Child of The Night

Child of the Night by Scribe
Summary: I have decided to attempt a slash version of Dracula. This will not cleave to any one
interpretation of the story, though the classic Universal version, and Oliver Stone’s version will be the
greatest influence. I have ’cast’ my story, using a mixture of actors and actresses. Feel free to
substitute your own favorites, but these are mine. In fact, I’d be interested to hear if anyone is going to
be ’wathing’ a different actor in a particular characterization, and why.
Rating: FRAO - Adult
Fandoms: Dracula
Characters: Draculea/Nicolae, ensemble, original character
Genres: Slash
Warnings: Angst, Kink - Incest, Violence
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 12/14/04
CoAuthor #1: ---NONE---
Updated: 12/17/09
Index
Chapter 1: Chapter One: Romania, The Year of Our Lord 1460

Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Romania, The Year of Our Lord, 1460, a week later
Chapter 3: Part 3
Chapter 4: Chapter Four--Substitution
Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Ambivelance
Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Courtship
Chapter 7: Chapter 7: The Suitor
Chapter 8: More
Chapter 9: Persuasion
Chapter 10: Coercion
Chapter 11: Care
Chapter 12: Concern
Chapter 13: Seduction
Chapter 14: Part 14: The Claiming
Chapter 15: Chapter 15 - Dominance
Chapter 16: Part 16: Lulling
Chapter 17: Part 17: Passage
Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Traveling
Chapter 19: Part Nineteen: Ablution
Chapter 20: Part 20: Retribution
Chapter 21: Part 21: Marriage
Chapter 22: Part 22: Mating
Chapter 23: Chapter 23: New Union
Chapter 24: Part 24: Rough Justice
Chapter 25: Part 25
Chapter 26: Part 26: Thwarted
Chapter 27: Part 27: Mourning
Chapter 28: Part 28: Balances
Chapter 29: Part 29: Frustration
Chapter 30: Part 30: Confrontation
Chapter 31: Part 31: Poison, and Passing
Chapter 32: Part 32: Reunion
Chapter 33: Part 33: Preparations
Chapter 34: Part 34: Forbidden Fruit
Chapter 35: Part 35: Bad Judgement
Chapter 36: Part 36: Calamity
Chapter 37: Part 37: Foreboding
Chapter 38: Part 38: Tragedy
Chapter 39: Chapter 39: Reawakening
Chapter 40: Chapter 40: Revenge Begins
Chapter 41: Chapter 41: Torture
Chapter 42: Chapter 42: Looking Forward
Chapter 43: Chapter 43: Routine
Chapter 44: Chapter 44: Horizons
Chapter 45: Chapter 45: Trysting
Chapter 46: Chapter 46: Meeting
Chapter 47: Chapter 47: Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought
Chapter 48: Chapter 48: Connecting
Chapter 49: Chapter 49: Intervention
Chapter 50: Chapter 50: Siring
Chapter 51: Chapter 51: Restrictions
Chapter 52: Chapter 52: The Third
Chapter 53: Part 53: Suspicion
Chapter 54: Part 54: Alliance
Chapter 55: Part 55: Payment
Chapter 56: Chapter 56: Love Realized
Chapter 57: Chapter 57: Deadly Discovery
Chapter 58: Chapter 58: The Third, and Retreat
Chapter 59: Chapter 59: Rebirth
Chapter 60: Chapter 60: Early Years
Chapter 61: 61: Entering The World
Chapter 62: Chapter 62: Fascination
Chapter 63: Chapter 63: Stagnation
Chapter 64: Chapter 64: Delegation
Chapter 65: Chapter 65
Chapter 67: Chapter 67: Novelty
Chapter 68: Chapter 68: Household
Chapter 69: Chapter 69: First Night
Chapter 70: Chapter 70 - Enticements
Chapter 71: Chapter 71 - The Photograph
Chapter 72: Chapter 72 - Communication, and Impressions
Chapter 73: Chapter 73- Harsher Methods
Chapter 74: Chapter 74- Substitution
Chapter 75: Chapter 75 - At Last
Chapter 76: Chapter 76 - Blood Bond
Chapter 77: Chapter 77 - Testing the Water
Chapter 78: Chapter 78: Dreams
Chapter 79: Chapter 79 - Strange Familiarity
Chapter 80: Chapter 80 - Degrees of Madness
Chapter 81: Chapter 81 - Suitors
Chapter 82: Chapter 82 - Exploration
Chapter 83: Chapter 83 - Confronting
Chapter 84: Chapter 84 - Found Love Lost
Chapter 85: Chapter 85 - Swept Away
Chapter 86: Chapter 86 - Out of Reach Again
Chapter 87: Chapter 87 - Disposal
Chapter 88: Chapter 88 - Evacuation
Chapter 89: Chapter 89: Pursuit
Chapter 90: Chapter 90 - Homeward Bound
Chapter 91: Chapter 91 - Journey, Part I
Chapter 92: Chapter 92: The Journey II
Chapter 93: Chapter Ninety-three: Sacrifice
Chapter 94: Chapter Ninety-four: Preparation, and Visitation
Chapter 95: Chapter Ninety-five: Responsibility
Chapter 96: Chapter Ninety-six: Settling In
Chapter 97: Chapter 97: Old Enemies
Chapter 98: Chapter 98: New Arrivals
Chapter 99: Chapter 99: Gathered at Last
Chapter 100: Chapter 100: Reunion Unaware
Chapter 101: Chapter 101: Dinner
Chapter 1: Chapter One: Romania, The Year of Our Lord 1460

Author’s Notes: Cast
Dracula (Vlad Tepes Draculea).......................Peter Lucas
Mina Murray/Elisabeta Draculea (nee Varga).........Wynona Ryder
Abraham Van Helsing..............................Peter Cushings
Dr. Jack Seward......................................Val Kilmer
Lord Arthur Holmwood.................................Hugh Grant
Quincey P. Morris...................................Clint Black
Lucy Westenra....................................Drew Barrymore
Jonathan Harker/Niculaie (Nicu)Calugarul (Varga)...Keanu Reeves
R.M. Renfield........................................Dwight Fry
Bride One/Thomas...............................young Tom Cruise
Bride Two/Rill....................................River Phoenix
Bride Three/Rock................................Joaquim Phoenix
Blame Tinn for getting me started on classic slash.
Child of the Night

