Rock's hand gentled till he was caressing Rill's face. When he pulled away he said gruffly, "It's all for you, you know. I could have taken any of them, but I only wanted you."

 

"I know." They'd left behind two smaller brothers and three sisters, all bearing the marks of their father's drunken rage, and the eldest girl already big with their father's child. Yes, whatever Rock had led him to, it was better than what he had had at home.

 

"I tell you what." Rock stroked his cheek. "Why don't you put on your best, and you can come along and have a drink or two while I find someone suitable?"

 

"Really?" Rill brightened. He didn't get out much. Rock was afraid that he would tan or freckle if he was outside too long. Then there was always the chance that some jealous whore or pimp would catch him alone and slash his face, or worse. Usually Rill just waited in their rooms for Rock to bring back a customer, or else he accompanied his brother to an assignation.

 

"You'll have to be sure to watch yourself with the drink, mind. Just one or two. The one I find may want you to perform."

 

"I know, Rock," he said meekly.

 

"And don't be getting too cozy with anyone or they may expect you to give away what we can get good coin for."

 

Rill started to sigh, but stopped himself. Rock wouldn't like it. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to do it with someone just because I wanted to.

 

Rock slipped into his jacket, and handed Rill a silk stock. "Give me one of those fancy knots, Rill. You do them so pretty." He caressed Rill's hands as his brother looped the fabric around his neck and began to form an intricate knot. "You're so good with your hands. I'll go to Theresa's place tonight."

 

Rill frowned as he teased a loop through a space. "But you have to pay her to troll there."

 

"I know, but the pickings are richer. One good customer will make up for what I pay her, and we'll profit handsomely." He used his fingers to comb Rill's dark curls down fetchingly across his forehead. "And I'll promise you this--since you're being good and giving up your free time, no fat old puffers for you tonight. I'll find you a handsome man, eh, little brother?"

 

It was called the House of Earthly Comforts. This amused Vlad. Any other bawdy house would have called itself the House of Delights or the House of Pleasures. And to be honest, comfort did seem to be what this establishment strove to provide. While the appointments were lavish, they did not sacrifice comfort to opulence. The furniture was upholstered in sleek satin or soft velvet instead of the stiff and sometimes prickly brocaide that was fashionable. The seats were neither too low, nor too high and stiff backed. There were divans at convenient heights, spread with just enough cushions to allow proper reclining, not enough to overwhelm the occupants.

 

The decor was neither dazzling, nor richly gloomy. The lighting was enough to allow the customers to view the charms of the staff honestly, but soft enough to give an atmosphere of relaxation. There was music, but it was soft and discreet. Drink was offered, but not urged. The resident ladies were not naked, but their charms could be quickly and easily displayed.

 

Draculea had attended this particular house for the last two nights. He could easily have accepted any number of invitations to join parties in the homes of Budapest's nobility--there was always a rout or a musicale, and the hostesses vied in their attempts to attract the mysterious, handsome Wallachian prince. He had attended a few events when he first arrived in order to prevent gossip about his reclusive nature. Unfortunately, they viewed this as exclusivity, and he was even more hotly pursued. He found that he preferred the taverns and bawdy houses of the city. Their denizens were much more open about their envy, their avarice, and their currying of favor.

 

Vlad had settled in the corner of a small parlor. It was not one of the main rooms, but it still saw enough traffic to keep him amused. He had chosen a chair because the girls here were well trained enough to not sit on one's lap unless they were invited. He made sure, though, that a small divan was close by, so that he might have occasional companions to pass the time.

 

He had spent the evening so far watching the nobles and rich merchants who patronized this establishment as they sported with the wenches. There were several other sofas in the room, and at least one was always occupied by some couple or threesome in the early stages of their revels.

 

At present the center sofa was occupied by two gentlemen and a slender young woman who looked scarcely old enough to have grown her woman's hair. This house did not provide children--Vlad would not have stayed in that case. In fact, he had more than once gone back to visit a man or woman who was pimping children. It did little good. When he wiped out one, the little ones were only taken over by someone else.

 

A young man, not yet thirty, paused in the doorway, scanning the room. His eyes flicked off the trio on the sofa, then came to rest on Draculea. Draculea returned the gaze calmly. Strangers seldom made eye contact in such places. It usually meant one of two things--they wanted to offer their services, or extol the services of another. Vlad waited to see which this would be.

 

This establishment, unlike some others, offered only women, but they allowed pimps and their male whores in to solicit--for a fee. They weren't too worried about losing business, as most men preferred to settle for what was readily available, rather than risk finding something less pleasing elsewhere. This one wasn't Vlad's preference, but he was comely enough. He was in his late twenties, fair-skinned, with light blue eyes and reddish-blonde hair.

 

The man advanced into the room, coming to Vlad's corner. He paused before Vlad's chair, eyes on the floor, and gave a small bow, tilting his head questioningly toward the vacant sofa at Draculea's elbow.

 

Draculea waved at the sofa. "Please, young man, sit."

 

"I thank you, sir." He settled himself on the sofa with a sigh. "'Tis busy here tonight. I feared I wouldn't find a place to light, and Madame Theresa is not generous with returning fees."

 

Draculea considered a moment, then offered his hand. The young man was clearly of a lower class, but Vlad felt no need for formality in this place. "I am Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea." Vlad watched the young man's expression. He no doubt thought that he schooled his expression to blandness, but he couldn't hide the sudden greed that flickered in his eyes.

 

Rock could feel his eyes widen. A prince, and a handsome one. Wouldn't Rill like that? "I am honored, Highness. I am Rock." His hand is cold. Well, he is of royal blood, and I hear that sometimes it runs thin. He ran his eyes over the prince. Though it is only the chill that hints at thin blood in this one.

 

"Rock?" The firm mouth curved slightly. "A hard name. Was it given, or did you choose it?" He cocked his head. "Possibly it was earned?"

 

"Some of us must be hard in this life, Highness, especially if we must care for others who are weaker. Can you understand that?"

 

Draculea thought of Nicolae. He remembered the feel of Ernestu's throat in his hands, and the gritting sound of a nail punching through felt and bone, and said slowly. "Yes, sometimes it is necessary. You have someone to care for?"

 

"I do. My younger brother, called Rill. We earn our living together."

 

Draculea stroked his chin, studying Rock. So, not a whore, but a pimp, and of his own blood. Low, but how low we have yet to see. "How old is this brother?"