by Scribe
Chapter One: Romania, The Year of Our Lord 1460
"My lord, you must marry, and soon."
Count Vlad Tepes Draculea, Romanian nobel, slammed his gilded goblet down upon the table, dark
red wine sloshing from it’s side to stain the rich linen table cloth. He scowled at the old man his father
had, before his death, charged with advising him. "Why, Stefan? Why must I?"
The old man sighed wearily. The young count was a headstrong man, much as his father had been.
That was why the elder Draculea had placed much of the power of his estates in the hand of his trusted
steward before he passed away, leaving it to his son, Vlad.
Vlad was not a stupid man, but he was self indulgent, for all he was a fine warrior. He had avoided
marrying and bringing a rich dowery to his family for far longer than most youths of the nobel class.
He was in his early thirties, middle aged for this day and time.
And he was not doing his duty to his bloodline. He had no heir, either legitimate, or born on the wrong
side of the blanket. This rather puzzled Stefan. His father had left a liberal scattering of bastards
among the peasants, though thankfully all had been girls. A boy child might have been...awkward.
And, while Vlad was far from sedate, he did not seem to have his father’s bent for womanizing.
While Stefan approved of the fact that he did not go a-whoring, he was still surprised that the palace
wenches seemed to be safe from his attentions. While his companions disported themselves,
wallowing in the carnal delights of female flesh, Vlad seemed to be content to roister with his friends
and vassels.
Still, he MUST marry, and an heir MUST be produced. More than one, if possible. The infants died so
easily these days...
"I have explained before, my lord. It is your sacred duty to produce more of your line. Your family has
always been dedicated to the service of the holly Church. To deprive them of more servants of your
bloodline would be a sin. And, wealthy though you are, the family coffers would benefit from a fat
dowry."
Vlad’s scowl deepened. The count was a strikingly handsome man. He was tall, taller by a head than
most men, and his body was kept lean and hard from the daily practice of his warrior’s arts. His arms
were strong from swinging the heavy double edged sword, his legs and back from learning to move
quickly in the heavy battle armor. His hands were large and callused from gripping sword, spear, and
mace in countless hours of practice, his fingertips roughened from drawing bowstrings in archery
practice.
His hair was thick, falling over his shoulders in glossy black waves and curls that would be the envy of
any daughter of Eve. His eyes were the crystaline blue of the sky in winter, unusual among a generally
dark eyed people. These features might have made him look feminine, but instead they only enhanced
his pure, masculine beauty. He had the face of an angel, with a lightly cleft chin, and a strong jaw. No,
perhaps not an angel...unless it was a fallen one. The mouth was wrong for a celestial creature: far too
sensuous, and often cruel.
Taken all in all, he was the sort of man to lead even the best of women (poor, weak creatures that they
were) to temptation. And yet he was unmarried at an age when many men were already expecting their
first grandchild. This would not do.
Draculea snorted. "So, you will have me tie myself to a cow, to produce whelps to carry on the name?
And while I am at it, choose one who will give rich milk."
Stefan sighed. "Marriage is man’s natural state, my lord. You fly in the face of God by scorning it,
inasmuch as you have not taken Holy Orders. The bible admonishes up to be fruitful, and multiply. I
cannot understand your reluctance. It will not tie you down. You know as well as any how a marriage
in your class can be. You have your parents for an example, if nothing else."
Yes, his parents certainly HAD been proof that marriage need not mean one was bound to their spouse
in aught but legal terms. His parents had occupied the same castle, but they might as well have lived in
seperate worlds for all they interacted. His mother had been raised in a convent, as was customary for
many women of gentle birth, and had known nothing of men till she was presented to his father on
their wedding day. The wedding night had convinced her that she wanted as little to do with men as
possible thereafter. Unfortunately, this included the son she bore almost nine months to the day after
she was painfully, and messily deflowered by her groom.
His mother had her ladies, and he saw her every few days, for a few moments. Occasionally there were
pats on the head, and vague inquiries about lessons and training. These died to a trickle, then ceased
when he became a teenager, and took on the physical aspect of a man. When his mother finally died of
some form of fever or other, he had not seen her for almost a year, and they had been living in the
same castle.
Vlad grew up in the rough company of his father, his father’s friends, and his father’s soldiers and
servants. A man’s world. Oh, there were women. Where ever there are men who follow the path of
war, there will be women of less than pure virtue to satisfy their physical wants. Vlad had, of course,
sampled their charms. His father had pushed him into bed with a plump whore when he was all of
fourteen, and he ad acquitted himself well. It had been a mildly enjoyable experience, and he repeated
it from time to time. Trully gratifying sexual pleasure had been found...elsewhere.
Still...a son. Yes, he would like to have a son. A child to be raised and taught.
"All right, Stefan. I grant you your wish. I will marry."
Stefan beamed in relief. "Excellent, my lord? Who is the lucky woman you will grace with your
offer?"
He shrugged, sipping his wine again. "Oh, I do not particularly care. As long as she is not too
damnably ugly, or too poisonous of temper. Young, I suppose, since you want heirs. Of noble blood,
of course. A long bloodline, and a fat dowry would help. Have you any suggestions?"
"I do, in fact. There is one very likely candidate I would like to offer for your approval."
He rolled his eyes. "And who would this marvel be?"
"Elizabeta Varga, daughter of Baron Ernestu Varga. While, of course, they do not have the illustrious
history of your own family, my lord, they are noble indeed."
"Hm. And what virtues does this woman possess to make her worthy of the Draculea name?"
"Aside form her proud family name, her father offers near two hundred acres of rich crop land, a cash
dowry of three hundred gold pieces, a full wardrobe, five fine horses, and a choice of servants from his
own household to attend her in her new home."
"Well, her material goods are acceptable. What of her person? Her personality?"
"It is said that she is quite beautiful, my lord. She is just eighteen, all her childbearing years ahead. As
to her temperament...I cannot say. I do know that she can read and write, a rare enough
accomplishment for a woman, and one I am not sure is exactly pious, but in this case I think is
probably harmless."
"So you think I should marry her?"
"I think you should consider it, my lord. Carefully."
"Hm." He drained the last of his wine. "I suppose you’d better arrange a visit to her father’s house so I
can see if I will be able to stomach her. Her father would be agreeable to the match?"
He bowed. "Her father would be most eager. She is the youngest of his children. The others are
already established in life, and he wishes to push this last fledgeling out of the nest."
"Write him, then, Stefan. ’At his earliest convenience...Beg his hospitality..."
Stefen bowed again. "I hope you are not offended, my lord, but I have already sent a message to
Vargas. He will be delighted to receive you and whatever party you bring. I suggest we leave
tomorrow, and we can be at his home in less than a week."
Vlad paused in the act of pouring more wine. "Dog!" he growled. "And how long have you been
planning this?" Stefan mearly smiled. "Judas, you are a sly one. Very well, begin arrangements."
"At once, my lord."
As he was leaving, Vlad called send in one of the footmen."
"Any particular one, my lord?"
He waved lazily, sipping. "It makes no difference."
Stefan left. A few minutes later, a burly man dressed in the colors of the Count’s servants entered the
room. He stopped at the door, head down, waiting for his lord to acknowledge him, and instruct him.
Vlad looked him over absently, noting the sturdy limbs and clean skin. He looked a little familiar.
"Lock the door and come here." The man obeyed, and came to stand before the table where Vlad was
seated. "No, no. Around here, by me."
The man came around the table. The count turned in his chair to face him, and again studied him. "I
know you."
"I am Dmitrie, Lord. M’lord has been pleased to use my services several times."
"Yes, I remember now." *Good skin, clean hair, all of his teeth. He’ll do.* The older man worked the
laces on his pants, opening them. Reaching in, he eased out his cock. It was half hard, but pulsing
quickly toward a full erection. "I require your ministrations again, Dmitrie."
Without a word, Dmitrie sank to his knees before the other man. He moved forward and began licking
the flushed, swollen head of his master’s prick, then took him into his mouth and suckled gently,
listening to the appreciative groan. Settling in, he began to service Count Vlad Tepes Draculea in a
manner that would never have occured to his illustrious father.
To be continued...
end part 1
THE REST OF THE STORY:
This story has reached 92 chapters, and it still isn’t done. The very thought of uploading all of those
makes my head hurt (since I have already html’ed them, and I’d have to go through and remove all < P
> marks and links to make them look right here. So I’m just going to post a link to the rest of the story
on my site, Scribe Scribbles Look for it in the slash section.
Back to index
Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Romania, The Year of Our Lord, 1460, a week later
Author’s Notes: Note: My good friend, krss (a Romanian) pointed out that Nicoluiae was not a true
Romanian name. At her suggestion, I am substituting Nicolea (which I like better, anyway.)
Translations of Romanian terms at end of episode.
Part 2
Romania, The Year of Our Lord, 1460, a week later.
On their journey, they passed through the land that he would receive in dowery, if he chose to marry
Elizabeta Varga. Vlad was pleased. It was well tended, and looked as if it would produce abundant
crops. He also spotted a few fine flocks of sheep, and some cattle. He assumed that these would be part
and parcel in the bargain. That was how such things were usually done. He had a large household, and
extra provisions were always welcome.
Varga’s castle was a good bit smaller than Castle Draculea, but well made, well fortified. In the
courtyard, vassals ran to take the reins of their horses. The small party dismounted, and Vlad studied
the area as the animals were led away.
A group of people came through the front entrance of the castle, a plump, gray haired man in their
lead, his hands outstretched in greeting. "Maria Ta Draculea!" He bowed deeply, and Vlad returned a
polite tilting of the head. "I am honored that you will consider my sweet Elizabeta for your countess.
Please, Domn, grace my humble home."
Vlad droned the proper response. "It is I that am honored that you will allow me the possibility of
asking for the hand of your precious child." He glanced over the small crowd that had come out to
greet the visitors, but did not see anyone who looked as if they might be the youngest daughter of the
household. He did, however, see SOMEONE interesting.
It was only a glimpse, really, of someone who hovered at the back of the crowd for a moment,
watching the heavily armed men of Vlad’s entourage with something akin to dismay. He was a slender
youth in a coarse brown smock, the shapeless garment belted at the waist. Vlad wondered that Varga
would allow his household servants to dress so poorly. He caught the boy’s gaze for a moment. The
lad’s eyes were large, velvety brown, and seemed to tilt just the slightest bit at the outer corners. Doe’s
eyes. He slipped back into the castle, and Vlad stared after him, letting his host’s fulsome welcoming
speech wash over him unnoticed.
Who had that been, he wondered. Footman? Steward in training? He was a bit old for a page. A stable
lad or assistant to the gamekeeper or hawkmaster would not have been allowed in the house.
He was led inside, and shown immediately to his room. It was, of course, the most impressive in the
building. Ernestu had probably moved out of it only the day before, so that his noble guest might have
fitting accommodations. "You will wish to rest and refresh yourself before the feast this evening,
Domn. Please, ask for anything you need or crave. My servants are your servants."
*How comforting to hear, Ernestu,* he thought. *For I have a definite craving for one of your
servants, I think. Yes, I believe I need him quite badly.* When the older man was gone, Vlad spoke to
Simion, his aide. "I saw a young man among the household, Simion. Tall, slender. Short, dark hair.
Sixteen or so. Great brown eyes. Bring him to me." Simion smiled, bowing. He had been with the
count many years, and knew him well. The master must be smitten indeed to call for the boy so
quickly upon his arrival, not even bothering to pretend patience. The boy would find himself walking
awkwardly soon, if Simion was not wrong. He rather hoped that the lad would be able to appreciate
what a boon the attention of Vlad Tepes Draculea was.
He asked about, only to be met with blank stares. No, no young male household servant of that
description. Unwilling to return to his master empty handed, he prowled the servant’s quarters, and the
kitchens. Nothing. Reluctantly, he returned to Vlad’s room.
He found his master ready for his desired charmer. He had doffed his heavy travel clothes, and wore
only a thin, white robe. He looked even more angelic than ever, until one noticed that the cloth, when
he moved, molded itself to a very human and needy erection. When Vlad saw that his servant returned
alone, his face darkened into a scowl. Simion said hastily, "My Lord, I tried! He is nowhere to be
found. All the servants deny knowledge of him."
"I’m not blind, Simion, nor a fool. I know what I saw. That boy is here, somewhere." He didn’t add,
*And I mean to have him.* There was no need. Simion knew.
"Patience, Domn. If he is here, I will find him." *Boy,* thought Simion. *I only hope you delight in
men. Otherwise your life will be most uncomfortable for a while. Vlad does not like to be denied.*
Simion continued his inquiry as discretely as he could, while seeing that his lordship’s party was
situated, and their animals well cared for. The servants of this household, he noted with satisfaction,
knew to give the utmost care to the belongings (material, human, and animal) of the visiting nobleman.
But he still had no luck when the time of the feast had arrived. Vlad’s expression was nearly as dark as
the somber formal wear he donned for the banquet. But, when he entered the hall, he arranged his
features into a pleasant expression. He had little love for the social politics of his class, but he knew
what was necessary.
The tables were set up in a U shape, the place of honor being at the end bar. The ranks of the guests
descended as one moved toward the ends of the table. Vlad was escorted with much ceremony to the
place at the right hand of his host, who sat in the very center of the upper table.
The room was already filled with guests, standing behind their seats, and awaiting the arrival of the
favored suitor. Vlad was introduced to them with a short, but excessively flowery speech. He replied
with a few courtly thanks. Then Ernestu said proudly, "Now, Domn, my treasure, my Elizabeta."
The young woman swept into the room, followed by a few nervously giggling maids, and made her
way to the head table. Vlad watched her, with a wry appreciation of the chit’s sense of self
presentation. This was no trembling, shy flower. She had a sense of her own worth.
Elizabeta stood on the other side of her father, and curtsied low. The square cut neckline of her ruby
red velvet dress showed the tops of small, high breasts, the milky white sought by all noblewomen.
She had raven black hair, twisted into a smooth coil at the base of her neck and covered by a small
chaplet of knotted gold cords.
Her eyes, when they met his, were a bit of a shock. They were the very eyes of the youth who had
caught his fancy: large, dark, and slightly tilted. There was even a touch of resemblance in the face,
with the high cheekbones. But her mouth was smaller, where his had been generous, almost lush.
There was something peculiar going on here, he thought.
Being a proper daughter, she did not speak, because she had not been given permission to do so. On
this, their first meeting, she was seated on her father’s other side. Later she would be allowed to sit
beside Vlad, so that they might become at least nominally acquainted.
As the entire company was sitting down, one last guest slipped into the room, taking a seat at the very
end of one table, the humblest seat in the room. There was no mistaking the slender figure with the
close cropped dark hair. It was the youth he had seen in the courtyard.
*So...not a servant,* Draculea mused. No serving boy would ever dare sit at table with his lords.
*What a pity. I’ll have to be a bit more cautious in my pursuit. Still, he must be a very low ranking
member of this house. I’ll just have to move a bit more slowly.*
Vlad kept up the polite illusion of interest in the woman who would possibly be his bride, passing
remarks to her over her father, half listening to the replies. His eyes kept straying to the end of the
table.
The boy ate slowly, almost daintily, pulling his food to tiny pieces before consuming it. Rather than
licking his fingers as most of the lords and ladies did, he wiped them often on a cloth he kept draped
on his lap. When a servant tried to pour wine for him, he covered his goblet with his hand, shaking his
head. Another brought him a carafe of water, and that he accepted.
No one spoke to him as he dined. He was generally ignored, and he seemed content with this. Stranger,
and stranger. Low rank, modest garments, abstinence, short hair... Possibly a cleric? Hm, that might
make things more difficult. But not impossible. Vlad smiled to himself. If the boy practiced celibacy,
it would be a real treat to unleash the energy he was keeping bottled up.
Vlad said conversationally to Ernestu, "You keep a priest? I may wish to make confession later."
"Of course, Domn, of course. The report of your piety prebends you." Vlad lifted his eyebrows
skeptically. He observed the formalities of his religion, but he hardly had a reputation of saintliness,
and he knew it. Ernestu gestured toward a bald man in black robes sitting a little farther down the
table. "Father Mircea is always ready to perform his holy offices. You can generally find him in the
chapel...or the library." He said the last word with the slightest hint of dismissal.
Vlad sat a bit straighter, interest piqued. "You have a library, Vargas?"
His host looked puzzled, but continued smiling. "Yes, Domn. Some very fine volumes." Vlad knew
what he was thinking. The Draculea were renowned warriors. They were not expected to be interested
in anything as soft as literature or learning, unless it involved the martial skills, philosophies, and
tactics. But in fact, Vlad’s ancestors had respected, perhaps even revered knowledge. There was an
impressive collection of books, papers and scrolls housed in Castle Draculea. They were sadly
neglected these days, as the last librarian had died in his father’s time, and had never been replaced.
Elizabeta, eyes demurely on her plate, ventured, "We will have more, as time passes. Nicolea works so
hard, every day..."
Ernestu grunted. "That’s all he’s good for."
"Father, please. It is what he was trained to do. You can hardly expect him to be a warrior or huntsman
with the way he was raised..."
"You can’t blame that on me, girl. I had no idea he’d turn out so soft."
From the sound of things, this was an old bone of contention between them. Vlad found it interesting.
Till now Elizabeta had been the model of a meek daughter, willing to bend to every whim and
command of her father. What was this Nicolea to her, that she defended him?
Elizabeta was continuing. "What did you expect when you sent him to live with the friars? You knew
they were scholars. If you had wanted him to be a warrior, you should have sent him as squire to a
knight. But of course..." her tone was bitter, "You would have had to outfit him, and that would have
been much more expensive. All that was required at the monastery was a few coarse garments and a
pittance for his food."
"Beta! Enough. You act as though he were your brother..." Her eyes now flashed up at him. *Well, this
one has spirit after all* Vlad thought.
"He IS my brother!" Elizabeta’s voice was low and hard now, completely different from the gentle
fluting she had used before. "Albeit we were not nurtured by the same womb, we spring from the same
seed, Father."
*Ah, that explains it. A bastard.* Common enough. The situation seemed a bit unusual, though. From
what he was hearing, it seemed as though Elizabeta and this Nicolea had been raised together, at least
during their early years. Her affection was obvious. Noblemen often provided for their by-blows,
especially if the mother were anyone above peasant stock. But very seldom was an illegitimate child
allowed contact with a legitimate one.
Vlad didn’t think much of Ernestu so far, but he seemed to have done more than his duty for this child.
He had apparently raised it for a time, then fostered it in a place where it would be safe, and learn a
trade. Few would have done as much.
"He reads?" Vlad broke in, and both father and daughter looked at him a little blankly. They had been
caught up in a long running argument. "I admire those who make the effort to learn. I myself enjoy the
library at Castle Draculea."
Elizabeta, sensing a possible champion for her favorite, nodded eagerly. "And he writes, too. Not just
copies, but writes his own thoughts. Oh, he has a beautiful hand! So clear, so perfect. It is an art..."
"May I meet this artist?" It was a way to earn favor in the girl’s sight, and irritate her father. He dared
not refuse his guest anything, no matter how it might annoy him.
Ernestu sighed heavily, and beckoned to a footman. "Bring the librarian."
The footman started down the table. With each step he took, Vlad felt his heart begin to beat faster.
The servant passed the ranks of nobles, and each turned to watch his progress, curious as to who was
being summoned to the table of honor. He walked all the way to the end of the table, and stopped by
the dark haired boy in the rough brown garments, speaking to him quietly.
The boy turned from his plate to listen, then looked up toward the table, his large dark eyes
questioning. There was a dab of some sort of dark sauce on his lips. The summons must have made
him nervous because, unmindful of his napkin, his tongue darted out to lick away the smear. Vlad felt
himself begin to grow hard beneath the table.
The boy stood up and came around the end of the table, walking up the space between the two sides.
The room was very quite as the other diners watched him pass. Vlad could hear the soft pad of his
slippered feet. At last he stood before them.
His gaze flicked over Vlad, moving away quickly to the man who was his father in the flesh, if not the
spirit. Then he looked at Elizabeta, and his eyes grew soft and warm. A small smile graced his face,
making him look even younger, and so desirable that Vlad ached. For a moment, he almost hated the
girl who could win such a look from him.
Then he looked back to Ernestu, his smile fading, and dropped his gaze. His voice was quiet,
respectful. "You commanded my presence, sir?"
"Our honored guest has expressed a desire to meet you." Ernestu’s tone said *though I cannot fathom
WHY*.
The boy again looked at Vlad, then quickly at the floor, a hot flush rising to stain his cheeks. The way
the visiting lord was looking at him was most...disconcerting.
*My God, he is beautiful* Vlad marveled. He spoke kindly. "Look at me, boy, and tell me your
name."
The youth raised his eyes hesitantly. The count’s eyes were blue, and blue should be a cool color. Why
were they so intense, so hot? He barely managed to lift his voice above a whisper as he spoke to Count
Vlad Tepes Draculea for the first time. "If it please my lord, I am called Nicolea Calugarule."
*Ah* thought Vlad. *So, Varga will not risk any of his estate by claiming the boy as a Varga. Nicolea
the Monk, eh? I shall have to see if I cannot make certain that the name does not remain...fitting.*
Translations:
Maria Ta : Your Highness
Domn: lord
To be continued...
Back to index
Chapter 3: Part 3
Author’s Notes: fandom: Movie, Dracula
criticism Yes
archive Yes, let me know where
feedback Yes. poet_77665@yahoo.com
disclaimer: Originally, Bram Stoker
summary: Vlad’s infatuation with Nicolae grows.
notes: In this era, the common people had few rights, and bastards almost none at all. Thus Nicu’s
plight.
’white-livered’ was a term used to denote a coward, someone reluctant to ’act like a man’.
rating NC-17
warnings: m/m relations
Part 3
Vlad’s gaze roved hungrily over the young man standing before him. But he was a seasoned noble,
able to conceal his true emotions when necessary, so he kept his voice mild, and his expression bland.
Only the boy himself seemed to be aware that the count’s interest was more than cursory, and that was
only a suspicion. "The Lady Elizabeta sings your praises, Calugarul. She believes you to be an artist
with the quill."
Another fond glance at the young woman caused Vlad’s hand to tighten on his goblet. "The lady is
most kind and generous. I like to believe that I have some small skill."
"She says that you do not merely transcribe. You do not simply copy what you see, but can write to
express your own thoughts."
The boy’s blush deepened, and Vlad realized why when Ernestu snapped, "With the price of
parchment these days?! He had best not! I’ll not be wasting good paper on the meanderings of a
white-livered stripling." Now the boy paled, and Vlad saw his fists clench at his sides, almost hidden
by his robe.
*So, you haven’t grown a thick skin yet, boy. The old warthog can still sting you with his words.*
Ernestu was continueing. "You haven’t been up to such foolishness again, have you, boy? I hope the
last beating taught you the error of such folly."
Vlad looked at the older man sharply. Yes, servants were beaten for disobedience, and for wasting
their master’s resources. But this... Even if Ernestu were the sort who believed in raising his children
by the rod, it seemed a bit severe for a few sheets of paper.
Nicolae’s gaze dropped again, and there was a barely discernable tremor in his voice. "No, Marie Ta. I
have not forgotten." His shoulders hunched slightly, as if in memory of the painful lesson.
"I would like to see your work, Calugarul. Will you show it to me tomorrow?"
"Of course he will." It took an effort of will to keep from back handing the other nobleman.
Vlad ignored the older man. "When will be a convenient time for me to come to you in the library?"
Again the boy was not allowed to answer for himself. "Any time you please, Domn. It is not as though
he has an important schedule to keep. The scribblings can be done at any time."
Draculae ignored the man again. "Calugarul?"
The youth bowed slightly. "Whenever it pleases you best, Domn. I am there the greater part of each
day. If not there, I am usually in the chapel, or the garden. I am not difficult to find."
"Good." Vlad wanted to continue talking to the boy. Hell, he wanted to pull Nicolae down onto his lap
and plunder that wide mouth with kisses, till he was gasping and sweetly squirming. But he simply
waved a dismissal. Nicolae bowed again, and made his way back to his place at the end of the table.
For the rest of the evening Vlad was a man half distracted. He responded to Ernestu and Elizabeta, and
whoever else was brave enough to speak, with reflexive courtesy. But his mind was on the young man
at the end of the table.
When all the food was cleared away but the sweetmeats, the entertainers came in. The rank of seating
was relaxed, and guests moved about, forming small cliques to watch the minstrals and jugglers.
Ernestu himself moved, finally allowing his daughter to sit beside the man he hoped she would marry.
Seeing his chance, Vlad laid a hand on Elizabeta’s arm, a gesture that was considered rather bold. He
said, "Lady, I believe you miss your young companion. Why not call your Calugarul to sit here with
us?"
Her eyes were grateful, but she said, "You are kind, Count. But my father will not allow him to sit
with me."
"I believe, though, that he will not object if I request his company." Vlad raised his voice above the
hum of conversation. "Calugarul!"
Nicolae stood up again. "My lord calls?"
He gestured. "Come sit with me."
Whispers followed the boy as he made his way around the table, up to the place of honor. When he
came near Vlad, he paused, looking at Elizabeta, and Ernestu questioningly. Elizabeta smiled
encouragingly. Ernestu scowled, and indicated with a jerk of his head that Nicolae was to fulfill the
guest’s desires.
Vlad slid a little to the side, baring a narrow portion of the bench he was seated on, and patted the
smooth wood. "Here, boy. The best seat, I think. You will be able to see everything, here."
Nicolae sat tentatively. The space he had been left was little more than a sliver. He found his side
pressed against the older man beside him. He couldn’t put any more space between them without
risking falling.
Nicolae wasn’t... exactly uncomfortable. He was just very aware of the other man. The count was so
big. Nicolae, though rather slender, was tall himself. Few men of this age could stand flat footed, and
look him in the eyes. But Draculea was at least a half head taller than he, and broader. No, not bulky.
He was too well proportioned for that. But... solid. Very solid.
As the minstrals began a tune about two lovers sneaking off for a moonlit tryst, Nicolae dared to slip a
glance toward his neighbor. He was horribly embarrassed when he found that Vlad was staring back at
him, and he dropped his gaze quickly. It was very bad form to look a superior in the eyes, bordering on
insolence. And insolence was punished. But the count made no remark, and Nicolae began to relax a
little.
*He is a handsome man,* Nicolae thought. *At least Beta will have that. She was so afraid that her
father would wed her to a fat, ugly, graceless old man. The count is none of those things. And he is
rich, and powerful. Beta will be a great lady. Good. She deserves it. But I will miss her...*
"What are you thinking of?"
The question was softly spoken, but it startled Nicolae, nontheless. He jerked, and lost his balance. He
would have fallen, and he had a moment to think *No, please, not before all these people. Ernestu
thinks me enough of a fool as it is.*
But he didn’t fall. A strong arm went around him, catching him and dragging him back safely onto the
seat. Surprised, he turned to meet the count’s gaze, purposefully this time. Those light blue eyes were
once again warm. "I am sorry, Domn."
"For what, boy? You were startled, nothing more. It was my fault for being so abrupt. But answer me.
What were you thinking of, to put such a pensive look on your face?"
It never occured to Nicolae to lie. "I was thinking of the Lady Elizabeta, sir."
"Oh?" There was a coolness in the voice that was at odds with the heat in his eyes. "Yes, she is such a
one to haunt the mind of a healthy young man, such as yourself."
Nicolae blinked. What an odd thing to say. "She is my sister, Domn. I will miss her when... If she
leaves."
"I see." The chill was gone from his tone now. "You are great friends, are you not?"
"She is the only one who has ever loved me," he said simply. His eyes grew wider as he felt the older
man’s arm tighten around him.
Vlad’s thumb stroked the boy’s arm slowly. Beneath the coarse cloth he felt the slightly rounded
firmness of his bicept. His outward appearance was a little fragile, but Vlad guessed that, unclothed, he
would prove to be sturdy, and well built. He very much wanted to see if his surmise was correct.
"That is sad, Nicolae." For the first time, the count used his Christian name. Nicolae could not restrain
a small shiver, but for the safety of his soul, he would not have been able to say WHY. "Some day..."
The hand drifted up, and rested for a moment on his head, smoothing the sleek, dark hair. "Someday,
you will be loved. Deeply."
"It is the fondest wish of every mortal man, Domn."
"No, Nicolae. Not every man. Perhaps only the very foolish, and the very wise."
As they spoke, the minstrals had given way to a man with a trained monkey. Noticing the two so
seemingly deep in conversation, the man urged his creature toward them.
The tiny monkey leaped to the table before the two men, squealing. The younger gave a start, and
would have toppled over if the elder hadn’t caught him again, laughing. The monkey bounced before
him, chattering. It touched a plate of candies sitting before the two men. Then it dropped to it’s knees
and clasped it’s tiny four fingered hands in an attitude of begging.
Nicolae burst out laughing, along with the rest of the company, covering his mouth. Vlad nudged him.
"Feed the supplicant, Nicolae."
Having been given permission to make free with the foodstuffs that he had not paid for, Nicolae chose
a glazed chestnut, and offered it to the little simian. It snatched it away, stuffing it in it’s mouth to
bulge it’s cheek. Then it threw it’s hairy arms around Nicolae’s neck, pressed it’s wrinkled lips to his
cheek, and bounded away again.
The company shrieked with laughter, none more so than Nicolae. Tears of mirth streaked his smooth
cheeks. It was all Vlad could do not to grab him and lick the damp tracks away, then swallow the
laughter with open mouthed kisses.
Seeing that he was watching again, Nicolae choked, "It... Oh, dear. I fear my love has come. And... "
He could scarcesly speak, "And I had so hoped for someone a bit more handsome!"
Now the room truly exploded with laughter. No one, except Simion, stationed near his lord, noticed
that the prospective bridegroom did not join in the merriment. He did not laugh, but he DID smile.
And his eyes never left the flushed face of the boy sitting beside him...
To be continued...
Back to index
Chapter 4: Chapter Four--Substitution

Child of the Night, Part Four
The Year of Our Lord, 1460
Castle Varga, Wallachia
Substitutions
Somehow Vlad managed to restrain himself through the rest of the evening’s entertainments. It wasn’t
easy. The heat and scent of the boy beside him was a constant temptation. The Draculs had kept their
primitive blood, with their dedication to the way of the warrior. Vlad’s first instinct was to simply
claim the boy, tossing him over his shoulder and carrying him back to some private place to ravish.
As he was guest of honor, protocol demanded that the other guests not retire until he did. He was
reluctant to part from his new infatuation, but when he noticed the boy swaying slightly, and covering
yawns that made him look heartbreakingly young and innocent, he excused himself.
He’d beaten down his carnal impulses, but at a price. He was grateful for the fashionable cloak he had
chosen to wear. When he stood to leave, he could wrap it around himself, and disguise the massive
erection that thrust against the straining fabric of his breeches. Though it would most likely please
Ernestu, as he would think I am lusting for Elizabeta, and that is what he wants.
In his quarters, Simion moved to help divest him of his clothes. He was a little surprised when
Draculea pushed him against the wall, and pressed his long body against him. It was, of course,
impossible to mistake the iron hardness pressing against his leg, but it had been some time since his
lord had favored Simion with this sort of advances.
Vlad rubbed against his servant roughly, stimulating himself even more. Simion, without needing to be
ordered, spread his legs to allow Vlad to move into the V, bringing their crotches together. The prince
gripped his aide’s shoulders and humped against him. Simion felt his own cock stir in answer. Simion
had his choice among the footmen and other sevants of the castle, but he had always found his lord and
master a most attractive man. And, due to his station, he had never felt he could be the initiator in
these encounters, so he had to wait for the times when Draculea decided to favor him. Vlad continued
for a moment, the hot thrusts making Simion feel his knees begin to weaken, then he growled in
frustration and pulled away.
Simion immediately resumed the task of stripping the nobleman. "My lord is lusting tonight."
Vlad gave a bitter laugh. "Aye, Simion. As hard as ever I have since my sap first started to rise. The
boy..." His eyes narrowed, and he looked toward the door of the room, as if wishing for the object of
his desire to appear.
"Yes, Maria Ta, the boy. Shall I bring him to you? He will come. He seems an obedient lad."
Vlad sighed. "Yes, he would come. And I could have him, but... I do not think he is ready, Simion. I
suspect that he has not yet felt a carnal embrace. I would not frighten him, if I can avoid it."
Simion looked at the floor to hide his smile. So, Vlad Draculea, Vlad, Son of the Dragon. You have
found someone who can make you think with your heart as well as your dick, have you? I wish you
luck with this one, my master. I think you will find the walls around his virtue both high and strong.
Aloud, he said, "My master is most kind, to worry about the child’s sensibilities. So, in the mean
time..." He had stripped the older man naked by now, and his fingers gently skimmed the hot length of
his rampant prick. "How may Simion serve you tonight?"
Vlad went and sat in a chair, sprawling naked, and indicated the thick shaft between his thighs. "You
can demonstrate your skill as a horseman by riding this stallion, Simion. Ride it till it is lathered."
Simion quickly removed his own clothing, knowing that his lord would wish him nude. Draculea
loved the feel of skin on skin. And, though Simion’s lightly furred body was not the smooth one he
had been lusting for, it would serve well enough for now.
Simion found the small bowl of sweet oil that had been placed beside the bed earlier in the day, placed
in anticipation of the boy his lordship had glimpsed in the courtyard. He was about to prepare himself,
when Draculea held out his hands. "Come, Simion. I want to do that tonight."
Again Simion was surprised. Always before he had prepared himself to receive his lordship’s staff.
After the first time or two with a fresh lover, Vlad grew bored with performing the little intimacies,
and merely wished to be serviced. Who would deny him?
At his lord’s direction, Simion placed the bowl on a table at Vlad’s elbow. Then he lowered himself
across the strong thighs of his master, face down, and spread his legs.
Vlad dipped his fingers in the cool, greasy liquid, coating them well. With one large hand, he spread
the buttocks of the man lying across his lap, and stroked down the deep crevice. Simion shivered
slightly. Vlad took more oil, massaging it into the tender skin, He found the puckered ring of Simion’s
anus, and began to stroke around it, kneading the taut flesh. Under his attention, the tough muscles
gradually relaxed.
"It’s been awhile," Vlad said, sliding the first finger deep into his ass.
Simion gasped, "Yes, m’lord. But m’lord knows he has but to command, nay, only indicate a desire,
and I am his, joyfully."
"An admirable sentiment, Simion." Vlad pulled back, then pushed in, finger fucking him. He worked
another finger in beside the first, listening with satisfaction to the half lustful, half pained whine his
vassal made. "Damn, you’re still almost as tight as the first time I fucked you. You were almost a
virgin then, weren’t you?"
"With men, lord. I had been with women aplenty, but you were only my second man."
"Um." A third finger quickly joined the other two. Simion winced a little at the abrupt stretching. Vlad
was, indeed, impatient tonight. But there was a certain allure to his urgency. "You seemed surprised
enough when I threw you on the bed."
"I had never dreamed such a great man would desire one as humble as myself, lord. It was... a shock.
But a most welcome one." He concentrated on the feel of Draculea’s fingers moving in his ass,
probing and twisting. This was going to be very quick tonight, but there was no reason why he
couldn’t enjoy it, too. Especially in the position the lord seemed to want. Simion would have some
control over angle, depth, speed, and force. He should be able to bring Vlad’s prick in contact with that
magic spot deep in his own bowels that gave such pleasure when it was caressed.
Vlad pulled his fingers free of the clasp of his servant’s body. Then, feeling almost playful, he laid a
brisk smack on one muscular cheek. Simion jerked slightly, yelping, but Vlad felt the man’s cock
twitch against the inside of his thighs. He graced the other buttock with a like blow, watching the
almost imperceptible pink flush rise, and feeling the warm streak of wetness against his leg from
where Simion’s swollen cock had begun to leak the clear fluid that accompanied arousal.
He pushed the stocky man off his lap, and spread his legs even wider, slipping further down on his
spine. His prick jutted up invitingly, long and thick. It, too, was drizzling with the glistening syrup of
lust. Simion eyed it, licking his lips unconsciously. He would have enjoyed tasting Draculea, but that
wasn’t what his master wanted right now.
Simion gestured toward the little bowl. "Master, if I may... ?"
Vlad grunted. "Hurry."
Simion dipped up a generous amount of the cool oil, and slathered it over Draculea’s quivering prick.
He worked quickly, but carefully, being sure to annoint the broad, dusky rose head lavishly. That had
to slide into him, and he wanted to ease the way as much as possible. When he noticed Vlad’s fingers
beginning to thrum on the chair arm, he heeded the warning.
Turning away from his master, he bent and reached back taking hold of the thick, fleshy rod. He felt
Draculea spread his cheeks again, and help him guide the knob to rest against the loosened ring of his
anus. Then Simion took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to sink back.
He gritted his teeth as he was slowly spitted on Vlad’s prick, the engorged flesh filling him to capacity.
When the head passed over that special spot in his bowels, he threw his head back, whimpering in
pleasure, and heard his master laugh, a deep, chesty rumble. Finally his buttocks settled against his
master’s groin, and Vlad lifted his knees, setting his feet flat on the floor, so that his flesh-spitted lover
was cradled.
Vlad allowed him a moment to adjust, running his hands up and down Simion’s back, reaching around
to toy with the other man’s dripping cock. Simion trembled at the sensations, breathless. He had
forgotten how full he felt when Draculea was inside him. Despite the intensity of the sensations he was
experiencing, a smile ghosted across his face. There was that nickname his master had acquired, from
a favored method of dealing with enemies. The act of piercing the unfortunates anally on sharpened,
mounted stakes, and leaving them to dangle their lives away. Vlad the Impaler. He almost laughed.
Oh, they don’t know how appropriate the name is.
Simion felt an insistant tug at his genitals, and knew it was time to begin. He braced his feet, tensed his
leg muscles, and rested his hands on Vlad’s wide spread knees for support. Then he slowly lifted
himself a few inches. He bit his lip as the cock inside him passed again over the tiny bump that was
capable of giving such joy, but he kept his pace slow. He continued the upward glide till only the
bulbous glans were still trapped in his body, then he began to lower himself again.
Vlad groaned as his vassal’s body settled around him once more, swallowing his lust heated flesh.
Simion might not be the pinnacle of his imaginings, but he was a solid, reliable fuck. He would give
Vlad what he needed to be able to sleep tonight.
Vlad closed his eyes and let the other man work his body up and down on his straining shaft. His
hands drifted to his own chest, teasing the hard nubs of his nipples as he imagined that it was another
who touched him. In his mind, a lean, graceful body straddled him, willingly taking his cock into
honeyed depths, and long, artistic fingers roamed over him. Dark eyes, slightly tilted at the corners,
shone down at him, and a wide, beatutiful mouth was softly open in desire.
Simion, rising and falling steadily, glanced back to see how his lord was faring. Draculea’s head was
back, and his eyes were closed. Odd. Simion knew that part of Vlad’s pleasure usually came from
watching his own prick spearing into the body of his chosen lover, seeing the way he stretched the
submissive flesh. Vlad’s lips moved silently, forming one word over and over, and Simion nodded to
himself. Of course. It might be Simion’s body in which Draculea would spill his seed in this world, but
in his imaginings, he was fucking the young librarian.
Well, then, my lord. I must see to it that your little lover does not disappoint you, at least this first
time. He began to move more quickly, giving his hips a minute twist to increase the friction.
Draculea grunted at the increased sensations, plucking roughly at his own flesh. He was moving
quickly toward his climax. Simion began to fear that he would have to leave quickly and quietly when
his lordship was done, so that he could soothe his own needy cock.
But then Vlad could keep still no longer. Strong hands seized Simion’s hips, holding him still, and
Vlad began to thrust up into his bowels. Simion wasn’t allowed to move. He had to just crouch there,
and accept the stabbing insertions. He didn’t mind. Vlad’s prick rubbed constantly against his prostate,
washing him in a continuous wave of pleasure. Since he was held firm, he could release his hold on
Draculea’s knees, and he put his now free hands to good work, masturbating quickly. He need not
delay his own release to ensure his master’s.
In fact he came before Vlad. His sperm fountained from the tip of his prick, splattering his hands. He
groaned, his ass muscles spasming around the thick staff that had given him such pleasure, milking it.
It triggered Vlad’s own orgasm. With a gutteral cry he jerked Simion down on his stiff cock almost
viciously, forcing it so far up into him that the experienced man winced with pain even as his orgasm
continued to roll over him. And Vlad held him there, panting, as his dick pulsed, throwing his heated
lust juice into the snug, accepting back channel of his servant.
They stayed like that for a minute or two, both heaving from their exertions. Vlad idly petted Simion’s
sweat damp back, silently commending him. Simion dropped his head in an equally silent
acknowledgement, and thanks. Then Vlad once again smacked his ass, and Simion stood up. He
winced again as the now softening cock slid out of him.
A little shakily, he went to the table, and poured water into the basin provided. He brought it back to
where Draculea still sprawled, knelt between his legs, and gently cleansed him, wiping away the
spunk, and traces of shit and blood. He would clean himself once his lord was comfortably abed. Once
Draculea’s genitals were damp and clean, Simion dared to press a small kiss to the now smaller, pale
pink head. He felt a hand rummage in his hair with rough near-affection, and rested his face for a
moment against the strong inner thigh.
He had known from the first time that Draculea took him that he would never be this magnificent
man’s love. The most he could hope for was to be his servant, perhaps his occasional bed partner, and,
hopefully, his friend. He was willing to settle for this, and was content. He spent his life trying to
facilitate Draculea’s happiness. If it would take this boy to ensure that, then Simion was willing to do
all in his power to push the boy into Draculea’s arms.
Still naked, he got up and filled the warming pan with hot coals from the fire that flickered low on the
hearth. He passed it quickly between the sheets, removing any chill that might linger, then watched as
his master slipped into the bed, settling down for the night. Long years of closeness gave him the
boldness to speak without being bidden. "Will you be able to sleep tonight?"
"I think so, Simion." He reached out. One hand lazily caressed the other man’s hip. "Thanks to your
attentions." He yawned. "There’s no one like you for taking the edge off. Good night."
Simion bowed low. "Sleep well, Maria Ta Vlad." Draculea smiled faintly at the mixture of respect and
familiarity, his title with his given name, and turned over, burrowing into his pillow.
Simion watched him for a moment more, then washed himself quickly, donned his clothing, and
slipped from the room. As he made his way to the lonely bed that had been assigned to him, his body
aching, but replete, he reflected that he was a fool to love such a man, when there would never be
anything more than this in return. But as long as I have this, it is enough. He lay in bed, staring at the
ceiling for awhile, finally drifting off to sleep with the thought, Boy, I only hope you appreciate him.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Ambivelance

Author’s Notes: fandom: Movie. Dracula
pairing: Nicolae/other
criticism Yes
archive Yes, let me know where
feedback Yes. poet_77665@yahoo.com
disclaimer: Originally Bram Stoker. Some ideas borrowed from Universal and Hammer Studios, and
Oliver Stone.
summary: Vlad commits himself to marry Elizabeta: partially to appease his duty, but mostly in hopes
of getting to Nicolae
notes: After a bit of research, I found out that the original Vlad was actually a prince, so he will be
referred to as such from now on, and in later versions of the previous material. In the Victorian section
of the story, he will masquerade as a count. Before anyone calls me on it, ’sororal’ IS a word. I
figured, if there’s ’fraternal’... It means ’of, relating to, or resembling a sister; sisterly.’
rating NC-17
warnings: possibly politically incorrect portrayal of a homosexual as a predator. But, people, read up
on the man !
Child of the Night, Part Five