 

"I will not lie, Highness--he is no child. He has seen twenty years, but he seems much younger."

 

Twenty. I'll let you live, then. "What is he like? Golden hair, I suppose."

 

"No, sire." He tossed a derisive glance at the young woman who writhed between the two men on the couch. "He could have, like that one--gold on top and dross beneath. No, he has dark hair, but it is as sleek and curled as any infant's. And his eyes are brown, but as soft and wide as any doe's."

 

Draculea felt a twinge of interest. "Doe's eyes? Tell me, do they slant, at all?"

 

Rock was no fool. He nodded quickly. "Just the slightest bit, sire." He sighed pointedly. "It has lost some business, I'm afraid. Some of the gentlemen think he has Cantonese blood. How they can be so foolish when his skin is so smooth and fair..." He shook his head.

 

"You sing his physical praises well, Rock. What of his nature?"

 

"Biddable," said Rock promptly. "Rill is a good boy, sire. He does as he's told, with a gentle, gracious will. He's still fresh, but he's accomplished."

 

Vlad tapped his fingers on the chair arm, studying Rock. Attractive he might be, but Vlad didn't like him. He knew that there might not be many jobs available that paid as well as this, but there was work to be had. Rock was young and healthy--he wouldn't starve if he bothered to exert himself. Instead it seemed he was content to live off of what he could get from peddling his brother's flesh. "He has experience, then?"

 

"Enough, sire, enough." His expression tightened marginally. "But I must warn you, sire--I am careful of who my brother goes with. He is not to be beaten, or abused in any way."

 

"That is not how I take my pleasure, but I cannot promise to be an easy patron. I want what I want, and I confess to being a bit impatient if my partner is too obstinate." He watched Rock, waiting to see if he would withdraw the offer of his brother's service. "And you've touched my hand, you've felt my condition. It might prove uncomfortable, if not distasteful for him."

 

"You are a good looking man, sire. You are strong, and of a good age. Rill would be pleased," he said firmly.

 

Vlad was silent for a moment more. "The price?"

 

"It depends, sire. His time is valuable. I could bring him a dozen gentlemen a night, but I care for him too much to do so. I limit his clients to three a night, or..." he regarded Draculea from under his lashes, "if one gentleman is willing, he can purchase the entire night. There are added costs then. Besides the extra time, I must take lodgings for myself, and there is the fee I pay Madame Theresa to be recouped."

 

"How much?"

 

"One hundred forints for the night." Draculea raised his eyebrows. A small family could live with relative comfort on ten florints a week. "He's worth it, sire. You wouldn't regret the expense. We have a nice room nearby--clean and free of vermin," He smiled lewdly, "with a very nice bed. Soft sheets."

 

"What if I wanted the boy to come to my residence?"

 

Rock shook his head quickly. "No, sire, I could not allow it. It is not that I doubt you personally, but in general... in general it would simply be too dangerous. But I realise that this is a substantial sum, even for one as high as yourself. You need not decide blindly, sire. Rill is in the tavern next door. It would take only a moment to meet him, and decide."

 

Vlad decided. He felt the need for both food, and companionship, and either this one or his brother could provide those. He stood up. "I'll meet him."

 

Rock jumped up, beaming. "You will be pleased, your Highness."

 

The girl on the sofa snorted. "You and your kind take the bread from poor working girls, Rock."

 

His reply was cold, "Be satisfied with your bread, slut. My brother and I take meat and cake. We earn it."

 

Rill took a swallow of mulled cider. It cost a bit more than the ale, but he liked it so much better--it was sweet and spicy. He watched the other customers with near fascination. He was so often alone that any crowd interested him. He had only a few more coins, and they would disappear quickly if Rock took very long, but he could nurse a drink a long time.

 

He sat beside the fire, but it was weak and smoky, and he could barely see across the room, but he knew when the door opened. He knew because there was always an immediate and raucous demand that it be shut again. This time, though, the clamor died away quickly. Rill could barely make out the height of the man who had entered, and understood why the rabble had stilled so quickly. He squinted a bit, trying to see more of the newcomer. He liked big men--if they were gentle.

 

He saw the glint of Rock's hair as he made his way between the tables toward him. His brother was smiling, and Rill knew that he had found a rich customer. He prepared himself to be pleasant, and hoped against hope that this one wouldn't be too bad. If he wasn't too bad, then Rill could begin to hope that he'd want to spend the entire night.

 

"Brother, I have someone I want you to meet." Rock stepped aside, and the tall man who had just entered moved closer. Rill looked up slowly. Yes, this one would be wealthy--his clothing might be sober, but it was rich. There was something in the casual grace with which he moved, and the ease with which he stood that indicated rank as clearly as his attire hinted at money. Big man, big hands. Oh, if only you are fair, and kind. He dared to raise his eyes to his face.

 

Draculea had felt a strange stillness come over him when he glimpsed the figure sitting beside the fire. The long limbed, graceful body struck a chord of familiarity, and the faint flicker of the fire made his hair gleam like a raven's wing. If his heart could still beat, it would have been thudding in his chest. He said quietly, "Nicu?"

 

The boy looked up at him, and the illusion vanished, leaving Vlad feeling even more empty. No, the shape of the face was wrong, and the eyes did not tilt, no matter what Rock had said. But mostly it was the expression in those dark eyes that told him that this body did not hold the soul of his beloved. Their expression was weary, and too old for the smooth face. And there was a certain sad, knowing look that Nicolae had never shown. For all the passion they had shared, something inside him had remained innocent, and this boy had lost that long ago.

 

Rill glanced at Rock, but he had learned long ago how to please his gentlemen. He said quietly, "My name is Nicu if it pleases you, sire."

 

Draculea shook his head and said roughly, "No, boy, it would not please me. Your own name is good enough. Will you go with me?"

 

Again Rill looked to his brother, and Rock nodded. Their price would be met. "Yes, sire." Draculea reached out and touched Rill's face, stroking his cheek with the back of his hand. Rill repressed a shiver. Cold. He's so cold.

 

"Do you want to go with me?" When Rill started to look at Rock again Vlad said sharply, "No, boy. Do not look to your brother. Look at me, and answer me truly."

 

Rill could feel Rock beside him, willing him to give the proper answer, but this time he was determined to speak what he really felt. "Will you... will you be kind, sire?"

 

Draculea almost flinched. Rill's expression might have been old, but his voice was that of a plaintive child. His body has grown, but I think his mind has not followed. I think he may be a little slow. His opinion of Rock fell even farther. "Yes, boy. I will be kind, if you will be good."

 

He smiled shyly. "I can be good, sire." He tentatively touched Draculea's sleeve. "You are a very handsome man, sire. It will be a pleasure to serve you."

 

Draculea looked at a very smug Rock. "The bargain is struck. Where will we go?"

 

"It is nearby, sire," Rock assured him. "Let us go, and you can make payment at our room." He cast a disdainful look around the tavern. "You must not bring out your money here. There are too many scoundrels here."

 

Draculea, slipping an arm around Rill, looked at Rock coldly. "Yes, far too many scoundrels."

 

 

---

Chapter 47: Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought

 

Notes: The hose spoken of here are more like silk socks, going up over the knee. This was pre-elastic, so they were held in place by garters. I haven't seen any men's garters, but I expect they weren't as frilly as women's. There was also a belief that being physically close to someone young and healthy would impart strength and health.

 

 

Child of the Night, Part 47

The Year of Our Lord, 1698

Budapest, Hungary

Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought

 

The three men moved through the dark streets, one before and two following. Rock carried a lamp to show the way, and Rill walked with his customer. He would have preferred to move up closer to Rock, and the light, but he knew that his brother would drive him back to his renter with harsh words and slaps. Rill hugged himself as they walked. He didn't like the dark--hadn't liked it since he was tiny and had learned why his sisters whimpered when their father went to them at night.

 

One of the advantages of Draculea's state was the ability to see clearly when others would be blinded by shadows. He studied his companion as they walked. No, he wasn't Nicolae, but he was handsome, quiet, and sweet. He would hold the worst of the loneliness at bay for a little while, and he would satisfy Draculea's physical hunger, at least. Draculea knew when someone was afraid, and that was not what he sensed from Rill now. It was more like nervousness.

 

This isn't really his choice, even if he thinks it is. He'll never be able to choose for himself with his bastard brother holding onto him. I'm tempted to rip the pimp's throat out before dawn, but if I do, what will happen to this one? If he survives at all he'll fall to another jackal. I'll have to think about this.

 

Rill looked at the prince and said softly, "My lord, you look so stern. What have I done?"

 

Draculea slipped an arm around Rill, pulling him close as they walked. "Nothing, child. You have done nothing. I have many sad memories, Rill. Sometimes I brood." When the young man pressed closer, even as he shivered with the chill of Draculea's body, Vlad wrapped his cloak about him. "I lost the one I loved long ago, and I await his return."

 

"That is sad."

 

Rock stopped before one of the tall, narrow houses. While he knocked at the door, Draculea looked around. The stench of sewage was very faint, not like it was in the worst sections, and the streets were almost free of litter and garbage. This was quite a good neighborhood--for the bad section of town. Still, if Rill's usual earnings were anything like what Rock was asking for tonight, they should be able to afford better.

 

"We have the ground floor front," Rock said proudly. When there was no immediate response to his rapping he scowled, banging harder, and called. "Clothilde! Dammit, if you want your rent you'd best let us in!" He looked back at Draculea appologetically. "The wench who owns this house demands blood money, then expects to lie back and do nothing to make it worthwhile."

 

There was the scrape of footsteps inside, and the grating of a key in the lock. The door opened to reveal a fat, slatternly woman, wrapped in a stained robe. "You're back early, Rock. She peered past him, studying with gimlet eyes the tall man beside Rill. "Well, you've netted a big one tonight. For your sake, I hope his purse is as big."

 

"Shut your filthy hole, woman," Rock snapped, ushering the two other men into the hall. "And don't leave that candle out in the hall again. We don't pay for the chance to be burned alive." They entered the room, and Rock bustled about, stirring the coals on the hearth to life, then feeding them with wood till a good fire blazed. He lit another lamp on the table, then rubbed his hands together. "You'll be comfortable here, sire. The room will warm quickly, the bed is comfortable, and there is plenty of water. I have placed the jug on the hearth, so that it will be warm when you require it. For another florint I can provide a nice bottle of wine."

 

At the prices you charge you should hand over the keys to a first rate cellar. "I've had plenty tonight, but I'll go the price," he rubbed Rill's arm, "for my new friend." Rock smiled as he took a bottle and some glasses from a cabinet, but he gave Rill a sharp look. Draculea knew that unless he urged the boy, he would decline the drink in order to save Rock the expense.

 

"Now, as much as I hate to appear mercenary..." Rock let his voice trail off.

 

Draculea removed his cloak, and Rill took it without being asked, hanging it neatly on a hook by the door. Vlad took his purse from his belt and opened it, reaching in to stir the coins. He was watching Rock from the corner of his eyes, and the blonde man's ears almost seemed to prick at the clink of precious metals. He chose a gold coin and held it out to Rock.

 

The pimp eyed it greedily, then said, "Sire, if I may, I would prefer silver. This poor area, you know. It is difficult to find someone who has change for such a large sum."

 

"You'll take this. I do not carry silver. And here is the extra for the wine."

 

Rock took the gold coin, and the copper one. "Sire, this is a five florint piece, and I am afraid that I have no change." He looked at Rill. "Surely you didn't spend all the money I gave you for your drink?"

 

Rill started to hunt through his pockets. Disgusted with the older brother's miserliness, Draculea said, "Leave it." His voice grew colder. "And leave us."

 

Rock's smile didn't falter, but his eyes were hard. "Of course. I know you are anxious to become closer to Rill." He went to his brother and gripped his chin, none too gently. "Be a good boy for the prince, brother."

 

"Yes, Rock."

 

Rock leaned down, his lips against Rill's ear, and whispered. Draculea, on the other side of the room, nevertheless heard him clearly. "This one smells like he might be a return customer. If you play your cards right, perhaps he'll even want to keep you. Wouldn't that be nice? Only one man to please." He held the back of Rill's head and kissed him, deeply and roughly. "Don't spoil it, Rill," he commanded. He bowed to Draculea and left.

 

Rill locked the door. Still facing it he said, "Will you take wine, sire?" He was startled when a cool hand settled on his shoulder. He had thought that the prince was on the other side of the room, and he hadn't heard him move. He was turned, and found himself looking up at the man. He closed his eyes, waiting resignedly.

 

He's waiting to be ravished, Draculea thought. He felt anger at Rill's brother, and all the others who had drained this childlike man to the point where he expected nothing but use. He took his hand off the boy. "Go sit, Rill." When Rill opened his eyes, his expression confused, Draculea said quietly, "We have all night."