Later That Night
Castle Varga, Romania
Ambivalence
Nicolae wished he could have spent a few moments speaking with Elizabeta after the feast, as he was
eager to learn what she thought of her suitor. But Ernestu father made sure that was not possible. He
herded his youngest daughter from the room the moment the prince left, scowling darkly at his bastard
son.
Elizabeta and Nicolae had both been born on the same day, only hours apart. Ernestu still couldn’t
imagine what had possessed him to allow the boy to be raised in his own household. Perhaps his
mother had been a witch? It would be nice to think so, because he wouldn’t feel so obligated toward
the boy. Some how Christina, his wife’s lady-in- waiting, had persuaded him to keep the boy on. On
her death bed, she had extracted a sworn vow that little Nicolae would never be thrown out into the
world to starve. So Ernestu was stuck with him, unless he could find the boy a substantial position
elsewhere.
Nicolae hadn’t had a very happy childhood. Oh, the actual abuse wasn’t so bad, not compared to what
it could have been, or to what others of his station suffered routinely. He knew that, and dutifully
thanked God in his prayers. But it had been... lonely.
Ernestu was indifferent, his wife hated Nicolae as proof in the flesh of her husband’s infidelity, and the
servants either couldn’t be bothered, or were afraid of incurring her displeasure. The only ones who
were kind to him were the religious brothers employed to tutor him and Elizabeta, and his half-sister
herself.
Elizabeta was the only mortal to ever express open, personal love for Nicolae. And Nicolae had to
admit that between the two of them, his love was the greater. He tried not to fault her for it. It was the
world into which they had been born, he told himself. The world functioned on a strict hierarchy,
ranging from God in Heaven, down through celestial beings, to Man, to the Beasts, and down into the
Crawling Kingdom. Those of a higher order were always aware of the gaps. A relationship, even one
as benign as sororal love, was not really permitted between a high born lady and a bastard of dubious
gentility. So he watched sadly as his sister swept out of the room, surrounded by her giggling
entourage. She seemed happy. He was glad of that.
He sat for awhile longer, picking at the plate of sweets before him. This was one thing he had missed
in the monastery. The food there was usually ample (unless there was a fast decreed), but so plain.
Nicolae feared that one of his secret sins was gluttony. He just couldn’t resist the cakes, pies, and
confections that Ernestu’s cooks turned out so steadily.
Nicolae had no idea how charmingly young he looked, rummaging among the sugared almonds and
candied fruit. Several of the women, and not a few of the men, watched him covertly. He was very
tempting: so young, beautiful, and innocent. But he was in Ernestu’s disfavor, and no one was willing
to risk that to try to sample his charms. A few remarked, though, that perhaps the visiting Prince would
not be cowed by Ernestu’s disapproval. He’d certainly kept the boy close enough throughout the
entertainment.
Nicolae finished his meal, still refusing all offers of wine. It had been hotly argued in the monastery as
to whether or not wine should be consumed outside the Holy Sacrament. Some advocated complete
abstinence. Others pointed to the miracle of Our Lord changing water into wine at the wedding feast.
Surely he could not object? Nicolae, as in most things, felt it was better to err on the side of self
restraint. He hadn’t seen all that much of the world, but he knew that strong drink could lead some
men to act in a less than godly manner.
He remembered a certain incident not long before he had been required to leave his sanctuary and
return to the castle. One of the laymen who occasionally helped the friars had found the medicinal
brandy that their healer kept in the still room. Nicu had found the man, drunk, on the floor. The proper
thing to do would have been to alert a senior brother immediately, but... The man, some ten or fifteen
years older than he, had been kind. He had treated Nicolae with rough good humor, making a few
mildly coarse jests that had left Nicu blushing in confusion, and amused the man even more.
Nicolae had stared at the man, sprawled on the cold stone in a drunken stupor. His tunic was rucked up
around his hips, exposing sturdy, hairy legs, marked here and there by a scar acquired in his labors. It
must be cold, Nicolae had thought. He doubted that he could help the man up and to his bed, but
perhaps he could make him more comfortable.
He squatted beside the man and gently tugged at the hem of his garment, trying to pull it down for the
sake of warmth, and modesty. He had been shocked when the hard, callused hand had closed over his
wrist. The laborer wasn’t as drunk as Nicolae had thought, it seemed.
Or was he? Nicolae looked into blood-shot eyes, and the man slowly smiled at him. "Well, hello,
pretty." he slurred.
Nicolae said quietly, "It’s all right. I want to help you."
"Oh, aye, lad, aye. Ye can help me well." Nicolae froze in surprise as the man pulled his own tunic up
higher, and dragged Nicolae’s hand down into the wiry thatch of hair at his crotch. He formed the
boy’s fingers around the thick tube of flesh that was just beginning to stir there. "I been wond’rin when
ye would come ta me, but yer worth waitin’ for."
Nicolae shivered violently, and the man apparently mistook it for passion. He’d been hoping that the
dark-eyed male beauty, who moved among the plain friars like a thoroughbred colt among a herd of
plow beasts, would prove willing, and now it seemed his wishes were being answered. "Aye, lad, for
you. You’re the prettiest piece, man or woman, I’ve seen in dog’s years."
"No, please," Nicolae whispered desperately. "You don’t understand."
Now the man’s hand was moving up under Nicolae’s robe, running along the outside of his thigh.
"S’alright, m’ lovely. I understand. A sweet bit like yerself, locked up here with these dry sticks...
Only ta be ’spected you’d want a taste of a real man."
Nicolae was horrified to feel a stirring in his groin. It was one that usually only came to him late at
night, or else he awakened to it. He started to feel light headed as his blood began to pound in his
veins, seeming to rush directly to that one point between his legs.
The man was moving Nicolae’s hand now, using it to stroke himself. The flesh under Nicolae’s palm
felt heated, and it swelled ever greater by the moment. Nicolae felt the other man’s hand slip around to
tickle at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, fingers crawling upward toward the center of his heat. He
moaned, and the other man chuckled, a perfectly evil sound, "That’s right, m’pretty. Ah, if ye only had
a set of teats, ye’d be just about perfect."
It was like cold water thrown in Nicolae’s face. What was he doing? He tore his hand away, falling
backward, landing on his bottom. The other man whined in protest, and started to try to crawl over to
him. His penis was now engorged, thick and long, and a clear stream of liquid drooled from the head.
It swayed pendulously as he crawled toward the boy, who was scooting away. "Come back to me,
pretty. I won’t hurt ye, I swear. I’ll be gentle..."
Nicolae scrambled to his feet and fled. He ran to the chapel, and crouched at the alter in supplication,
then went to kneel before the blessed Madonna, lifting his hands in wordless appeal.
He was in turmoil, more frightened than he’d ever been in his life, because part of him had wanted to
remain there on the still room floor, had wanted to allow the drunken, lusting man to crawl over him,
and had wanted to find out exactly what he had meant when he said he would be gentle...
Nicolae prostrated himself, lying on his face on the cold stone, arms outstretched to either side, and
tried to pray. But he was too aware of the heat of his cock, erect and throbbing, pressed between his
belly and the floor. He couldn’t even manage a rote Hail Mary, or Our Father. All he could do was
whisper, over and over, "Please, God. Please, God. Please, God."
Eventually the insistent swelling abated, and his flesh cooled, if his mind did not. He got on his knees
and spent the next hour begging for forgiveness for his lustful thoughts. But he did not dare tell the
priest about them during his next confession. So far he had confessed them only to the Blessed Virgin.
He hoped she understood, and wished that she would grant him peace from the images that had begun
to plague him. Because he kept seeing that swollen shaft of flesh, swaying proudly, glistening...
Nicolae shook his head, looking around the banquet hall. It was almost empty now, most of the
revelers having gone off to bed: their’s, or another’s. Past time for him to be abed, also. The Prince
might wish to come to the library early tomorrow.
Nicolae padded through the twisting corridors, ever lower into the depths of the castle. He often tried
to console himself that since his room was beneath the dank earth, it would mean he was best
protected if the castle was ever attacked. He would have liked a window, though, so he could catch a
breeze, or see by something other than lamp and candle light.
In his tiny room, which really wasn’t much different than his cell at the monastery had been, he lit
only one candle. It was all he needed for his evening’s devotions, and to see himself to bed.
Sitting on the edge of his plain, narrow cot, Nicolae read a chapter from his bible, choosing Proverbs
He liked that book: such simple, clear directions for life. Then he knelt on the cold stone floor and
prayed his rosary, letting the drone of words and click of beads soothe him, as it always did.
He was a little ashamed that his mind did not, perhaps, always remain fixed on the Divine Mysteries as
he chanted the prayers. In penance, he said the beads again, feeling his knees go numb on the hard
floor, and feeling the twinge in one calf that warned of an approaching cramp. Luckily, he finished
before the muscles tensed, and arose.
At last he stripped off the rough tunic. He decided to keep on the smooth linen under drawers that
Elizabeta had given him. She had been horrified to learn that he went nude under his robes. He had
been near dead of embarrassment.
It seemed that one of her ladies had gossiped that the order he had stayed with felt that undergarments
were an unnecessary vanity. Indeed, Nicolae could see how the garments could be considered a
temptation for the earthly clay. They were wonderfully sensuous, cool and smooth against his skin. He
felt almost guilty for his enjoyment of them.
Nicolae blew out the candle and crawled under his thin blanket. He pillowed his head on his arm and
tried to sleep, eventually succeeding... to a point.
He dreamed. He’d had such dreams before, and they were more sensation that sense, more feeling than
thought. He felt washed by waves of delicious warmth, as if strong hands were stroking the length of
his body. He turned on his belly with a sigh, and his now tumescent cock pressed into his thin
mattress. His hips moved unconsciously, rubbing the sensitive flesh against the smoothness of his
drawers.
Nicolae hummed in his sleep, long body writhing slowly to the rhythm of his dream. He felt an aching
emptiness in his body, as if something were missing, as if there was a void that needed to be filled. In
his sleep, he buried his face against the mattress, feeling phantom hands caress his back, his sides, his
neck. Unconsciously, his legs spread...
...and he awoke with a start, feeling the warm gush of fluid that bathed his belly and began to soak into
his bed. He sat up with a cry of shame and distress.
Standing, he quickly stripped off his drawers. There was water in the basin for his morning wash, and
he rinsed the soiled garment, then spread it carefully on his one crude chair to dry.
Nicolae turned his mattress, putting the damp patch on the other side, then started to lie down again.
But he stopped, biting his lip. The dream was still too close. If he slept now, it might return.
Instead, he knelt again on the rough stones, naked this time, and began to pray. He tried to keep his
mind fixed on good works, virtues and charities. But for some mad reason, all he could think about
were blue eyes...
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Courtship

Author’s Notes: pairing: None this episode
disclaimer: Bram Stoker, Universal and Hammer Studios, and Oliver Stone own the rights.
summary: Vlad begins to show his interest in Nicolae, much to the boy’s confusion and initial dismay.
notes: Vlad is spending some time at Castle Varga to determine whether or not he wishes to marry
Elizbeta Varga. Royalty of this time often did not have this luxury, as marriages were often political
arrangements, set up with the two subjects never having met.
rating: FRAO
warnings: The description of how Vlad disposed of some of his enemies isn’t as graphic as it COULD
be, but it is DEFINITELY disturbing, and reveals his cruel side.
Beta: Thanks, krss. I’ll remember ’Maria Ta’ eventually. I know, my Mom’s name is Marietta, so if I
change ONE letter...
Part 6: Courtship
Castle Varga, Romania 1460
Vlad was an early riser, had been all his life. As a prince, he could have theoretically lain in bed as
long as he wished. Being a practical man, in most matters, he knew this was not wise. If the people
thought that their ruler was lazy, it might give certain factions dangerous ideas. Vlad cultivated the
impression that he slept little, if at all.
He arose, as was his custom, in the grey light that signaled the coming dawn. As early as he was,
Simion was up before him. His servant was poking the slumbering coals of last night’s fire into life,
feeding it carefully. He glanced back over his shoulder as Vlad swung his long legs over the side of the
bed, sitting up. "Good morning, Maria Ta Draculea." In the light of day, he was back to the formal
mode of address. "You slept well?"
"Well enough, Simion. It would have been more satisfying had I someone sleek and warm curled close
beside me."
Simion nodded. "Soon, master, I am sure."
"I hope so, Simion. The boy was raised in a monastery. What might those sexless drones have done to
his spirit?"
Simion’s smile was arch. "They aren’t all sexless, m’lord. I believe you know that from experience. I
seem to recall a certain young abbot..."
Vlad chuckled at the memory. "Well, he was an exception. There wasn’t an altar boy in the province
he hadn’t debauched, and half the priests as well." His eyes darkened. "It was a shame he was a traitor.
I really hated having to spear that sweet ass with hard, sharp wood instead of a good, solid cock."
The cleric in question had been foolish enough to have dealings with the Turks, even hiding some of
them in his monastery. He had to die for that, no matter his previous relation with the Prince. If Vlad
had allowed him to live after such a blatant betrayal, it would have seriously undermined him in the
eyes of his people.
So the fair abbot, along with several of his Turkish friends, had writhed his life away on a tall stake, as
thick as a brawny man’s arm, set up in front of Castle Draculea, He had thrashed, naked, as his weight
had slowly forced him down on the sharpened wood driven up his anus, while the man who had
fucked him with such passion not a month before dined placidly at a table that had been set up before
him. He had no way of knowing that Vlad, in his own way, and as much as he felt able, was being
kind. The stake had been sharpened, so that it would pierce more quickly. The Turks had been impaled
on blunt stakes. It took them much longer to die.
Simion saw that he had led Vlad to a memory that darkened his mood, exactly what he had wished to
avoid. He set a kettle of water on the hob over the flames to warm, and stood up. "Will you breakfast
before you take your morning ride, Domn? I have brought something, if you wish."
Vlad stood up and stretched, distracted from the unpleasant memory by the thought of food. He hadn’t
eaten as much as he might have last night. He’d been too preoccupied with observing Nicolae. "Yes,
Simion. I can eat."
He slipped into the simple morning robe that Simion held for him, and went to the table. There was
bread, cheese, sausage, and apples laid out for him. He munched his way pensively through the simple
repast as Simion bustled about the room, setting the bed to order and laying out his clothes for the day.
When he was finished, Simion brought a basin of steaming water, soap, a cloth, and the razor. Hanging
the cloth over Vlad’s shoulder, he worked the fine, scented soap onto his prince’s face, bringing up a
lavish lather, and began to shave him.
Most men of this age, if not clerics, preferred to grow beards, or at least moustaches, rather than
struggle with the daily chore of shaving in an age when only the wealthy could afford to keep fine,
keen edged razors. Simion suspected that the religious did it as a form of penance, using dull blades to
scrape the stubble from face and head.
Shaving was not an ordeal for Prince Vlad. Simion made sure the razor was kept stropped to a hair fine
edge, and he used a special soap, formulated by an apothecary to soothe his prince’s skin, prevent
scrapes, and speed the healing of any cuts. But there were never cuts. Simion was an expert with any
kind of edged instrument. He could either coddle, or destroy. With his prince, he was meticulous.
Vlad was probably aware of the expertise and care, but he took it as only his due. He waited till
Simion was wiping lather and stubble on the cloth to say, "I wonder if he shaves yet?"
Simion did not need to ask who Draculea was referring to. "I expect he does, though that baby skin
might give me the lie. In any case, it can’t be necessary more than twice or thrice a week."
Simion returned to his task, carefully working his way along the strong jaw. "I asked around a bit in
the kitchens, since I knew who to inquire after." He said nothing more as he cleared a patch on Vlad’s
cheek, daring to tease his prince.
When Simion again went to wipe the razor, Vlad blurted. "So? What have you learned? Tell me!"
Simion stilled him by again setting the razor to his face. He smiled inside. This was the only way he
knew he could silence Draculea, and he didn’t dare push it too far. Vlad’s temper was volatile, and
uncertain, and he was very, very focused on the boy right now.
"There is not much to tell. I’m sure you gleaned most of it from the conversation at table last night. He
is Nicolae Calugarul, Nicolae the Monk. Though he hasn’t taken Holy Orders... yet. He is the son of
Varga and one of his late wife’s ladies. She must have had a bit of a hold on him, because he waited
some years before fostering the boy out. Nicolae lived here, and even spent time with Varga’s
legitimate get, till he was ten."
More speckled foam was deposited on the cloth, and Vlad took the opportunity to speak. "He sent the
boy to live among those drones? Criminal."
Simion tilted Vlad’s chin up, stretching his throat. It was a monumental show of trust for the royal to
allow him to glide that glistening blade over the gently pulsing veins in his throat. "You must
remember, my Domn, that Varga does not see the boy through your eyes. Much to the lad’s good, I
might add. He could very well have taken him to his bed in rank incest. It wouldn’t be the first time
that a noble seduced his own lower born get." Vlad grimaced, thinking of his own father. The senior
Dracul had more than likely tumbled a few of his own daughters among the peasants. Simion almost
laid a tiny cut on his chin. "Please, Domn!" he scolded mildly.
"I’m sorry, Simion." Vlad muttered absently. Anyone outside his circle would have been
flabbergasted. A prince, apologizing to a servant? It didn’t happen often, but it happened.
"The boy is older than you think. He was prepared to take orders and enter the monastery as a full
brother. But Varga learned of the gift that was expected, and called him home. The lad was very upset.
He had his heart set on being a friar."
"But WHY?" Vlad snatched another cloth and impatiently wiped away the last specks of soap. He
allowed Simion to wipe his face with a damp cloth, then apply a cooling ointment. "Why would
anyone with blood in his veins choose such a life?"
"I think, Domn, that it was preferable to what he had here. He was not well cherished. Among the
brothers, he received attention, even affection and praise. He is, to all accounts, a very bright lad. He
might be brilliant, if anyone cared to nurture and promote his intelligence. Alas, that requires effort
and expense, and no one is willing to offer either."
He began to assist Draculea into his clothes. "Varga made a vow on his mistress’ death bed that the
boy would be cared for. When it seemed he would have to expend a bit of his gold to keep the boy in
the monastery, he had him brought here and installed him as librarian. This way he has a keeper for his
books and papers without having to pay, and he fulfills his promise by not allowing the boy to starve."
Vlad straightened his shirt carefully, looking thoughtful. "A rather cold life, I would think, Simion."
Simion bowed. "I cannot help but agree, my prince."
"A life he might, perhaps, be persuaded to trade for one with more... warmth?"
"Very possibly." Simion smoothed a wrinkle from the butter-soft leather of Vlad’s breeches, stroking
down one strong thigh, and chose his words and tone carefully. "If the persuader is patient... and
gentle."
"Simion," there was a touch of silky menace in Draculea’s voice. "Are you accusing me of being an
impatient man?"
"My prince is, on rare occasions... impulsive."
Draculea laughed. "Had you been higher born, Simion, I do not doubt that you would have excelled in
politics. You can say the rudest things in the most civil, tactful way." Not waiting for his manservant,
Draculea quickly ran a carved ivory comb through his long, unruly dark hair, arranging it as well as he
could.
He examined himself in the looking glass, a luxury afforded only to nobility and royalty. Cocking his
head, he studied himself, taking in the strong, stubborn features, the light eyes, and the large, hard
body. "What do you think, Simion? Will I lure him, or scare him away?"
"Only ignorance and fear, or innocence, could hold him back, Maria Ta."
Vlad shrugged. "In any case, I must see to exercising Lucifer before I go hunting my little lamb. I
can’t allow my best war horse to grow fat and lazy, any more than I’d allow myself to do the same."
**********************************
Nicolae had taken his meager breakfast from the kitchen and brought it to the library on the second
floor, as was his habit. He spent as much time in the room as possible. He was not disturbed here, and
the presence of the tomes and scrolls around him soothed him as the company of people never could.
Nicolae pushed open the heavy window and climbed up on the wide stone sill, arranging himself
comfortably with his back against one side, knees bent so that his long legs would fit. He cradled his
bread and cheese in his lap and began his repast, staring out into the slowly gathering light. The
window faced the east, and he could watch the sunrise.
The horizon gradually lightened, going from dark blue, to pink, to lavender and gold. The trees, bare
now of leaves, held stark black branches against the changing colors, like dark lace on a lady’s satin
gown. He could hear the occasional sleepy twitter of a bird from the castle garden, around the side of
the building, and the stamp and whinny of horses from the stable on the other side of the courtyard he
was seated above.
Nicolae liked this time of day. It was now that he felt both most alone, and most at one with the world.
Peculiar, but true. It was easier now to turn his mind toward God, and the Divine Mysteries. Although,
he thought guiltily, he seldom did that. Like today.
As he slowly chewed the slightly tough bread, his mind wandered to the banquet last night. What a
feast that had been! They didn’t actually skimp on his victuals here, but it was made clear to him that
every mouthful was a charity provided by his reluctant sire. That was a rather bitter sauce for any
meal.
Last night he had been able to eat without curbing his natural appetites, and he had been a bit greedy.
He blushed now, remembering the relish with which he had devoured fish, fowl, flesh, bread, and
sweets.
Oh, the sweets! He closed his eyes for a moment, face lighting with the memory. How he loved them.
Could he really consider himself a man when he kept this childish love of confections? Varga *father*
sneered at him, asking on occasion if he didn’t want a sugar teat, like they made to quiet the infants
who were sprouting their first teeth, or being weaned from the breast.
Nicu broke off a piece of the bread with a sigh, opening his eyes and dropping his gaze idly to the
courtyard...
...and found himself gazing into sharp, light blue eyes.
Prince Vlad Draculea stood in the courtyard, dressed in dark leather riding breeches, high boots, and a
loose black shirt. An hostler was leading the lord’s great black stallion to him, the magnificent beast
prancing eagerly, breath steaming faintly in the cool air. Vlad had been in the process of drawing on a
riding glove, but he paused, staring up at Nicolae.
************************************
The boy was perched in the second story window like some casual faerie prince, amusing himself with
watching the mortal world, his back to the stone, his long legs curved up before him. The cassock he
wore was pulled up, showing strong, pale calves and surprisingly delicate ankles.
Nicolae had a bit of bread half way to his mouth when they noticed each other, and he froze there.
Vlad let his gaze run over the boy without restraint, not bothering to try to hide his interest, now that
there was no one nearby to note it. He returned his look to the velvet brown eyes, and smiled slowly.
When the boy licked his lips nervously, the smile faded, his expression growing intense. Not knowing
what else to do, Nicolae finished the bread’s journey to his mouth, and nibbled at it tentatively.
He saw Draculea shut his eyes, and a tremor seemed to pass through the long body of the prince. Then
he snatched the reins of his horse from the stable lad and vaulted into the saddle. As he landed, he set
his spurs to Lucifer’s side, jerking back on the reins.
The temperamental stallion took immediate offense, rearing with a squeal of rage. Nicolae gasped as
the huge beast slashed viciously at the air with it’s front hooves. The stable lad dodged to safety,
narrowly missing having his skull split, but that was an occupational hazard. The midnight black beast
plunged and capered, and Nicolae expected at any moment to see the headstrong Prince dashed to the
cobbles beneath him.
But it didn’t happen. Vlad kept his seat as the animal writhed, doing everything it could to throw him.
Slowly the beast quieted. At last it stood still, trembling, its sides damp and heaving. Draculea bent
over, whispering in the flickering ear, stroking the sweat lathered neck, gazing up once again at
Nicolae. He smiled again at the boy. *You see?* his eyes seemed to say. *I am master. Nothing stands
against me for long. All can be broken, but I prefer a bit of spirit in my mounts.*
He turned the beast, and cantered out of the courtyard. Nicolae watched him go, round eyed, and
hugged his knees. "Oh, Beta," he whispered. "Are you sure he’s what you want? We are alike in many
things, but I have led an humble life, dear sister. I know humility. I do not think that you have it in
YOUR nature to submit as such a man would demand."
To be continued...
end part 6
Back to index
Chapter 7: Chapter 7: The Suitor