 

Rill sat on the edge of the bed and watched as the prince went to the table and returned with the wine and a glass. Draculea poured a glass and set the bottle on the small stand near the bed, then offered the wine to Rill. Rill watched him carefully, trying to understand what he wanted. A few of his customers enjoyed making him drunk before they took him, relishing his even greater helplessness, but most of them demanded that he be fully aware, so that he could better cater to their wishes.

 

"You needn't drink if you do not want to, but I thought it might help relax you," Draculea explained.

 

Rill blinked. A client, concerned for him? Though he hadn't wanted the wine before, he now took it and drained the glass gratefully. He even accepted a second glass when the prince offered it. thinking, It is almost as if he is trying to seduce me, as if he was not already assured of my body, but had to coax me. The thought of being courted warmed Rill more than the wine.

 

He declined a third glass. There had been times when he would have welcomed the dullness and distance that drink brought, but now he did not want his senses impaired. He put aside the glass and murmured. "Let me make you more comfortable, my lord." He stood, then sank, slowly and gracefully, to his knees before Draculea, holding out his hands. Draculea lifted his booted foot into Rill's hands and watched as the boy removed first one, then the other. After that Rill undid his garters, then peeled down his hose.

 

Finally Rill was holding his bare foot. He made a soft sound of concern. "You are like ice, my lord!" He rubbed the foot briskly, trying to stir the blood. Draculea allowed it, though he knew it would do no good. When he had spent long hours reviewing his troops or inspecting his lands, Nicolae had done this for him--kneeling to gently massage the ache from his feet. He watched, his eyes fixed on the sleek, dark head as it bent over him, his heart full of longing.

 

Rill frowned as he looked up at him. "It isn't enough. Perhaps..." He sat back on his heels and opened his shirt. It closed with a series of lacings, and he untied them all, baring himself. Draculea drew in a breath. The young man's torso was pale and smooth--not muscular, but not effeminately soft. He lifted Draculea's feet again and rested them against the flat plain of his belly, hissing with the chill.

 

Draculea watched as his pale brown nipples drew tight with the chill that seemed to seep into his body. At last he said, "You mean well, but that will do no good, child. Come sit beside me." Rill obeyed, sitting close to Draculea. The prince eased Rill's shirt down his arms, removing it. The boy reached to begin unbuttoning Draculea's shirt. He fingered the top button admiringly. Most poor folks had only lacings, or perhaps hooks and loops--buttons were still reserved mostly for the well-to-do. Draculea's were of polished onyx, and the black stone glittered, despite all logic. Draculea pulled the boy's hand away, kissing his fingers. "Not yet, lad. I will be warmer soon, and it will be better for you. Wait a little while."

 

Rill nodded. He did not understand, but then, there was so much in the world that he didn't understand. When Draculea gripped his shoulders and pushed him back on the bed he went with no resistance. But instead of falling upon him, Draculea leaned close and began to speak to him in a soft, soothing voice.

 

"Rill, I know your life has been hard. Everyone wants something from you, yes?" The boy nodded. Draculea sighed. "I wish I could say that I'm different, boy, but I can't."

 

"It's all right," Rill said in a small voice. "Rock says that we all have our places in the world, and this is mine, and I must do my best." He flinched at the sudden hardness in Draculea's eyes, but the prince shook his head.

 

"I'm not mad at you, Rill. Not you." He began to stroke Rill's brow, slowly and rhythmically. "You're a good boy, and I'm going to be good to you. I can make you feel wonderful things, Rill." They boy's pupils were expanding, his gaze becoming vague. Draculea was not surprised--he had learned long ago that simple minds were more easily dominated. "I can fill your blood with heat, but first you must do the same for me."

 

"Yes, lord." Rill's voice was faint and distant. He laid his hand on Draculea's chest and let it slide down to begin working at the lacing of his breeches.

 

Again Draculea removed his hand. "Not yet. Just turn your head, boy, and close your eyes."

 

Rill obeyed. He felt the cool touch of the prince's mouth against the skin of his neck. There was something wrong, but Rill couldn't quite think of what it was. Perhaps if he had not taken the wine he would have known, but it was by no means certain. It was entirely possible that Rill still wouldn't have realized that he did not feel Draculea's breath.

 

Rill felt the edge of the prince's teeth. He tried to brace himself without tensing up, and hoped that the man would not be vicious. He knew what biting was like. There had been another client who enjoyed biting. When Rock had seen the half-moon bruises and raw scrapes the man had left all over his body he had refused to accept the man again as a customer unless he was present in the room. When the man had again bitten Rill, Rock had stopped the session and thrown him out, keeping the fee.

 

Rill had hated being with the biter, but this was somehow different. There was a sharp pain, but it faded quickly, replaced by a sense of warmth and pleasure that spread through his body. The prince sucked strongly, and Rill found himself reaching up to hold him by the shoulders, arching his head back to allow the prince greater access.

 

Draculea made a pleased noise against the small wound he had made in Rill's neck. He had intended to take only a few mouthfuls, but the boy's sweet surrender seduced him into taking more. He drank slowly, letting the salty-sweetness flow into his mouth and down his throat, warming him and igniting a sensual fire.

 

Rill felt himself drifting. This was different from the times he had taken too much wine. It was dreamlike, but he did not feel cut off from his body as he had those other times. He felt more alive and aware than he ever had. The prince stopped sucking and began to lick the aching spot. "Please," whispered Rill, reaching up to slide his hands through the prince's dark hair.

 

Draculea kissed his throat, his lips now warm, and said, "No, sweet boy, no more of that tonight. But there are other delights we can share."

 

Rill murmured in pleasure as Draculea stripped him, then himself, and moved to cover the young man's body with his own. Rill parted his legs wide, inviting Draculea to lie in the space, and Vlad settled against him. Both men were aroused, their members hard, and Draculea began to thrust against Rill, rubbing their lust-swollen flesh together. It wasn't long before Rill was humping up against him, his feet hooking over the back of Draculea's legs. Draculea felt the hot gush of the boy's seed against his belly, and suddenly Rill was trembling, his breath hitching. Vlad looked into his face and was surprised to see dismay. "Boy?"

 

"I am sorry, my lord! I tried to hold back, truly, but I couldn't. Please don't be angry."

 

"Angry? I don't understand, Rill."

 

"I know I should have waited for your word, lord. I can do better, I promise."

 

"You thought you were supposed to wait for my permission to find release?"

 

Rill nodded. "Rock says that I must wait. That some of the gentlemen do not want me to, or that they do not want me to unless they are inside me, so that it will increase their pleasure. Rock made me practice with him so many times, and I usually can, but tonight..."

 

Draculea kissed him, stilling his babble. When he lifted his head he said, "Hush, child. I begin to truly dislike your brother."

 

"But Rock..."

 

"I said hush." Rill closed his mouth. He was used to obeying orders. "I am pleased that I made you spill your seed, Rill. It is one of the most flattering things in the world--to know that you can cause someone to lose control." He reached between them and slid his fingers in the slippery semen, then licked them clean. Rill watched, round-eyed. "We have hours, and you are very delicious--all of you."

 

Draculea proved his sincerity by beginning a leisurely tour of Rill's body. His mouth traced a long, gentle trail. He dipped his tongue into the hollow of his throat, again feeling his pulse as a soft throb. He moved down, lavishing attention on each pouting nipple. He licked and sucked, nibbling till they were flushed and pebble-hard. Rill's breath was coming faster and deeper as he stroked his lover's back and head. Draculea stroked Rill's sides, feeling each rib as a delicate ridge under a thin padding of skin and muscle. He's too thin. Does the bastard starve him to keep him slender?

 

This hint of fragility made Draculea feel protective, and his touch became tender. He slid his hand down Rill's heaving belly, combing through the surprisingly silky nest of pubic curls to fasten around the boy's cock. Draculea looked up at him, smiling. "There, you see? Almost ready for another frolic." He stroked the half-hard flesh slowly, and Rill made a tiny sound that was half chuckle, half moan. Draculea reached up to stroke his cheek, and Rill turned his head to press his face into the caress. "I want to be inside you. Would you like that?"

 

"Yes," Rill breathed, and though he had answered that question many times in the past, this time it was the truth. "How will you take me, my lord? Like this, or shall I get on my knees?"

 

"Just turn on your belly, boy."

 

Rill rolled onto his stomach, pulling a pillow under his chin. "There is oil on the bedside stand, my lord." He paused. "If you want it."

 

Draculea stroked the length of Rill's back, tracing each bump of his spine. He kept his voice casual as he asked, "Do they often take you without preparation?"

 

Rill shrugged, and his voice was flat. "I am tighter that way."

 

And you are in pain that way. Draculea found the small bottle on the table and coated his fingers with oil. When he was done he looked back to find that Rill had already parted his legs, spreading them wide. Draculea took a moment to massage the boy's buttocks, relishing the smooth firmness. But he could feel the tenseness in Rill's body, and saw the boy's hands working at the pillow. "I see that I must relax you, Rill." He stroked the length of his crack, smoothing the oil into the tender skin. "You're so beautiful, little one," he whispered. "It was a generous fate that brought me to you." He rubbed firmly over the tiny pucker, feeling the taut muscle begin to soften.

 

Rill squirmed, rubbing his face against the pillow in a confusion of pleased embarrassment. He had been told often, in the crudest terms possible, that he was desirable, but those men had really been commenting to themselves, not complimenting him. Rill knew that Draculea was speaking to him, and that he meant what he said. He sighed happily as the first finger slid into him and began to slide back and forth. The prince had relaxed him so well that there was no initial pain, nor even discomfort.

 

He felt Draculea rubbing the small of his back. "Does that feel good?"

 

"Oh, yes, my lord. More, please?"

 

Draculea laughed quietly. "I knew another one who could be greedy for this." He carefully pressed a second finger in beside the first and began to stretch the tight hole.

 

"Was it your sweetheart?"

 

His hand did not stop moving, but Draculea closed his eyes briefly in pain. "Yes, it was my Nicu."

 

A more sophisticated man would have left it at that, but Rill was still a child in many ways. "What happened, my lord? I cannot believe he would want to leave you, you are so kind. Was he taken away?"

 

Draculea shuddered, and his voice was not quite steady. "He was lied to, and frightened, and he ran away. He will come back to me, I know, but it has been so long..." He stopped. Rill was looking back over his shoulder, his eyes soft and sad with commiseration. Draculea managed to smile. "I do not wish to speak of this any more, Rill. Do you understand?"

 

The boy nodded and turned away again, but he said, "But I will pray for him, my lord, and for you. He will come back."

 

"Nicu would like you, Rill. Are you ready for me, sweet?"

 

"Yes, my lord."

 

Draculea knelt between Rill's thighs. He spread the boy's buttocks and fitted the swollen head of his cock against the loosened opening, then pressed forward. Rill murmured, "Slowly, please, my lord. Please?"

 

"Yes." Draculea entered him gradually, an inch at a time. The urge was there to just slam into the tight hotness, but he held back for the boy's sake, and was rewarded with a mewl of delight as his cockhead rubbed firmly over Rill's pleasure spot. Draculea braced himself over Rill, holding most of his weight off the boy, and began the long, slow joining. He was patient, and before long Rill was lifting his ass eagerly to meet his lover's strokes. The boy thrust back, then forward--first impaling himself more deeply on the hot, thick staff that filled him so deliciously, then rubbing his own hard, leaking member against the sheets. Usually his customers took their pleasure without a thought for him, and when Draculea reached beneath him to caress him, he almost wept with gratitude.

 

Draculea found his release, spilling himself deep in Rill's core. He rolled them both onto their sides, staying buried inside the boy, and continued stroking Rill till he shuddered and came, whimpering.

 

After experiencing two climaxes in such a short time Rill was limp and sleepy. He rubbed Draculea's hands where they were clasped over his belly. "Shall I clean you now, lord?"

 

Draculea kissed his shoulder. "Rest--I will do it."

 

Rill was puzzled, but accepting. Gentlemen had many foibles. There had been one or two who amused themselves by pretending that they were serving him, and if that was what the prince wished, he was happy to comply. Draculea blew out the lamp, leaving the room lit only by the dying flicker of the fire. He poured warm water into the basin and brought it to the bed, took a cloth, and gently, but thoroughly, swabbed Rill's ass, belly, and thighs. Then he cleaned himself. He examined the now stained rag, frowning, then squeezed it as dry as possible and threw it onto the coals. It hissed, and began to char.

 

Disdaining to dress, Draculea carried the water out into the hall and poured it into the slop bucket at the back. As he was going back to the room, the door across the hall opened, and Clothilde peeked out. When she was confronted with the nude man she did not shriek or slam her door--she took a good, long look. Draculea gave her an amused glance, then ignored her, going back into Rill's room. Clothilde shut her door, shaking her head and muttering about shameful wastes.