Author’s Notes: pairing: Vlad/Nicolae
disclaimer: Characters and concepts (except Nicolae, Simion, and minor characters) belong originally
to Bram Stoker, Universal and
Hammer Studios, and Oliver Stone’s version of the story.
summary: Vlad finds himself more interested in his potential fiance’s brother than in the girl herself.
notes: rating: FRAO
warnings: Slash (m/m sexual interest)
Part 7: The Suitor

Romania, Castle Varga
Year of Our Lord 1460
Vlad rode Lucifer long and hard, challenging his mount. Lucifer, as always, met the challenge with
enthusiasm. He flew over the countryside, leaping hedges and ditches with scarcely a touch of his
master’s spurs. Peasants leapt from the narrow roadways as the Wallachian prince thundered past on
his great black steed . A few cursed, but most merely shook their heads in admiration.
When Vlad felt that he once again had a bit of control, when he knew that he would be able to meet
the boy without throwing him to the ground and ravishing him, he turned back to the castle. An ostler
came running to take the reins as he dismounted. Before walking away, Vlad grabbed the peasant’s
collar and said quietly, "See that he’s walked to cool him down, and be sure he’s dried and combed. If
you let him drink too soon, and he founders, you’ll learn firsthand why I earned the name ’Impaler’."
The man was trembling as the prince entered the castle. There had probably been no reason to threaten
him: there was no cause to believe he would neglect his duties. But Draculea operated on the principle
that it was always sound politics to let your people know exactly where you stood, and what you were
capable of doing.
It was still very quiet in the castle. Only servants were in evidence: Ernestu and Beta were apparently
still abed. *Slugabeds, eh? Good. I’ll have to make at least a show of attentiveness when they are
awake and about. But I can devote this time to my sweet scholar.* He smiled to himself as he mounted
the stairs, going in search of the library. *And I have never objected to a bit of a cuddle in the light of
day.*
He remembered the location of the window in which Nicolae had perched , and found the room easily
enough. Vlad paused outside the thick door, listening for a moment. No sound. But then, how much
noise did copying out script make, he reproved himself. He paused to run a hand through his
ride-disarranged hair, swearing softly when he found that he’d forgotten to remove his gloves. *The
boy already makes me addle-headed. I can only hope that once I’ve slaked my lust I will regain my
fled senses.* he thought wryly, as he tucked the gloves in his belt.
Once again he passed a hand through his hair. He considered seeking out Simion to have his vassal
brush him down for travel dust, but *Simion, you speak the truth* he was too impatient. Instead he
hastily slapped at his sleeves and ran a handkerchief briefly over the smooth surface of his trousers.
There. That was as presentable as he would make himself. It wouldn’t do for the lad to get the idea
right away that Vlad was taking pains for his sake.
As he lifted the latch, it occurred to him to wonder at himself for being so concerned for the boy’s
opinion. It had never mattered to him all that much in a bed partner. He knew his own worth, and did
not feel the need for others to reflect it back to him. But for some reason, he very much wanted to
impress this obscure novitiate.
If small, the castle was well-maintained. The heavy door swung open silently on well-greased hinges.
Draculea stood for a moment in the doorway, peering in. It was a good-sized room. Each wall was
lined with shelves, which were loaded with books, scrolls, and neat piles of manuscripts. The only free
space was the large window. It stood open, admitting a fresh morning breeze, scented by the late
blooming flowers in the nearby garden. The sweet smell would be lost soon as the blossoms drooped
and died in the coming cold. But now the scented wind was a delight, and it ruffled the silky hair of
the boy sitting at the table before the window.
His back was to the door, and his dark head was bent over the piece of parchment stretched out before
him. Vlad entered the room silently, his boots making no sound. For a large man, he could move with
stealth when he wished, and now he wanted a chance to observe the boy unawares. He moved up
almost beside him, a little away, and studied him He was not noticed. The rest of the world had ceased
to exist for Nicolae. He was so absorbed in his task that the roof would needs have crumbled on his
head for him to notice.
His eyes were intent as he scanned the tattered document stretched to one side. He ran one long finger
along a fading line of script, lips moving silently, brows drawn slightly together in concentration. Then
he dipped the quill he held into a small pot of ink and set the nib to the fresh sheet of paper before him.
He began to write.
Draculea watched the graceful motion of the slender, strong hand as it formed the careful curves,
loops, and strokes of the letters. His script was meticulous and clear, but somehow... Somehow his
personality shone through it. Elizabeta was right: it was a work of art. Mindful of smears and smudges,
Vlad waited to speak till the boy sat back to regard his work. "You are at your occupation early this
morning, little monk."
Nicolae gave near imperceptible jerk of surprise, almost dropping the pen. He stood up hastily, bowing
to Draculea. Even a noble did not remain seated when a prince entered the room, much less one as
humble as Nicolae Calugarul. "Yes, Maria Ta. I was taught in the monastery that industriousness is a
virtue to be coveted."
Vlad looked at him solemnly. "But boy, isn’t covetousness a sin?"
Nicolae felt a wash of dismay. It was true! The Commandments themselves said so... Then he noticed
Vlad’s smile, and realized with a start that he was being teased. No one but Elizabeta had ever done so.
Not knowing how to react, he turned to the always comforting solidity of his work. "Maria Ta, if I
could beg your indulgence for a moment... The ink needs to be set on this paper."
"Of course, boy, of course. Finish your work." When Nicolae began to move the chair out of the way,
Draculea said, "No." He urged him down into the seat with the press of a hand on his shoulder, letting
it linger there for a moment more than was needed. "Sit. No need to stand on ceremony. We are
alone." He moved a second chair close beside Nicolae and sat. He noticed that the boy shivered
slightly when he said the last three words, and he smiled to himself. Yes, there was something there.
Nicolae opened a small wooden box. It contained dust -fine sand, and he scooped up a small amount
and began to sprinkle it over the wet ink slowly and carefully. Vlad watched the precise movements,
the way the long fingers flexed as he sifted the grains over the paper. Nicolae’s hands were very pale,
and there was a dark smudge of ink on his thumb. Draculea imagined taking that thumb into his
mouth, wondering if the tang of the ink would overwhelm the taste of the boy’s skin.
At last Nicolae was satisfied. He dusted his hands, nodding. "Now it must sit and dry, so that the ink is
properly absorbed into the paper."
Not looking at the article in question, Vlad said, "It is a handsome effort."
The boy blushed slightly. "Thank you, Domn." He gently touched one corner of the document. "It is an
important work, part of the writings of St. Paul. When I have completed them all, I hope that my... my
patron will send them to the monastery to be bound."
*He was going to say ’father’* "Don’t librarians usually possess that skill?"
It had been an idle question, meant only to keep the boy speaking. But he bit his lip, looking away, and
said quietly, "I was to begin learning that from Brother Teodor when I took my vows. The materials
are so precious that they would not risk them on a mere novice."
Draculea knew very well that Nicolae had not left his sanctuary by choice, but he pretended curiosity,
"So, you decided that the life was not for you, eh? Too quiet, too sterile..."
"Oh, no, Maria Ta!" He turned earnest eyes on the prince. "It was... it IS my greatest wish to enter the
brotherhood. Ambition is vanity, and vanity is sin, but that is my ambition. I pray for God to forgive
me for it, and to send me the patience to accept my lot in life, but..." He trailed off.
"It is not easy to give up the dream of something you truly desire, is it?"
Nicolae looked down at his hands, toying restlessly now with the little box. *This man is so strange.
Why do I feel that he SAYS more to me than just the words he speaks?* Aloud, he said, "Dreams are...
a luxury for some of us, Domn. What we wish counts little in this world."
"It should not be so, Nicolae." Vlad removed the box and set it aside, then held the boy’s hand. "Why
can you not join with your little brown friars?"
Nicolae was bewildered. A royal did not have physical contact with a vassal unless he was receiving
some sort of service. But then, a vassal did not protest a royal’s touch. The intimacy of Draculea’s
gesture confused him greatly. But he was being asked a simple question, and it was not in his nature to
evade or lie. "Because my patron finds the required gift to be too expensive. He does not feel I am
worthy of the expenditure, and so he calls me here to serve him."
"I notice, Nicolae, that you say ’calls me here’. Not ’home’?"
"This was ONCE my home, Domn, when I was very small, when my mother lived, and I shared my
life with Elizabeta. But my mother died, and Elizabeta became a lady, and I was no longer fit company
for her. The brothers welcomed me into their family. I was accepted there." His expression crumpled
slightly. "I... thought I was. I had hoped I might remain as a lay brother, if I could not take my vows. I
think my lord would have allowed that. But the abbot said there could be no exceptions."
"Poor Nicolae." Draculea was stroking the smooth skin on the back of the boy’s hand, petting him.
"Poor child." His other hand came to rest across the back of Nicolae’s neck, just below the wisps of
dark hair that graced the nape, and he rubbed gently. "The world has not been kind to you."
The situation was peculiar, but the gentle touch was soothing. No one touched Nicolae, save Ernestu
when he administered a cuff or a beating. This was so different. Nicolae found his eyes half closing,
his head bowing to allow that strong hand better access. His voice was unsure, small. "Why should the
world favor me, prince? I am low born, poor, a bastard..."
"You are beautiful."
Nicolae froze as the hand at his neck was replaced by Prince Draculea’s mouth. He gasped as the older
man’s lips nibbled softly at the sensitive skin. A tingle shot through his body, causing his scalp to
prickle, and he felt a stir of warmth in his groin.
Draculea laughed quietly at his startled sound, pulling back from the delicious temptation he had been
nuzzling to gauge the boy’s reaction. He looked utterly astonished, but there was a dawning awareness
in the velvet depths of his eyes. Vlad started to lean forward, wanting to take his mouth now.
Nicolae, his heart beginning to thud, his sex half hard beneath his cassock, stared into Vlad’s eyes.
*Blue eyes, oh God help me, blue. Like last night.* "Domn..."
"Hush." Vlad touched his lips lightly to Nicolae’s, not pressing or demanding, though it took an effort
of will. The wide mouth trembled under his own, soft lips pressed shut. Vlad stroked them with his
tongue, asking silently for entrance, wanting desperately to taste the younger man.
For a moment, he thought the boy would surrender. But then Nicolae jerked away from him, bolting
from his chair. He stood shaking, hand pressed to his mouth, and eyes wide and shocked above the
fingers. Vlad was perplexed. The boy had been responding; Vlad had lain with enough men, and
women, to know the signs. If he needed any more proof, the evidence was there, tenting the front of
his robe.
"Boy?" He held out his hand. But his tone was inquiring, not commanding.
"I..." Nicolae swallowed hard. His voice broke when he spoke. "Forgive me, Domn, I did not mean to
tempt you."
"Nicolae, you’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t help being what you are, and what you are is a
strong, fair, desirable young man. I want you. Don’t be afraid. Come." Again he beckoned.
Nicolae was shaking his head rapidly. "Please, Domn, you don’t mean it. Satan whispers to you, he
whispers to us both. We must be strong."
Draculea’s laugh was a bit harsh. "Is that horned bastard whispering in your ear, sweet Nicolae? Shall
I thrash his fork-tailed ass for daring to try to cosset you, my little one?" He stood up and reached for
the boy. It hurt more than he could have imagined when the librarian cringed back from him.
"Oh, Domn," Nicolae mourned. "You don’t know what you say, truly you don’t. This... what you ask
for is... is wrong. It is condemned by the Holy Church as unnatural."
Draculea scowled. "Rules made up by men who deny themselves the pleasures of the flesh, and
believe all should share their abstinence. Men who believe that sex should be only for whelping more
mortals, to add more souls for them to direct."
Nicolae’s expression was horrified as he listened to the older man. The words stunned him, striking at
the beliefs he had desperately clung to for a bit of stability in his life. It wasn’t so much that he
believed them, but that he HAD to believe them. Otherwise, he had nothing.
Draculea, if he had realized how stricken the boy was, would have stopped. He would have waited for
another day, given the boy time to think, and perhaps come to terms with what he was feeling, what
was happening. But he was, as Simion had said, an impatient man. He wanted Nicolae, and if the
boy’s guilt had to be appeased, so be it. He thought he knew how.
"In any case, why do you trouble yourself? Enjoy what I have to offer. Then, if your spirit troubles
you, sit behind the screen and confess to that shaven-headed gelding who sat at table with us last night.
He will give you absolution, and after you have recited the prayers he requires, you can return to me.
But come to me now, Nicu."
He undid the lacing on his breeches, pulling out his fleshy staff. It was eager and swollen, the first
clear drops of the liquid of passion oozing from the tear shaped slit in the dusky head. "You see, sweet
one? I need you."
Nicolae stared, mouth dropping open softly. He swayed, and a tiny moan escaped him. Vlad moved
toward him slowly, thinking. *The table? Or the chair? If it’s his first time, it should be in a soft bed,
but I’m damned if I can wait for that...*
With a small cry, Nicolae turned and bolted. Vlad was so taken by surprise that Nicolae had the door
open before he realized what was happening.
"Boy!"
Nicolae never hesitated, but fled like a deer flushed by the hounds. Vlad started after him, but the
sound of voices coming along the corridor made him realize his state of undress. Swearing violently,
he forced his near painful erection back into his breeches, lacing them again with a little difficulty, as
the voices neared. A prince could do many things without fear of chastisement, but chasing a terrified
boy through public halls in broad daylight, the evidence of his thwarted lust swaying before him, stiff
and drooling, was a bit much even for royal privilege to excuse.
As Elizabeta and Ernestu Varga entered the library, Vlad quickly turned the gloves tucked in his belt
so that they hung in front, disguising at least a little the insistent mound at his crotch. Ernestu smiled
unctuously. "Prince Draculea, we thought we might find you here. My lord is up with the very sun."
Ernestu looked about, frowning. "Where is that lazy excuse for a servant? Why isn’t he here to show
you the library? I would have thought they’d thrashed the laziness out of him in the monastery, but if
they haven’t, I can..."
"He was here, long before I arrived," Vlad broke in coldly, wondering why he was bothering to
champion a tease who had just left him aching. "He left suddenly." Vlad paused. "Perhaps he was ill,
not used to the rich food of last night."
"Oh, poor Nicolae!" Elizabeta’s smooth brow wrinkled in concern. "I can get him something from the
still room to ease his belly. Perhaps some ginger and lemon tea, with honey. He DOES like his
sweets." She smiled fondly. "Or a few cloves. Oh!" She clapped her hands. "I know the perfect thing!
A few drops of peppermint oil on a lump of sugar! If it doesn’t cure him, it will make him forget..."
"Beta, you’re not going to run play nursemaid to that pup!"
"But father..."
"No! The idea, a girl of your station. Don’t think I don’t know that you visit him in the garden. I’ve
allowed it, but you’ll not be going to his rooms to tend to him. What would the prince think?"
"He would think," Vlad’s voice was as hard and cold as steel, "that she was a kind and compassionate
young woman, who cares deeply for an unfortunate boy." Ernestu flinched. Vlad really didn’t want to
let him off the hook, but it would be better to leave their company as quickly as possible, before they
noticed his state of arousal, because it wasn’t going away.
"Now, if you will excuse me. I have ridden well this morning, and am none too fresh. I am not fit
company for a gently bred lady." He bowed, ignoring Ernestu’s protests, and left the room. Vlad was
tempted to take the route the fleeing boy had chosen. Nicolae was somewhere nearby. He had to be.
But common sense and expediency won out narrowly over lust, and he instead went to his room.
There a very surprised Simion received his second buggering within twenty-four hours. He enjoyed it
heartily, but as his master thrust his loins against Simion’s buttocks, his hungry cock splitting his
servant again and again, Simion couldn’t help but wonder. *What on earth sort of game Is that
dark-haired librarian playing with my lord? And does he have any inkling of how very dangerous it
can be?
To be continued...
Back to index
Chapter 8: More
Author’s Notes: fandom: Movie. Dracula
criticism: Yes
archive: Yes, let me know where
feedback: Yes. poet_77665@yahoo.com
disclaimer: Most aspects owned by Universal and Hammer Studios, Bram Stoker, and Francis Ford
Coppolla (for his style in his ’Bram Stoker’s Dracula movie, and thanks to my beta, Janet, for
FINALLY getting it through my thick skull that it was NOT Oliver Stone. Francis, I am SO sorry. I
don’t even have drugs as an excuse).
summary: Nicolae is reluctant, though intrigued. Vlad finds that he wants more than just a dalliance.
notes: rating: NC-17
Child of the Night, Part Eight

The Year of Our Lord,1460
Later that Day
More
"Simion, is it possible to be driven mad in so short a time?"
Simion was washing the dust and sweat, the latter accumulated as much from the rigorous fucking
he’d just experienced as from the Prince’s morning ride, from Vlad Draculea’s body. Vlad stood in the
large copper basin while Simion poured water over his back, washing away the soap. The servant
enjoyed the sight of the foam sliding off the firm, muscular rounds of Draculea’s ass to stream down
his long legs. He chose his words carefully.
"There are only two types of madness that I know of that can spring up so quickly on first meeting,
m’lord."
"And what are these two madnesses?"
"The first is the most common, and it is a madness of desire. One wants the new inamorato so
intensely that a fever heats the blood, and drives away good sense for a short time."
"It has a ring of familiarity. And the second madness?"
"That one, Maria Ta, is much rarer, and far more dangerous. It can steal a man’s sense, as well as his
senses. It can steal his soul, as well as his heart."
"Witchcraft?"
"Of a kind, Domn, but nothing to do with Satan. It is merely love."
Draculea snorted. "Love? I’ve had love aplenty, and never felt quite so at a loss."
"If you will pardon me for my boldness, my lord, no."
"No? What do you mean, no, Simion."
Vlad stepped from the tub, and Simion wrapped him in a thick bath sheet, beginning to dry him. "No,
my prince, you have not had love. You have had lust, desire, infatuation, even a bit of friendship and
affection. But you have not had love."
"You speak like a woman, Simion." Vlad grumbled, pushing him away, irritated.
"There are some truths that, perhaps, women understand more readily than we, my prince."
Vlad scowled, reaching impatiently for a fresh pair of breeches, and handing them to his servant to
hold while he donned them. "In case you have not noticed, Simion, I am not a woman."
Simion’s voice was warm. "A fact of which I am well aware, and for which I have often thanked God,
my prince."
Vlad stood in silence while his vassal continued to dress him. At last he said, "It must be the first sort
of madness, Simion. I doubt I am susceptible to the second." Simion shrugged, arranging a gold pin to
hold closed the throat of his master’s shirt. "You fault my view of myself, Simion?"
"Would I do that, Domn?"
"Not out loud, no." Draculea’s voice was dry.
"I am sure you are right, my lord. Doubtless this attraction you have for the librarian is nothing but a
craving of the flesh. Satisfy it quickly, and have done with it. The next time you encounter the boy,
drag him somewhere private and ride him, fast and hard."
Vlad frowned. "But I’m sure he’s still untouched. It would be hard on him."
Simion cocked his head, hands on his hips. "And this matters because...?" Vlad’s lips twitched. "Do
you see, Maria Ta? Never before have I known you to worry about whether the stallion you chose had
been broken to the saddle or no. What makes it different this time?"
"I do not know, Simion," he confessed. "But it IS different." He sighed. "It seems the boy will require
more courting than the wench. She seems willing enough, and her father is more than eager for the
match."
"Will you marry her, Domn?"
"Yes, I think so," he said casually. "She’s young, healthy, of good bloodlines, and inoffensive to the
eye. The only drawback I can see is her father, and I need not deal with him once the marriage is
consummated. She’ll do. I should be able to produce a child with her quickly, then my duty will be
satisfied, and we each can follow our own pursuits. I’ll offer today, and give her a day or two to
prepare, then bring her back to Castle Draculea for the wedding. After I speak to the girl, I’ll send a
rider back, and they can begin preparations. It will be near ready when we return."
"A bit hasty for a wedding of state, my lord."
"I’m marrying at their wish, not mine, so I’ll not cater to their need for spectacle by parading myself
like a prize bull. If the people must have a gala celebration, they can plan one for the first anniversary.
We should have an heir to celebrate also by then."
Vlad once again examined himself in the mirror. Simion assured him, "You are enough to win the
heart of any maid, my lord."
He laughed cynically. "I don’t need her heart, Simion. Just her womb. And it isn’t a maiden’s heart I
seek to ensnare."
He checked the library on his way down to the ground floor, but it was empty. The manuscript Nicolae
had so carefully copied out was still stretched in the sunlight, the ink near dry. Draculea skimmed one
fingertip a hair’s breadth over the lines, tracing the graceful swoops thoughtfully.
As they had that morning for Nicolae, the sounds of the world outside drifted through the open
window. Draculea heard two voices in the garden that lay out of sight around the castle’s corner: a
male, and a female, both young. So, Nicolae. That is where you ran to, eh? Nature’s beauty, instead of
the miserable cell I am sure Vargas has allotted you. Yes, good for you, boy. You belong in the
sunshine. You are too pale.
He went down the stairs, and Vargas met him at the bottom. He looked like a hound that has been
recently kicked: wary, but still willing to lick the boot that bruised him. Draculea bowed to him stiffly.
"Sir, I ask permission to offer my hand to your daughter, Elizabeta." And I should, perhaps, kill you
for that look of triumph you sport now, you fool.
"Dear prince, of course. I am humbly grateful. My dearest wish for my child has been answered by
your..."
"Yes. She’s in the garden?"
"I believe so."
"I will speak to her." He bowed again, so shortly that it was more of an insult than a courtesy, and left.
The garden was large, and well tended. Most of the flower beds lay fallow at this time of year, but here
and there a patch of color and fragrance bloomed. Vlad followed the murmuring voices to a great
flowering bush, thrice the size of a large carriage. A hollow had been pruned in the branches, just large
enough to hold a small bench, and those who might choose to hide themselves in the recess.
He approached from the side, quietly, and the two sitting there did not notice him.
"There, Nicu! How handsome you look." Elizabeta’s voice was light.
"Sister, why waste these lovely flowers on me? They are better adornment for you." Nicolae’s tone
was fond, and Vlad found himself gritting his teeth.
"No, do not dare to remove that! It pleases me to see you wear it."
"Then, if it gives you pleasure, I will abide."
"You are feeling better now, Nicu?"
"Yes, Beta."
"The prince said you were quite ill. What do you think caused it?"
"I... do not know, Beta. It came upon me suddenly. I think... I hope I am over it now."
"Prince Draculea made father allow me to tend you. He must be a kind man, though one hears such
stories."
This was fascinating. Vlad moved forward cautiously.
"I am sure he is a fine man, Beta. Though you must understand that royals do not operate by the same
code as you and I. Sometimes their acts are hard to explain, or understand." His voice was bewildered.
"Will you marry him, if he asks?"
"Of course, Nicolae. Why should I not? I would be a princess!"
"You are already a princess, dear sister," Nicolae said warmly, and Draculea heard the girl’s careless
laughter. To have such devotion, and to hold it so lightly...
He cleared his throat, and there was a sudden hush from the little alcove. He stepped around to the
front, and regarded the two young people.
Elizabeta and Nicolae sat side-by-side, very close because of the narrow bench. On his brow, Nicolae
wore a woven wreath of leaves and white flowers. With his almost other-worldly look, and his humble
brown garments, Vlad thought he resembled one of the wood spirits of ancient myth.
"It does my heart good to find youth and beauty expressing such joy." He smiled at them both, but his
eyes lingered longest on Nicolae.
"Well met, prince." Elizabeta smiled up at him. "Are you refreshed from your ride?"
"Yes, I thank you, lady. I was quite tense after my morning exercise, but cold water took care of that
matter."
Nicolae blushed beneath his pointed stare, looking at the ground. "Lady Elizabeta, I should go now."
"Yes, yes, Nicu. I will see you at table tonight."
Nicolae stood, slipping from the alcove, close to Vlad, and started for the castle.
"Boy?" The voice was soft, but there was a hint of steel in it.
Nicolae turned reluctantly. "Yes, Maria Ta Draculea?"
"Do not go far. My business with the lady will soon be done, and I wish to speak to you further about
your... talent." The boy paled, but bowed his head humbly and went to stand by the door leading back
into the castle.
Vlad seated himself beside Elizabeta. "Elizabeta, you know why I came to your home." It was a
statement, not a question.
"Aye, prince." She looked demurely at her hands clasped in her lap, but she was smiling.
"Would the match be agreeable to you? I would not have a reluctant bride."
"Aye, Prince Draculea, it would be most agreeable to me."
Draculea tapped his knee thoughtfully, studying the girl. At last, rather curious, he said, "It does not
trouble you, lady, that I do not speak of love?"
"No, prince. Love is usually a luxury in unions of your station, and often for those of my ilk as well.
Love would be... nice. And perhaps it may come, in time."
"You are a most sensible and practical girl, Elizabeta Varga. What would you expect from marriage to
me?"
Elizabeta did not hesitate. This was obviously something she had considered long and hard. "The title
of Princess, of course. To be housed, and clothed, and fed in a manner worthy of your wife. To be
accorded respect for my station. If you will take a mistress, then a bit of discretion..." Vlad’s eyes
widened. The girl was practical, and had a very realistic outlook. "And a child. At least one, to
continue my line, and establish myself in the eyes of the people, the church, and the other courts of the
land."
"That is all?"
"Well..." She cocked her head. "Personal servants of my own choosing, amusements. I would not wish
to live like a nun, Prince Draculea, no matter how exalted my station."
He smiled. "I think all these things can be agree upon."
"Then it is settled?"
"Yes, it is settled."
"Good. Be sure that you receive from my father my entire dowery. He wishes this marriage, but he is a
miserly thing, and will cheat you if he can."
"I have no intention of that happening. I will send word ahead to Castle Draculea this very day, so that
they may begin preparations. Begin gathering your things, and decide who you wish to take with you.
Your father has said I may commandeer any servant I think will benefit our household."
Beta brightened, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to her. "Oh, Maria Ta, please!"
"Yes?"
"Would... would you consider taking Nicolae?" She spoke in a rush. "You have said that you have a
library, and he is so good at his work. He is so sad here, and Father will not let him return to the
monastery."
"Would that please you, Elizabeta?"
"Oh, yes, please!"
"I will... consider."
"Thank you, my lord. That is all I ask."
Draculea looked at the proud tilt of the girl’s jaw. It may be all you ask now, Elizabeta, but I somehow
feel you might be a bit more insistent if things do not go as you wish. That is not unacceptable.
Perhaps you’ll bring strength to any child we breed.
Elizabeta misinterpreted the interested look, and smiled coyly. "We are betrothed now, my lord. You
may kiss me, if you wish."
Draculea’s eyebrows climbed. So, he was being given permission? That was novel. He wondered if the
chit realized that he would have had her here, on the bench, if he had been so inclined, without
worrying about being given leeway. *Let her keep her illusions. They do no harm.*
He touched his fingers under her chin, lifting it slightly, wishing for the slight rasp of fresh barbering.
Then he leaned forward and gravely touched his lips to hers. She closed her eyes as he did. A lady did
not boldly stare into her lover’s eyes at a moment like this. Thus
she didn’t notices that Vlad’s eyes moved past her to seek her half-brother where he stood by the
castle.
Nicolae watched the prince kiss his half-sister, knowing that this signaled the sealing of their pact to
wed. His emotions were in a turmoil. He felt glad for Elizabeta. This was what she wanted more than
anything else in the world: a powerful marriage. God bless and forgive you, little sister. You are an
ambitious woman. May you be content with the bargain you have made, for I fear you may have been
dealing with a devil.
But even as he thought this, Nicolae’s feelings toward the Wallachian prince were confusing him so
that it made his head ache. Draculea was a great man, this was indisputable. History would remember
him for his strong leadership, his loyal service to the Holy Church, and his ruthless suppression of the
heathen forces who threatened his land.
Nicolae now knew first hand that he was, indeed, a man, and not some high flown ideal. He was a man
of distinctly earthy and strong appetites, one of which he seemed determined to slake with Nicolae’s
own flesh. This must not be allowed. Any carnal indulgence, even within marriage, that was not for
the sake of providing more souls to worship and serve God was frowned upon, but this... It could be
nothing but pure lust, if something so base could even be called pure.
How could Draculea make such advances when he was in the very act of courting Elizabeta?
Elizabeta, who was so good, and pure, and beautiful. And desirable. I suppose. The last thought was a
bit doubtful. Nicolae could recognize and appreciate beauty in all things. Prince Vlad Draculea, for
instance. The man could not be termed simply handsome: the word was far too weak to do him justice.
No, he was beautiful, in a hard, masculine way that sent an unexplained shiver through Nicolae’s very
core when he thought on it too long. Elizabeta... Nicolae had never understood the physical attractions
of women. He had supposed that was a gift from God, suiting him all the better for the life he had
chosen. Now, he was not sure.
Nicolae watched, and remembered vividly the touch of those same lips upon his own. They had been
warm, and firm, and they had moved. Elizabeta had kissed him before, childish tokens of affection he
had never dared to return, but it had been nothing like that. And there had been the hot, wet touch of
his tongue, drawn over Nicolae’s lips. How odd. Why...? Nicolae’s eyes widened as it occurred to him
what Prince Draculea had wanted, and he felt his mouth flood with saliva at the thought. He felt a
flush of heat begin to gather in his loins, and almost moaned in despair.
Draculea pulled back from Elizabeta. Her eyes still closed, she was smiling smugly. Oh, you are very
pleased with yourself, are you not, child? He let the knuckles of one hand gently brush her cheek,
amused that the rabbit believed it had trapped the fox. Believe that, if you like. You will be all the
easier to control.
He stood up. "I will speak to your father and formalize the agreement. Stefan will need to speak to his
lawyer, draw up the marriage contracts. And you," he laid a hand on her head in the sort of absent
caress one would give to a pet in passing. "You will have much to do the next day or so. This will be
your first test of your ability to organize a household, Elizabeta."
"I will not disappoint, my lord."
"I do not expect you to." With that, he turned and walked toward the castle, to the boy who waited
there.
Back to index
Chapter 9: Persuasion
Author’s Notes: fandom: Dracula
pairing: Vlad/Nicolae
status: WIP
criticism: Yes
feedback : Yes. poet_77665@yahoo.com
disclaimer: Characters, except Nicu and minor ones, belong to Bram Stoker. Concepts belong,
variously to the Universal, Hammer, and Coppolla versions of the Dracula story.
summary: Vlad states his desires plainly to Nicolae, and tries to convince him to acquiesce. Ernestu is
aware of Vlad’s interest. notes: Children were considered property in this age. Anything short of
murder was fairly well ignored. A bastard child even of a high born noble would have fewer rights and
protections.
rating: NC-17
warnings: Some may object to Draculea’s views on religion, and its relationship to sexuality. An
implication of incestuous leanings.
Child of the Night, Part Nine