 

Rill was sleeping when Draculea returned. For a long moment he just stood and watched the boy. Rill was hugging one of the pillows as a child might cuddle a favorite toy. In sleep he did, indeed, look like a boy. Slumber smoothed away the worry and the confusion. He would have looked innocent if not for the deep bruise on his throat--a mark that could only have been made by passion.

 

Vlad climbed back into the bed, stretching out beside him. Still asleep, Rill shifted till he was in the curve of Draculea's arm, his head reasting against the older man's chest. Draculea stroked the tumbled dark curls back from Rill's forehead, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing. He closed his eyes, the better to savor the quiet, and something very unusual happened. For the first time since he had closed his eyes in death, he fell into a natural sleep.

 

The room was almost dark when he awoke. Rill didn't mind the dark so much when Rock was there. After all, Rock protected him. He hated it, though, when a gentleman spent the night and he awakened before dawn. No matter how warm the room or how close the customer held him, he still shivered. But not tonight. He remembered the gentleness and concern of this man. He remembered that he had not felt degraded, or used, but appreciated. Prince Draculea had made him feel like a lover rather than a whore. Rill wanted to do something to thank him.

 

He turned, moving down, feeling. His hand found the curve of a hip, and he used that to guide him. Rill bent, his other hand groping, and found the soft, warm column of flesh he was seeking. He began to nuzzle against it, kissing and mouthing Draculea lightly, occasionally putting out his tongue for a tiny lick. The older man shifted, sighing, but did not awaken. Rill smiled, thinking I can be a dream for him.

 

When he had the prince half-hard, he graduated to more thorough licking, paying particular attention to the head, reaching down to fondle the heavy sack hanging below. Finally he judged the prick to be fully erect, and he took the head in his mouth, suckling softly. The fluid that bathed his tongue tasted a little different--saltier than any other he'd encountered. But the flavor was intriguing, and Rill found himself flicking his tongue over the head in an effort to coax more from the tiny slit.

 

He bobbed his head, gradually taking in more of the thick staff. He had become quite accomplished at this, but it was infinitely easier without someone tugging at his hair or trying to force him down more quickly than was comfortable. Left to proceed at his own speed, Rill quickly managed to take all of Draculea's cock down his throat. He had only done this a few times when he felt his lover begin to stir. He smiled mentally, imagining how the prince would feel when he realized what was happening.

 

Draculea awoke to what felt like a fist enclosed in hot, wet satin massaging his near bursting prick. Not fully conscious, he thrust up into the clinging heat, moaning with pleasure. Then he realized that this was not a dream. He opened his eyes to see Rill crouched beside him, dark head bobbing over his groin. He hadn't experienced this since he first realized that his seed was mingled now with his blood. He knew what effect the blood that flowed from his veins had on Simion, and he hadn't been willing to risk what might happen if a mortal drank his seed. He said hoarsely, "Rill... Boy, you must not."

 

Rill didn't stop. He sucked even more strongly, and his grip tightened on Draculea's stones, rolling them gently, but firmly. Vlad couldn't help it--he closed his eyes and shoved himself even deeper, letting his sperm burst from him. Rill swallowed quickly, drinking his essence. When it was done he pulled off and smiled shyly at Draculea, his lips bathed crimson. Draculea watched as he licked the bloody smears away. Vlad silently held out his arms, and Rill crawled back up to nestle in them. "I wanted to make you happy," he said. "Did I surprise you?"

 

"Yes, Rill. Such a sweet surprise." He kissed the boy gently, and held him for awhile, then got up and began to dress.

 

Rill watched him, and said sadly, "You paid for the entire night. There is still at least an hour before dawn. Don't you want to stay with me?"

 

Draculea was picking up his cloak, but he went back to the bed and ruffled Rill's hair. "Yes, Rill. I very much want to stay with you, but I must go. I can't explain why." He opened his purse and placed a gold coin on the table. Pointing at it, he said, "I am purchasing your time for another night. I will be back after sunset. Tell your brother that he is to make no other appointments for you."

 

Rill's smile was brilliant. "You will come back tonight!"

 

Draculea smiled. "Yes, boy. Tonight, and perhaps the next. And perhaps..." he trailed off, smiling with a shrug. "who can say? Sleep well today." He bent and kissed Rill again, long and deep. "You will need your rest."

 

Rill watched him go with a mixture of sadness and joy. He was going. But he will be back. Rill settled back and, for the first time in a long while, fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

 

---

Chapter 48: Connecting

 

Child of the Night, Part 48

The Year of Our Lord, 1698

Budapest, Hungary

Connecting

 

The house Draculea had taken as his Hungarian residence was on the margin of the fashionable section of Budapest. It had belonged to an elderly count, a bit eccentric, who had allowed it to fall into disrepair. At his death, his son ignored it, prefering a house in a more desirable area. It had stood vacant for years. When the Wallachian prince's man contacted the heir about renting it and asked only that a few rooms be repaired and refurbished, he had been happy to strike an agreement.

 

Simion's room was near the front of the house, next to a small study, in case he had business to which to attend. Draculea had a larger room at the back of the house. It had been convenient that all the windows had been securely boarded up long ago. The owner had thought it odd that they specifically requested that none of the windows be cleared, but then the minor royal families of Europe were notorious for their little eccentricities, and this one was harmless.

 

Simion had not accompanied his master on his rounds the last few nights. They had business in Budapest, and he wanted to be fresh to deal with their agents. The trading he had instituted more than a century ago was flourishing, and he had begun investing his master's money in properties that would bring a steady income. The prince was as rich as he had ever been--the treasure stored deep in Castle Draculea had scarcely been touched over the years.

 

Tonight Simion was sleeping peacefully. He was not aware of Draculea's return until he felt the cool hand touch his shoulder and awoke to find Draculea sitting on his bed. He studied his master in silence for a moment. Draculea had been restless the last few weeks. Bored and impatient with the the upper crust of Budapest society, he had gone exploring in the darker levels. It had amused him--to a point. Simion knew, though, that they would have to move on again soon, because this place was becoming stale to Vlad. But tonight something was different.

 

The tension that had seemed to draw him as tight as a spring was gone. He's fed on human blood, but it's more than that. I think he may have found someone he actually likes. But the sadness is back. No, he corrected himself. it never goes away, but it had receded for a time. How is it that it has returned when otherwise he seems pleased? Simion propped himself on his elbow. "You met someone tonight."

 

Draculea smiled. "If I did not know that you loved me, I would fear you, Simion. You know me too well. I have met two. One, I think I will most likely kill before we leave Budapest."

 

"Thief? Seller of young flesh? Murderer?" Simion knew that Draculea might take what he needed from almost anyone, but he did not kill the innocent.

 

"He has done his best to kill a soul, to his own pleasure and profit."

 

"And the owner of that soul would be the second." Draculea told him about Rock and Rill. Simion's expression grew hard. "The world would not mourn his loss, but what of the other--Rill?"

 

Draculea sighed. "That is a problem. He cannot be left to his own devices--he would not survive long. Well, there will be time to consider. I am in no hurry to leave."

 

He stood up and began to pace the room. "I want you to go to their place today, Simion. I've left the address on the desk. I'm not sure I trust his brother to let him rest today. He strikes me as the greedy sort who wouldn't be able to resist an extra bit of cash if the chance came his way." He grimaced. "He'd be the sort to think I wouldn't notice." He walked toward the door. "Bring him some food, or take him to a tavern to eat. I think his brother rations his food, trying to keep him even more dependent and childlike." Draculea paused. "Spend some time with him, Simion. As much as he is with others, I think he is lonely."

 

Draculea went back to his room. Simion slept for another hour, then arose. He breakfasted and spoke to the gypsies. They usually lounged back in the kitchen, but with Simion away one would stay in the front office and one would wait outside the Prince's door. His sleeping place must be guarded at all times, for he was vulnerable while the sun rode the sky.

 

He went out and attended to a few errends. It was just before noon when he made his way to the address Draculea had left. Simion wrinkled his nose as he stepped around a bloating animal corpse on the cobbles. From the size he judged it to be a dog rather than a cat, but it was so swollen that it was hard to tell. Civilization. The prince might have been called a barbarian by many, but he never would have tolerated carrion lying about, drawing pestilence.* He remembered rows of stakes bearing bloody, fragrant burdens, and amended his thoughts. *Not animals, in any case.

 

He knocked on the door and glanced around. There weren't many people on the street, but he knew that there were many more peering from behind curtains. His dress was by no means rich, but it was fine for this neighborhood. He might be considered a target, if not for three things: his strong body, his hard expression, and the knife worn boldly on his belt.

 

The door was cracked open, and a blousy woman peered out at him. He said curtly, "I have business with your tenants, the brothers."

 

She eyed him. "Rock didn't say he was expecting anyone. He's choosy about who sees Rill, an' don't usually take customers off the street." Simion said nothing, just staring at her. "He ain't here now, anyway."

 

Simion frowned. "He's left the boy alone this long?"

 

"Oh, he came back a bit ago, but he went out again." She chuckled nastily. "Rill done him proud last night. His pockets are full and the coins is fair burning."

 

"In any case, he is not the one I want to see."

 

"Oh, I couldn't let you in to see Rill if Rock ain't here and didn't leave word. He'd mark me up, and if anything happened to Rill, it would be more than my life is worth."

 

Simion said softly. "The boy's time has been purchased. Move aside and let me pass."

 

Clothilde studied him and decided that Rock could go hang. This one looked as if it would not bother him at all to handle her roughly. She stepped aside. "As you please, but I warn you--you're likely to remain this side of his door. Rock has him well trained."

 

Once inside Simion stared at her till she went back into her room. He knocked, and waited. There was no response, but he heard furtive movements inside. He knocked again and called, "Rill?"

 

After a moment a soft, timid voice replied. "I am Rill. But you must go away, sir. My brother is not here."

 

"I did not come here to see him. Open the door, lad."

 

There was another pause, and the voice was now apologetic. "Sir, truly I cannot. He would be so angry."

 

"Rill, I was sent by Prince Draculea."

 

"The prince?" There was a lift to his voice, a hint of hope. "He sent you to me?"

 

He sounds like a child. "Yes. I am the prince's man, and he thought we should meet."

 

There was another hesitation, then he heard a key in the lock, and the door opened slowly. The young man who looked out at him was tall and pale. Yes, the master would like this one, with his dark eyes and hair. There is something a bit like Nicolae here, at least in the physical sense.

 

The boy gave him a small, shy smile. "Does the prince send me a message?"

 

"Only that you are to spend the day with me."

 

The smile faltered, then returned, but this time it was painful. "Of course, sir." Rill reached out and touched his face delicately. "Whatever you wish." Simion stood still in surprise as the hand moved down his throat to stroke across his chest. Rill cocked his head and lowered his lashes, then looked back up at Simion as his hand slid down toward his crotch. "You have only to express your desires."

 

Simion wanted to flinch. The practiced seductiveness was false, and totally at odds with the openess the boy had expressed before. Simion took hold of his hand, pulling it away. "You misunderstand."

 

There was a flash of confusion in Rill's expression. He bit his lip, obviously thinking, then his eyes grew bright with dismay. "Oh, sir, I am sorry! I did not mean to offend. Please understand, I thought..."

 

Simion patted the boy's hand before releasing it. "It is all right." You thought you were to be used again. It's all you've ever known, so why should you expect anything different now? "The prince thought you would appreciate a bit of companionship. Come, change your clothes and we will take our mid-day meal in a tavern."

 

"Change?"

 

Simion shrugged. "Well, your shirt is stained, and your breeches a bit ragged."

 

"Oh." He frowned. "Rock doesn't like me to wear my good clothes, except when I am presented to a gentleman. But if the prince wants it..." He opened the door wider. "Please come in." Simion cast a look about the room as Rill closed the door. The room was clean, but shabby. Rill took his arm, urging him into a chair. "Sit, sir. Take your ease. This will only take a moment."

 

Simion watched half amused, as the boy stripped and began to don a new set of clothes. He peeled off the clothes with a complete lack of self-consciousness, as if he were alone in the room. Yes, any hint of true modesty would have been crushed long ago. His brother would have no use for a modest whore.

 

Simion felt a stir as the long, slim body was revealed. He had no prejudice against patronizing whores, but he would not risk either bringing one back to the house or going to their rooms. These days he usually slaked his physical needs with the gypsies. It was... adequate.

 

The sight of the smooth curves of the boy's ass kindled a fire in Simion's belly. Then Rill looked back at him with a timid smile, and the heat melted into something gentler. He watched as Rill sat on the bed, struggling to tug his boots on. The tip of his tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. When he finally managed to squeeze into them his face was pinched with discomfort. Simion said, "Too tight?"