Persuasion
Nicolae was waiting nervously by the castle as Vlad approached. He walked past the boy with a
subdued "Come with me." It wasn’t easy to resist touching him or at least taking his arm, but he did.
The younger man exuded a mouth-watering scent, the fragrance of the flowers mingling with his own
faint, clean masculine musk. Just inside the castle, Draculea stopped, turning to him, and said, "The
wreath suits you."
Blushing, the boy pulled it off. "A harmless affectation of the lady, Domn. I did not have the heart to
refuse her."
"No, the lady was right. You look most handsome in it." Draculea took it from Nicolae’s hands,
fingering the delicate blossoms before setting it aside on a table. "I’d say you looked like the god Pan,
prepared to frolic with his nymphs but you haven’t the proper lascivious look about you. We will
speak in the library." He started up the stairs. "You can check on your manuscript."
Nicolae followed him reluctantly. He would have much preferred that the prince hold this audience in
a public chamber but he dared not suggest, much less insist. Draculea knew his feelings because as he
entered the room he said, "You may leave the door open, if it eases your heart." It did, but not much.
Draculea gestured to the table. "Check your work, librarian."
Even his nervousness could not mar Nicolae’s devotion to his work. He examined the parchment
minutely, seeing that the ink had dried well and unstudied over the entire document. He picked it up
carefully and took it to the window. There he gently blew across it, dislodging the fine sand that had
absorbed the excess ink, sending it out over the ledge. Draculea watched the pursing of his lips, and
felt the familiar tightening begin in his groin.
When he was satisfied Nicolae placed the paper on a shelf, moving weights on top of it to keep the
edges from curling. Finally he no longer had an excuse to avoid the issue that had brought him here.
He turned back to the prince, folding his hands and looking at the floor. "It is done. You wished to
speak to me, Domn?"
"Don’t you think we have much to say to each other, Nicolae?" When the boy was silent, refusing to
look at him, Draculea sighed. He sat and indicated the chair beside him. "Sit, boy. I will not strain my
neck looking up at you as I speak simply to satisfy some silly protocol."
Nicolae settled gingerly in the chair next to him. After a moment Vlad laughed, a little bitterly. "I am
not going to eat you, boy." His tone gained a little warmth. "At least not in the manner you fear. I see
that I was too eager this morning. I have intimidated my chosen lovers before, but I confess that this is
the first time one fled like a flushed rabbit."
Still Nicolae said nothing, looking down at his clasped hands.
"I knew when I first saw you that you were inexperienced, but I feel I did not know the extent of your
naivety. How old are you, boy?"
"This is my eighteenth year, Domn." His voice was small.
Draculea’s eyebrows rose. "So old? You look scarcely more than a child. I would have though you had
no more than sixteen turns of the seasons behind you. But I think it must be your life behind the
monastery walls that has kept you so untouched by time and the world. Are you untouched, Nicolae?"
The boy turned his head away, pink staining his cheeks. *Holy Mother, he is so beautiful.* "I will ask
you this, Nicolae, and you will answer me, and answer me truly. Have you ever lain with a woman?"
"No, Domn." His voice was clear.
"Have you ever lain with a man?"
Now the boy did look at him, a single, stricken glance before his eyes dropped again. He whispered.
"No, Domn."
Draculea sighed. "I thought as much. A pure virgin. Nicolae, I’m sorry if I frightened you. I didn’t stop
to think that such feelings might be fearful to you in their newness."
Nicolae blinked in bewilderment. The prince was apologizing? To him? But perhaps it would be all
right now, if he realized how wrong he had been. "It is nothing, Domn. It will be as if it never
happened."
Draculea’s voice was gentle. "No, child, you misunderstand. I’m not sorry that it happened, only that I
didn’t have the patience to move more slowly with you. I was wrong to approach you here." He laid a
hand caressingly on Nicolae’s arm. "Your first time must be in a great bed, with smooth sheets and
soft pillows. There should be perfumes to scent the air and sweet oil to soothe the way when I slide
into your body, so that there is scarce any pain, only pleasure."
Nicolae was trembling. His great dark eyes were bright, but with tears or something else Vlad could
not say. The boy did not try to pull away, but his voice was faint and pleading. "Maria Ta, I beg of
you. Do not order such a thing. It is a sin."
"How can it be a sin to love?" Vlad put his hand against Nicolae’s chest, pressing tight, feeling the
strong hammering of his heartbeat. "Is it a sin for me to want to be good to you, Nicolae? To want to
give you pleasure, make your blood thunder, as it does now?" His hand slid across Nicolae’s chest,
and he felt the hard points of his erect nipples thrusting against the coarse cloth. He smiled as the boy
moaned softly, his eyes half-shut. "How can anything so sweet be wrong?"
"It is." But Nicolae’s voice was the voice of a man desperately trying to convince himself of
something, because to believe otherwise would be too shattering. "Domn, even though I have not been
able to enter the order, I have dedicated my soul to God."
"He may have your soul, Nicolae." Draculea stood, pulling the boy to his feet. "It is your body that I
want." With one arm around the boy’s waist, Draculea reached between them with his other. Nicolae
felt a large hand cover the mound that had begun to press against the front of his robe. He gasped as
Vlad rubbed, pressing his fingers firmly against the rapidly swelling bulge that grew there. "This. This
is what I want, Nicolae." The hand at his waist slipped lower to cup and squeezes one muscular
buttock. "And this, and what lies hidden there most of all."
Nicolae whimpered, torn between a desire to press forward into the grip that had formed around his
near fully erect member, or back to the fingers that were stroking the crease of his buttocks, pressing in
even through the fabric of his clothes. For a moment he just hung there, helpless in the hands of the
man who had come to marry his sister. It was the thought of Beta that broke the sensual spell under
which he was falling. He gasped, "No!" and tore himself away from Draculea’s embrace, stumbling to
the door.
Draculea watched, dumbfounded, as once again the boy fled, almost in tears. "Damnation," he
whispered, dropping back into the chair. *He wanted me, I know he did. Hell, his prick was like an
iron bar, just taken from the forge. Given a moment I think he would have fucked himself on my hand.
And then, pfft! He runs. Perhaps I am not the only mad one here.*
Luckily this time his own need had not progressed to the point of painfulness, but it was still so
frustrating. More than ever he was determined that he would have the boy. Nicolae would simply have
to be helped over his inhibitions. But even as he thought about the delights to come, when he would
finally be able to do as he pleased with that long, pale body, Draculea was thinking of how it would be
to wake each morning and see a gentle face close to his own, sweet, and slack with sleep. He imagined
hours spent in a quiet room, watching a dark head bent studiously over a slowly moving quill as it
spun out graceful script. *Simion, I think you were right. I lied to the boy. It isn’t just his flesh I crave.
I want his heart, too, and yes, I want his soul! You have so many, God; you can spare me this one
small boy. And if you will not give him to me willingly...* Vlad scowled at the ceiling. "Curse you! I
will take him."
This time Nicolae ran directly to the chapel. He bruised his knees throwing himself down before the
statue of the Blessed Virgin, lips moving in prayer even as he winced at the pain.
Father Mircea, contemplating a holy book in his usual place near the altar, watched the boy as he
swayed, his long, slim fingers quickly working the beads on his rosary. What had the child done now?
Or, rather, what did he think he had done?
Father Mircea sighed, shaking his head. Poor Nicolae. Whoever had been responsible for the boy’s
religious training had given him all the fear and guilt, and none of the joy. Mircea knew that there was
no real evil in the lad, but he was constantly begging forgiveness of the Divine Powers for some petty
offense with which most of the world would scarcely trouble themselves.
In truth, Mircea was secretly glad that Ernestu had refused to allow the boy to take his vows. Nicolae,
he was sure, did not have a true vocation, no matter how devoutly the boy wished to believe it was so.
Nicolae wanted the monastic life for the security and serenity it offered. His short life had been filled
with uncertainty, and he knew that the brotherhood was one place where he would be assured
continuity. He could spend his whole life there among people who knew him, and would support him,
spiritually and otherwise. He felt that his freedom and the chance to have an intimate relationship with
another were reasonable sacrifices for this.
Mircea shifted enough to get a look at Nicolae’s face, and frowned. This was not just a common bout
of self-castigation. He could tell by the strained look on the boy’s face that he had a serious problem
on his mind. Heeding his calling, he got up and went to where his favorite parishioner knelt.
When he touched Nicolae’s shoulder the young man started, turning anxious eyes on him. Mircea said
gently, "Nicolae, you are troubled? Do you need to confess?" When the boy nodded mutely, Mircea
helped him to his feet and urged him toward the confessional. They each entered on their own side,
and sat.
Mircea slid the panel open, exposing the carved screen behind which Nicolae sat. Immediately the boy
murmured, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession."
"So long?" Mircea meant it to be a gentle teasing, but the boy took him seriously.
"Yes, Father. Sloth, that is my first sin. I should have been here before I went to bed last night, but I
preferred to sleep."
"I think we can pass over that, my son."
"But I am guilty of gluttony also, Father. At the feast, I ate far more than I needed. The excess could
have fed some poor soul well."
"Again I think you are too hard on yourself, boy. But I will consider it when I give you penance.
Anything else?"
His voice lowered. "I have had disrespectful thoughts about my patron. I question his motives for
offering the lady Elizabeta in marriage to Prince Draculea."
This interested Mircea. "You do not think it a fit match?"
"I do not think he loves her, Father." There was a pause. His voice had a curious timbre as he said, "I
know he does not."
"Well, boy, you must see that in marriages of this class, love often comes at last rather than at first.
You must see what a blessing such a union would be for Elizabeta. She is a good girl and could do
much for the people of the land in such a position."
"Yes, Father. I just want her to be happy."
"An admirable sentiment, son. But that isn’t all, is it? I sense that something else still weighs on your
heart. Here you can confess all, Nicolae. Tell me."
For a long moment there was silence. Mircea began to think that the boy would not respond. He was
almost ready to give him absolution, when the low voice floated through the grill. "I have had impure
thoughts."
Mircea smiled to himself. *Well, boy, it’s about time! I was wondering when you’d begin to notice the
wenches about the castle. I’ve had enough of them confess their dreams of you to me.* Aloud he said,
"Go on."
"I... I had a dream. When I awoke, I had... soiled myself."
Unseen, Father Mircea covered a smile. *No, Mircea. This is serious to the boy. How can I make him
see that this is the way of the world?* Trying to keep his voice steady, he said solemnly. "Did you
touch yourself, Nicolae?"
"Oh, no, Father!" he said hastily.
"I see. You understand, it wouldn’t necessarily have been a bad thing if you had?"
Utter astonishment. "It wouldn’t?"
"No. God gives you these urges, and he has given you a means to satisfy them without corrupting an
innocent girl. It is only a very tiny sin to pleasure yourself, Nicolae, despite what any may have told
you."
"Oh."
Such dawning wonder in that one word. Mircea bit his sleeve, stifling a laugh. *Oh, lad! I know what
will occupy you the next time you seek your bed!*
But Nicolae was speaking again, and his voice was even more serious. "Father, there is more."
Mircea sobered. "Tell me."
"I... I did nothing. I do not think I did anything, but... But I must have. Otherwise he would not have...
have approached me in that manner."
Mircea’s voice was sharp. "Who, Nicolae?" Mircea had his suspicions. He served Ernestu Varga as his
spiritual guide and knew well enough that the man’s feet had for many years been set firmly on the
path to Hell. Unlike many of his fellow priests, Mircea did not believe that sin could be bought off
with purchased indulgences. He believed that only true repentance could wipe away the stain, and
Ernestu Varga had never truly repented of anything, unless it had somehow caused him discomfort.
When the boy was silent, Mircea said gently, "Nicolae, you told me you have not lain with a man."
"I told no lie, Father. He... touched me. And I felt ashamed, but it... it was so... " Words failed him, and
he did not know how to express what had happened. " ...Pleasant?"
The boy’s tone was so lost and aching that Mircea felt his heart swell in compassion. Mircea had
voluntarily given up pleasures of the flesh, and he followed his vow of chastity and celibacy with a
willing heart. But the boy had made no such commitment, and still he tortured himself.
One thing, now Mircea was convinced that the man Nicolae referred to was not his father. If it had
been Ernestu, the boy’s horror and terror of damnation would most likely have reduced him to
gibbering.
Remembering how the visiting prince had called Nicolae forward then kept him close by for the
remainder of the evening, Mircea thought he could guess who had tried to seduce his young friend.
*Well, Prince, can I blame you? He is good, and fair. His very purity would draw even the strongest.
But he is still so much a child. But again...* Mircea’s eyes narrowed in thought. *If you were to take
him under your patronage his life could not help but improve. At least he would be away from the
whoremonger who sired him.*
Knowing he would not get an answer, he still had to ask again. "Nicolae, can you not tell me who has
tempted you?"
"Father, I am not the keeper of his soul. He must find his own absolution, in his own time."
Mircea nodded. He’d never liked the directive to get each confessor to incriminate others. *We teach
our children not to bear tales, and then try to coax them into this.* "Fair enough, son. We will concern
ourselves with you. Is that all you have to tell me?"
"Yes, Father."
"Very well. Your sins are not great, Nicolae. Be of good cheer. I think two more tellings of the beads
before you sleep tonight will satisfy the Lord of your repentance." He made the sign of the cross,
speaking the ancient Latin phrases that absolved the boy of his sins, and listened to the relieved and
grateful response.
Suddenly the curtain was whipped back from the other side of the booth. The light spilling in let
Mircea see the pale profile of the boy lifted in shock. He heard Ernestu growl, "Finally!"
Nicolae was jerked from the confessional with a small cry, and Mircea knew that Ernestu had taken a
bruising grip on the boy’s arm to drag him along. Mircea burst angrily from his place in time to see the
lord of Castle Varga dragging his bastard son up the aisle. "Varga!" The man stopped near the door,
looking back impatiently. "You would profane the sacred office of penance?"
"He was through, Father. I heard so myself. Remarkably lenient you are, these days." Nicolae had
turned as pale as milk at the knowledge that his father had heard his confession. "And while you see to
heavenly matters I have business here on earth to attend to. This..." He shook the cringing boy
roughly. "I have been cursed with this responsibility. I see no reason why he should not be turned to
my advantage, as I have seen to his shelter and upkeep all these years. And it seems that he has not the
sense to realize what is best for all, so it must be driven into him by more than words."
With that, he dragged his son from the chapel. Father Mircea, himself shaken, knelt and offered up
prayers for the boy.
Back to index
Chapter 10: Coercion
pairing: None
criticism: Yes
feedback : Yes. poet_77665@yahoo.com
disclaimer: Characters originally belong to Bram Stoker. Images and concepts from Universal and
Hammer Studios, and the Coppolla film.
summary: Ernestu punishes Nicolae for not accomodating Vlad.
notes: Heavy physical discipline of children and servants was not uncommon, or illegal, in this age.
rating: NC-17
warnings: Violent punishment, and incestuous leanings. Squick factor may be high.
Child of the Night, Part Ten

Coercion
Nicolae made no protest as Varga dragged him through the castle, headed for his study. The servants
or lingering guests who saw the hurrying pair stayed back. They could tell well enough by the anger
on Ernestu’s face, and the fear on Nicolae’s, what was going to happen.
In Ernestu’s private sanctum, Nicolae was finally released with a shove. Ernestu growled, "Was what
you told the priest true? Did Prince Vlad express a special interest in you? And I don’t mean did he ask
after your work, boy. Has he handled you? Tried to bed you?"
"Yes, Domn."
"And you refused him?"
"Yes, Domn."
Nicolae had known that he would be struck sometime before this audience ended, but he was still not
prepared for the vicious back hand that caught him across the face. He didn’t cry out, knowing that
would only earn him another blow. Neither did he try to wipe away the thin trickle of blood that ran
from the small cut Ernestu’s signet ring had left on his rapidly bruising cheek. Trying to clean himself
before Ernestu directed him to was a sure way of increasing his wrath.
"Fool!" hissed Ernestu. "The richest, most powerful man in all of Wallachia lusts after you, and you
are stupid enough to deny him?" He struck the boy again, the blow landing in the same spot, inflicting
another cut.
"Domn, what have I done to displease you?"
Nicolae’s bewilderment seemed to enflame Varga. "What have you done? Only endangered my plans
with your selfish priggishness. Didn’t I instruct all the household that Vlad Draculea was to have
everything, everything, he desired while he was here? Didn’t you realize that included any sexual
favors he might fancy?"
"But Domn, what he asked was a sin."
Ernestu threw up his hands in exasperation. "A sin! And I suppose that betraying your father is not a
sin."
Nicolae stared at him. Finally, his voice low, he said, "You have never named yourself my father
before. Why do you now?"
Eyes blazing, Ernestu raised his hand again, this time clenched into a fist. Nicolae flinched, shutting
his eyes, wondering if his nose would be broken again. But Ernestu saw the bruise and cuts he had
already inflicted and hesitated. What was he doing, marking the boy where it would be clearly visible?
The prince might not be interested in damaged goods.
"Why did you turn him down, stupid boy? He is wealthy, and powerful. He might have given you a
rich gift. Princes often reward their favorites, even with titles and gifts of land." Secretly, Ernestu did
not believe Nicolae could earn any such rewards, but the thought might prove an incentive.
"I want nothing. You know that I am willing even now to take a vow of poverty."
"Huh. It would be precious little change for you, boy. If not for the possibility of gold, then why not
for the pleasure? Draculea is a handsome man."
"Domn!" It was almost a wail. "He is a man!"
"Pfft! Boy, do you expect me to believe you lived all those years among those tonsured fools, and
none of them lifted your cassock even once? I won’t believe it. What with no women, you would be
the softest piece they’d have about. I would be surprised if you did not have a staff down your throat
or up your arse every night, and twice on Sundays."
Nicolae, both shocked and hurt, gasped at the crudity. "Domn, you mustn’t speak so of the Holy
Brothers!"
"And now you will dictate my very speech?" He shoved Nicolae up against the wall, twisting his hand
in his dark hair. "Listen to me well, bastard! I want this union for Elizabeta. Draculea has spoken for
her, and usually that would be enough. But he is a prince, and princes make the laws. Nothing is final
till the marriage contract is signed, and that will not be till just before the ceremony, at Castle
Draculea. Till then, he must be cossetted and pampered. He must have everything his heart desires.
Every passing whim and fancy must be catered to. You will do what you must to see to this."
"I... I can’t. You ask too much."
"I ask my due!" Ernestu roared, bouncing Nicolae’s head back against the rough stone. "For eighteen
years I have seen that you had food in your belly, clothes on your back, and a roof over your head. I
saw to it that you learned the religion you now would use as an excuse to thwart me. I even arranged
for you to learn a trade, that you might not starve when I am gone."
Ernestu conveniently overlooked the fact that what he had done was nothing more than common
Christian decency, and that Nicolae would never need fear want if Ernestu was willing to acknowledge
him, and make provisions for him.
"You owe me your obedience, boy!" There was still a flicker of defiance in Nicolae’s eyes, and
Ernestu used his final weapon. His voice became more quiet. "If you will not do it for me, do it for
Elizabeta."
"Elizabeta?"
"You want her to be happy? If Prince Draculea breaks the betrothal..." Ernestu shrugged. Nicolae’s
shoulders slumped, and Ernestu felt a stab of triumph. Surely the boy would acquiesce now.
But Nicolae said, in a meek voice, "I cannot, Domn."
Ernestu trembled with rage. His hands itched to go around the boy’s throat, but murder would not
serve his purpose. He doubted that Prince Draculea would be best pleased by a cooling corpse. No, the
boy had to be warm, and alive, and beaten into submission.
"Nicolae, bring me the rod."
Nicolae had been white before, now he seemed almost green. "Domn, please." he whispered.
"Get it, boy, or I add stripes for your recalcitrance."
Nicolae swayed, then walked slowly to the cabinet set against the wall. He had not done this in years.
The rod was Ernestu’s way of punishing particularly severe transgressions in his household, and
Nicolae had felt it across his back on a regular basis before he went to live with the friars. But since his
return his punishments had been limited to cuffs and kicks. He had hoped that he was safe from this
particular bit of Hell.
He opened the cabinet, and found the rod in it’s old place, hanging on the inside of the door. It was
about as long as his arm, and made of springy willow, peeled clean. At it’s base it was thicker than his
thumb, and it tapered to half the breadth of his smallest finger at it’s tip. It would have been a fearsome
enough instrument of punishment if that was all. But Ernestu had wrapped it in thin, brazen wires.
Nicolae’s flesh crawled at having to touch it, but he had no choice. As he lifted it down from it’s place,
he thought that the bare patches of wood peeking through the brassy strands seemed darker. Blood
stained, even when it was quickly removed.
His steps faltered as he brought it back to where Varga stood. Knowing the ritual required, he turned
his back on the man and knelt. Then he bowed his head, and lifted the rod in the air over his head,
holding it flat on his palms, like an offering.
Ernestu took it from his hands, then walked to a table. There he poured himself a glass of wine, and
said, "Make yourself ready." As he sipped, the boy silently loosened the ties that fastened the neck of
his robe, and slipped it off his shoulders. It fell till it was caught by the cord about his waist, leaving
his upper body naked. Then he clasped his hands behind his neck, bowed his head, and waited.
Ernestu eyed him as he finished his wine. He was surprised to see a pattern of old scars across the
boy’s back, white against cream. He hadn’t thought he had marked him so deeply when he had
punished him as a child. This wasn’t good. There was no telling how tolerant Draculea was of physical
imperfection. No, he’d have to give the boy his medicine another way.
"Not like that, dolt. Cover yourself." Nicolae obeyed, again silently. When the robe was in place,
Ernestu said, "On your hands and knees, and lift the robe up, tuck it in your belt."
The boy shuddered. His voice was pleading, "Domn, please..."
Ernestu moved swiftly to cuff him on the back of the head. "Do as I say! And take down those fancy
drawers I know Elizabeta gave you. After all, you’d hardly want to ruin my daughter’s gift, would
you?"
Shaking in apprehension, Nicolae lifted his robe and tucked the hem under his belt, so it would stay
out of the way. He unlaced his drawers and lowered them to puddle around his knees. Then he
assumed the kneeling position Ernestu had demanded.
Nicolae kept his legs tightly together, hoping that this would shield his most tender parts. He
remembered his other beatings well, knew what to expect, and he was afraid. He wasn’t a physical
coward, but he knew that such an instrument in the hands of someone vicious could effectively geld a
man.
He closed his eyes as he heard the swishes that told him Ernestu was limbering up his arm. Then the
first stroke fell. His body jerked with the sudden explosion of pain across his buttocks. He didn’t
scream, but his sharp intake of breath was almost a cry. The first bright splash of pain faded a bit, but
it felt as if a brand had been laid upon him.
Ernestu paused after the first stroke, watching the bright red line rising across the white flesh. *Damn,
he colors up nicely. I expect a bare hand would quickly bring a pink flush to those cheeks.* He didn’t
pause to wonder that he was having such thoughts about his own son, but swung the rod again.
He watched with approval when the boy jumped as the lash fell, and another stripe grew below the
first. "Do you begin to see your error, Calugarul? Do you see how you have failed me?" He struck
again, and again, trying to keep the marks parallel. But he misjudged, and one of them overlapped.
Ernestu watched, fascinated, as a bright bead of blood bubbled up at the crossing point, looking like a
garnet set against white satin. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he wished for more wine, but did not
want to take the time to get it. This was important, it needed to continue. His eyes narrowed, following
the crimson drop as it began a slow trek down the back of the boy’s thigh. Yes, very important.
*At least this time he does not make me count the strokes and thank him for each one,* Nicolae
thought. The pain would begin to haze his mind soon, and a missed count would mean that they would
have to start again.
Ernestu sent the rod whistling through the air again to crack against quivering flesh. "Do you see how
wrong you are to disobey? How wrong it is to deny me this thing?" Now every stroke fell across an
earlier stripe, and blood welled at each juncture. Still the boy did not cry out, though he had bitten his
lip raw with the effort.
As the assault continued, Nicolae felt his limbs begin to weaken and tremble. He prayed that it would
be over soon, before they gave way entirely and he suffered the added humiliation of taking the last of
the beating face down on the stone floor.
It was good that he had kept his legs together, because Ernestu did not spare the backs of his thighs.
They, too, were liberally striped and dotted with blood. His entire lower body was one great, flaming
pain by now. He had heard that those who endured great torture eventually became numb to it. If he
had not yet gained that loss of sensation, he feared what he would have to suffer to attain it.
Ernestu’s questions about his lack of filial duty had degenerated to muttered curses and obscenities as
he swung the rod with all his might. At last he slowed, his arm aching, and he knew he would have to
call for a soothing liniment tonight if he did not want to be stiff and sore in the morning. Damn the boy
for making him exert himself so in his corrections!
For the last minutes, Ernestu had been aware of nothing but the whistle and crack of the rod. Now the
world came back to him gradually. He heard the soft sobbing of the boy who crouched before him, and
saw the damage he had done. The stripes were so many and so overlaid that they could not be
numbered. Blood ran in thick streams down the boy’s legs, staining the linen pooled at his knees. So,
he had ruined Beta’s gift after all. Thoughtless child. He gave him another stroke for that carelessness.
Ernestu walked around in front of Nicolae and presented the rod. This was another part of the ritual, an
important one. Nicolae managed to raise his head shakily, and kissed the rod. His lips came away
smeared with his own blood. He begged God that Ernestu would not force him to lick the instrument
of his torture clean, as he had when he was a child.
Instead Ernestu tossed aside the weapon, and Nicolae sighed with muted relief. But he was too soon.
Ernestu tangled his hands in the thick, dark hair and dragged his head up, till his neck was straining
and he looked his tormentor full in the face.
What he saw frightened Nicolae more than anything he’d seen in his life. Ernestu’s expression was
twisted, his teeth bared, his eyes glittering. Beneath his breeches there was the clear outline of a
lust-wakened prick, a damp patch showing at the head.
Ernestu stared down into the handsome, tear streaked face, searching it hungrily for every scrap of fear
and pain. He enjoyed men as much as women, but he’d never felt this way when he had disciplined
Calugarul when he was a child. Somehow the sight of his strong young body, so cowed and
submissive, stirred Ernestu’s blood.
He thought. *I think I understand what the prince sees in him. Maybe, just maybe... And how would he
know? Such things cannot be tested, as they can with a woman.*
"I hope this has been enough, boy. I do not want to damage you if it can be helped." He laid his free
hand on Nicolae’s back, just above where his robe was tucked. "You must be good and faithful, and do
as you are bid. It is a small thing I ask of you."
"It is a great thing." The voice was ragged, breathless, and Ernestu ignored it. The boy wasn’t saying
anything he wanted to hear
The older man reached farther, laying his hand on the heated flesh of the boy’s buttocks. Nicolae
whined at the fresh pain. The salt in Ernestu’s sweat stung his raw skin.
The soft, protesting sound made his patron’s fever rise even higher. Ernestu stoked the firm flesh,
feeling his fingers slide in the hot blood. His voice was hoarse. "You are very like your mother, boy."
He gripped hard, letting his fingers sink shallowly into the cleft. "Very like her."
Nicolae felt abject terror as Ernestu released his hair and reached for the lacings of his breeches. This
could not be happening. Finally desperate enough to struggle, he threw out a hand to push him away,
moaning, "Father, please!"
He misjudged and his hand pressed against the hard bulge of Ernestu’s sex. Immediately, before he
could withdraw it, his patron had seized his wrist, clamping down hard enough to bruise, and ground
himself into Nicolae’s palm.
Varga stared down at the slim, long-fingered hand splayed over his arousal. It proved too much, far too
soon. He was not a young man anymore, and his stamina was short. He came in a hot gush of liquid
seed, his sperm seeping through the cloth, and running down to bathe his tight balls.
With a cry of frustrated rage he struck the boy again, knocking him backward to the floor. He had a
brief glimpse of Nicolae’s loins: hair almost as dark and silky as that on his head, and a member that
was impressive for one so young. But he was soft, quiescent, and for some reason this was what
angered Ernestu most.
Knowing his father’s rage, Nicolae had quickly rolled into a ball, hoping to protect himself. But
Ernestu was spent, in more ways than one. "Get up, slut. Go clean yourself, and make yourself ready
should the prince call for you."
Nicolae untucked his garment, pulling it down to a decent level. Unable to bear the thought of
anything against his torn skin, he completely removed his drawers, mourning silently when he saw the
crimson stains that marked them. They would never be the same again. They would always bear signs
to remind him of this day.
Finally he made his way shakily to his feet, and moved toward the door. Ernestu had gone to the table
for more wine. Now he called, "Boy! You forget yourself."
Stifling a sigh, Nicolae went back to perform the final rite of punishment. He took Ernestu’s hand and
kissed it, murmuring, "Thank you for correcting me, Domn."
"See that the lesson remains learned." He gripped Nicolae’s chin hard, studying the damp, flushed
face, marking the rising bruise and the cuts. "You had best hope that Draculea will not mind a bit of
color. And you will do all he requires. If he wishes you to whore yourself for him, then whore you
will. If I hear differently, you will think that this has been no more than a fond caress." He shoved him
away. "Go."
Nicolae left the room. In the corridor, he began to limp painfully toward his own room, one hand
braced against the wall for support. Any who passed him might have felt compassion, but they looked
away. It was not wise to interfere with Ernestu’s vendettas, or his pleasures. And, in Nicolae’s case, it
was fairly obvious that the boy was both to his father.
Back to index
Chapter 11: Care