 

Rill nodded. "Rock says it took me forever to stop growing. If I do well this month, he may buy me a second pair of boots."

 

"He could outfit you handsomely with what Draculea gave him last night, and have money to spare."

 

Rill shrugged. "He is saving." He drew himself up proudly. "We will have a tavern, and I will not have to go with the gentlemen unless I want to."

 

As they left the room Simion said, "That would mean much to you, wouldn't it, boy?"

 

"Sir?"

 

"Not having to go with the gentlemen."

 

Rill shrugged, looking at his too tight boots as they walked. "Doesn't everyone wish to find an end to their labors, sir?"

 

Simion took the boy to a respectable tavern, one that was more than a swilling hole. It was clean and well ordered, and the clientele was no more than half-drunk at this time of the day. Simion enjoyed watching Rill enjoy himself. The boy was different away from his rooms. He showed a lively interest in all that went on around him, chattering to Simion about everything.

 

Simion thought that Draculea must be right about Rill being kept on short rations. The boy ate a meal worthy of a plowman, exclaiming over how delicious the food was. When dessert was offered he refused, saying that Rock told him he mustn't become fat. But the boy eyed the apple tart with such longing that Simion ordered a wedge. He took two bites, then coaxed Rill into finishing it 'so it won't go to waste'. He didn't have to wheedle very hard.

 

The boy was happily chasing crumbs around the plate with his finger when a sharp voice called, "Rill!"

 

Simion watched as the young man flinched, almost seeming to shrink before his eyes. He cast Simion an anxious look as an angry young man stalked across to them. His face was flushed, and his blue eyes snapped. He might have been considered handsome, but his expression was pinched and mean.

 

He spoke as he came, and each hard word seemed to beat Rill down even smaller. "What have I told you about leaving the room? Do you have any idea how I felt when I returned and you were not there? Then the slut told me you'd gone off with a stranger. I wouldn't have found you yet if Rufus hadn't seen you going in here and been so eager to tell me that you were flaunting my rules. What if I'd brought someone home, Rill? Would you humiliate me like that?"

 

"But Rock..."

 

"Quiet!" Rock glared at the man sitting with his brother. "His time isn't free, you know. Even if all you want to do is feed him, you pay. He could be earning instead of stuffing his face. And did you eat sweets?"

 

Rill quickly tried to push the empty plate away. "Just... just a few bites, Rock, I swear. You said I shouldn't waste food. I was only..."

 

Rock's face was darkening toward brick red. "No sweets! The gentlemen won't want you. If they want fat asses they'll just plow the sluts. What do I have to do to make you learn?"

 

He raised his hand, palm flat, and Rill ducked his head. Before the blow could land Rock found his wrist caught in an iron grip. His other hand doubled into a fist, but then he took a better look at Rill's dining companion.

 

The stocky, fair haired man had half-risen. His rough-hewn face held an expression of cold rage, and the look in his eyes was flat and dangerous, but his voice was calm. "You will not strike the boy."

 

"What business is it of yours what I do with my property?" The other man's eyes narrowed. Rock heard a slight scrape. Looking down he saw that the older man's free hand was tight on the handle of a wicked looking knife, and he had half drawn it.

 

Simion kept his voice level, not wanting to frighten Rill. "Your brother's time was paid for by my master, Prince Draculea. It is his wish that I spend the day amusing Rill. Do you object to this?"

 

Rock carefully uncurled his fist and fixed a false smile on his face. "Well, why didn't you say so? But really, sir, you'll spoil him."

 

Simion released Rock's wrist, and settled his hand gently on Rill's bent head. The young man looked up and saw that he was no longer in danger of a cuff. He gave Simion a faint smile, full of gratitude, and Simion felt his heart squeeze. He wondered what it would be like to see that same smile given sweetly, without the tinge of obligation.

 

Simion sat back down, regarding Rock with contempt that he did not bother to disguise. "You may go now."

 

Rock did not like being dismissed, but he had made good money from the prince and hoped for more, so he was reluctant to offend the prince's representative. "Yes, sir. Might I ask when I can expect my brother's return?"

 

I wish I could tell you never, you dog. "You spend the night away when a gentleman wishes to stay over? I doubt you'll see him before the morrow."

 

"Very well." He sketched a short bow. "Rill, behave yourself." There was a warning in his voice that made the young man cringe again, offering his brother a placating smile that made Simion want to cut Rock's throat.

 

When Rock was gone Rill quickly regained his good spirits, and the rest of the afternoon was spent pleasantly. He took Rill shopping, and the young man treated the modest shops like Aladdin's treasure cave. At first he protested over the items that Simion bought him, insisting that it was too much, they were too fine. But his delight was too great to be contained, and soon he was eagerly agreeing to anything Simion suggested.

 

Simion found himself enjoying it immensely. He bought Rill two new suits of clothes and a good pair of boots. While they were being altered he let the boy lead him to a shop that was crammed with all kinds of toys. Rill almost danced with excitement when Simion bought him a few brightly painted tin soldiers. "Oh, thank you! I've always wanted some, but Father and Rock said they were foolish wastes of good money. Now I can play war." He traced the tiny sword held in one figure's hand and said matter-of-factly, "The prince is a warrior."

 

Surprised, Simion said, "Yes, boy--a great warrior. But it has been a long time since he went to war. How did you know?"

 

Rill shrugged, examining the miniature cannon that had come with the set. "He just is. He's different from my other gentlemen."

 

Simion took the cannon from him and replaced it in the paper that held the rest of the toys, giving it to the clerk to tie up. "How is he different?" Simion asked carefully.

 

Rill was watching the clerk to be sure that none of the precious toys were left out. He shrugged. "The other gentlemen are so rough. Push, pull, squeeze, slap. 'Do this, do that, lick me here, spread your legs.'" The clerk paused in knotting the string, his eyes wide. At a look from Simion he bent back to his task. "I think that they worry because they find pleasure with me, and they need to feel that they are still men. For some reason being harsh to me helps them. But the prince..." He smiled. "The prince does not doubt that he is a man. He can be gentle."

 

"You know, Rill, I think that you know a great deal more than some would suspect."

 

He laughed. "I? No, sir. I am very stupid. I know this."

 

Simion shook his head. "Perhaps you do not have knowledge, Rill, but I think you have a sort of wisdom, in some things."

 

 

 

 

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