pairing: None
criticism: Yes
feedback : Yes. poet_77665@yonoo.com
disclaimer: Characters originally belong to Bram Stoker. Images and concepts from Universal and
Hammer Studios, and the Coppolla film.
summary: Ernestu punishes Nicolae for not accommodating Vlad.
rating: NC-17
Child of the Night, Part Eleven

Care
Simion had taken his mid-day meal early, and was returning to his room in the servants’ quarters. He
was planning on a quick, freshening wash when he saw the boy. Nicolae was in a corridor leading to
an even more obscure section of the domestic quarters. Simion stopped at the turning, staring down the
hallway, watching him. The young librarian was of interest to his lord, therefore he was of interest to
Simion.
The boy was standing motionless a little way down the hall. He had his back to Simion, and was
leaning against the wall as if he needed support. As Simion watched, a small bundle of white cloth
dropped from his hands, and Simion saw that it was splotched red. His eyes drawn downward, he saw
several thick streams of blood crawling down the boy’s leg below his cassock.
Simion’s gut clenched. "Oh, Master," he whispered. "Could you not wait? I think he would have come
to you soon."
Nicolae knew that he must be close to his room by now, but he was having trouble thinking clearly.
The pain throbbed through his whole body. He’d been halfway down this hall when he’d felt the grey
beginning to close in on him, and had to stop for a moment. The stone wall was rough and cold, but it
was solid.
He was too dazed to be startled when the hand touched his shoulder. He was turned, and he found
himself looking at an older man with ash blonde hair. "Nicolae?"
He tried to straighten, but fell back against the wall. "I am he." The man pushed something into his
hands, something soft. Looking down, Nicolae saw the red-stained cloth. "Oh," he said sadly. "Beta’s
present." He looked at the man. "I ruined it."
Simion took the boy’s arm and urged him back up the corridor. "Come with me. I will help you."
"You need not trouble, Domn. If I can but get to my room... I know it is dreadful laziness in the middle
of the day, but if I could lie down for a moment..."
"Nicolae." The tone was chiding.
A tremor wracked him, so violent that he would have fallen if the man had not put a strong arm about
his waist. Finally giving up his pretense, Nicolae whispered, "Yes, please. Please help me."
Thanking God that his room was close by, Simion led the staggering boy. All the while his mind was
racing. This did not seem possible. He knew that Draculea had been eager for the boy, and if the
librarian had struggled to preserve his virtue too strenuously, things might have become... rough. But
this... Vlad Draculea was a lusty man, but to the best of Simion’s knowledge he had never torn a
partner so.
In his room, Simion helped Nicolae to lie on the bed, placing him on his belly. He wished for warm
water but did not feel he should leave the boy to go to the kitchen, and there was no fire in his room.
Cold would have to do. Luckily there was a large pitcher, filled to the brim, on his night table.
While he poured the water and got a cloth, Simion studied the boy’s face. He noted the dark blue
bruise rising along one cheek, and the cuts. This didn’t feel right. Draculea had been so entranced by
the child’s beauty, it hardly seemed credible that he would mark him in this manner.
When Simion went to lift the boy’s cassock, Nicolae held on to it desperately, giving Simion a
pleading look that tore at his heart. "It’s all right, Nicolae, I’m not going to hurt you. But I must see
what was done and cleanse you. You understand that, don’t you? You must not risk poison setting in
your blood." Reluctantly Nicolae released his grip on the garment. He turned his handsome, battered
face into Simion’s thin pillow, gripping the soft cushion with trembling hands.
Simion lifted the robe. He’d seen men who had been raped before, and violently. He thought he was
prepared for what he would see, but he wasn’t.
He couldn’t hold back a cry of disgust, horror, and aching sympathy. The boy had been nearly flayed
from the base of his spine to his knees. The skin was cut and torn in what had to be more than a
hundred places. At the edges, Simion could see that they were the type of stripes caused by a slender
rod, but across the center it was impossible to tell where one wound ended and another began. They
were all very fresh, and most of them still oozed thick blood.
There was no doubt in his mind now: Draculea had not done this. He knew his master could be cruel,
but the vicious, deliberate torture of an innocent, inoffensive young man, especially such a beauty, was
beyond him.
Simion tried to keep his voice steady as he began to wash away the blood. "Boy, who did this to you?"
There was no answer, only a quiet whimper as the cloth passed over the tattered skin. He tried again.
"Nicolae, why were you beaten?" Nothing short of high theft or the assault of a noble could justify a
beating like this, and Simion sincerely doubted Nicolae was capable of either.
"I... displeased my guardian."
Ernestu, of course. The bastard. "What did you do, Nicolae?" *And whatever it was, he is a monster
for doing this to you.*
To his shock, the boy gave a weak, almost hysterical laugh. "It is not what I did, Domn. It is what I
failed to do. What I refused to do." Simion rinsed the rag. Seeing the water stained, he went to pour it
out in the hallway. At the door, he froze as he heard Nicolae’s soft response. "I refused the prince,
Draculea."
Simion turned back slowly, and went to pour another basin of water. He had refused Vlad? And his
father had beaten him for not debauching himself. *Oh, Ernestu, you have made a grave mistake. Did
you think my lord would be grateful that you tried to whip the boy into his arms and his bed? How
little you know the Draculea, and his pride.
Simion continued cleaning Nicolae. He pushed the robe up farther, to get it out of the way, and
discovered the old scars. He touched them, running a finger along one narrow white track, and the boy
shivered. "I see this is not the first time you have been punished, Nicolae."
"Oh, no." His voice was flat, disconnected. "I was a sore trial to my patron when I was a child. A week
did not pass that the rod was not taken from its place. I did not like it when I had to lick it clean. The
blood was so salty."
Simion had to stop for a moment, putting his hand over his face. Nicolae continued, unaware. "Since I
returned it has not been so bad. Only a few blows, and hardly ever with his fist. Except the one time I
did not want to copy out that bawdy story." He touched his nose. "He broke something here, I think. It
was hard to breathe for a while."
Simion did not want to cause the boy any more distress, but with what he had learned now of Ernestu
and his relation with his bastard son he knew he had to check one last thing. He had to be sure that
Nicolae had not been violated. The cuts he could tend to, but if he were injured inside...
When Nicolae felt the hands grip his buttocks, he stiffened with a sharp gasp. But Simion said quickly,
"Be easy, boy. My purpose is not carnal. I need to see if you are injured here."
Nicolae buried his face again, his entire body shaking. Simion parted the cleft as gently as he could,
and examined the boy. He was relieved to see that the blood seemed to all come from the surface cuts.
The boy’s anus was a small, tender pink pucker. It was not the gaping, torn hole he had feared.
Apparently he had been spared that horror, but by how much, Simion was not sure.
He let the flesh close again, and got a small jar of medicinal ointment from his things. He always
carried it, not trusting to local physicians. It had special herbs in it that would not only cleanse the
wounds and protect them from the rot that could set in, but would soothe the pain a bit.
As he gently began to smooth the lotion on the raw patches, Nicolae said, "Father... Father was going
to do something very terrible, I think. But God protected me, and he spilled his seed before he
wished."
"Wait, boy. I will be back."
Simion stepped into the hall, shutting the door. Then he pounded his fist into the stone wall till his
knuckles were bruised, biting his lip bloody to keep from screaming curses at the beast who would so
ravage his own child. When he could at last control himself, he went back into the room.
"I must go to my room. They may want me, and I must be there when they call," Nicolae mumbled.
"No, boy. You are too ill to go now. You will sleep here." Simion poured a glass of brandy from a
small flask. Out of the boy’s sight, he stirred a white powder into the amber liquor, making sure it was
well dissolved.
He urged Nicolae onto his side, and held the cup to his lips. When the boy saw that it was strong
spirits, he tried to balk. But Simion said sternly, "Boy, I am your senior. You will drink this. God will
not mind, and it will do you much good. It will help you sleep."
Nicolae looked at him, puzzled. "But I will never sleep again," he said simply, as if this was a thing
too obvious to deserve discussion.
"Yes, you will." Simion tipped the glass to his mouth, and Nicolae drank. "And sleep will heal. At
least a little."
The boy’s system was in such shock that the drug acted even more swiftly and thoroughly than usual.
In moments he was in a deep sleep, so deep that it was near unconsciousness. Simion then stripped the
cassock the rest of the way from him, and covered him with a clean sheet. Then he went in search of
his prince. He had much to tell him.
Back to index
Chapter 12: Concern

pairing: Vlad/Nicolae
criticism: Yes
archive: CKoS and WWOMB. Others, ask please.
feedback : poet_77665@yahoo.com.
disclaimer: All characters except Nicolae property of Bram Stoker.
Some dialogue, images, and concepts may be from Universal or Hammer Studios, and Coppola’s
’Bram Stoker’s Dracula’. .
summary:Vlad learns of Ernestu’s abuse of Nicolae.
notes: I know, I know you want Vlad to kill the bastard AT ONCE. Be patient.
rating: NC-17
warnings: Possibly some consent issues, as Nicolae is drugged when he and Vlad have sex the first
time
Child of the Night, Part Twelve

Concern
Simion was helping Prince Draculea dress for the second feast in his honor at Castle Varga. They were
taking particular care with his appearance, as tonight Ernestu would announce the engagement to the
local gentry. It was to be quite an affair, especially for such a rural area. The presence of the prince
meant great prestige, and now one of their number was marrying into the royal line!
On his way upstairs, Simion had done a great deal of thinking. He knew that his lord was only
lukewarm about this union, but he also knew that it was necessary. If he did not wed and at least seem
to be trying for an heir, there was a real danger of rebellion. Some factions in the land would hint that
the Dracul were a thinning line, and it would be better to set someone else on the throne. Or perhaps
topple the throne altogether?
Usually Simion felt sure that Vlad could be trusted to look ahead and weigh the consequences of his
actions. But when it came to this boy...
Simion had a feeling that if the facts were presented too abruptly, too baldly, Draculea would not
hesitate. He would seek out Ernestu Varga and murder him on the spot.
The only question would be the method he chose to dispatch the whoreson. Simion had a feeling that
in this case Vlad Draculea would only be satisfied with using his bare hands. And he could do it, easily
enough. Simion had seen his master kill strong men in battle, using nothing but the strength, speed,
and agility God had given him. One fat, lecherous old child-beater would present no challenge.
But such a public and personal execution would cause a scandal that would spread throughout Europe.
It might weaken his support among the people, and other powers might see that as an opportunity to
invade or attack. Ernestu had to live, at least until after the marriage. And then, if possible, his death
had to be managed... discretely.
Draculea might be able to make his way through the feast, sitting beside the man who had flogged his
desired lover, but it was by no means a surety.
"He ran from me again, Simion." Draculea was frowning, but his tone was more wistful than angry.
"Must I court him with flowers and love sonnets?" Simion couldn’t help smiling, picturing his lord
reciting the intricate phrases that were popular in wooing maidens. Vlad saw, and made a face. "Not
my style at all, eh, Simion?"
"No, my lord. You are more direct." *Which is why I must be most careful in breaking this news to
you.*
"He’s close, I think. I almost had him earlier. A few more moments... He was hot and hard in my palm,
Simion, with only that brown rag between us. He moaned so sweetly." Draculea closed his eyes
briefly. "I want to hear him say my name in that tone."
*No, my lord, I most definitely do not tell you what happened to your sweetling now.*
As Vlad made his way to the great hall, Simion hurried to his room to check on Nicolae. He was as he
had left him, sleeping heavily. The sheet had become flecked with blood. Thankfully the ointment kept
it from sticking to the wounds.
Simion smoothed on more ointment. As his fingers stroked over the welted skin of Nicolae’s buttocks,
the boy gave a quiet whimper. Simion looked, but his eyes were still closed. He slept. But as the older
man continued to massage the tender, bruised flesh, the boy’s hips lifted, only a fraction, pressing up
to his touch.
*Poor child. So hungry for comfort and affection that you seek it even in your dreams.*
Experimenting, Simion gently squeezed the abused globes. There was another soft sound that mingled
pain and longing, and again Nicolae’s hips lifted, more strongly this time.
Simion sat back, thinking. Then he folded the sheet so that the stains were hidden, and laid it over the
boy once again. Nicolae’s breathing and heartbeat were strong and slow. Simion stroked his hair,
which was matted with the sweat of his earlier ordeal. "I think I can do a service to both you and my
lord, boy. He needs you to be willing, and you need to be absolved of responsibility."
Again Simion poured out a measure of brandy, and mixed in the white powder. He shook Nicolae’s
shoulder. "Boy." No response. Again, "Boy?"
Nicolae’s eyelids fluttered. He gazed at Simion, his deep brown eyes unfocused, and made a
questioning sound. Simion lifted his shoulders, turning him slightly, and put the cup to his lips.
"Drink."
This time Nicolae did not hesitate or protest. He drank as meekly as a child, sighing when Simion
removed the empty cup. Again he looked at the older man, and slurred, "Domn? They... want me?"
Simion eased him back to the mattress. "Sleep, Nicolae." As the boy’s eyelids closed, he murmured,
"Yes, you are wanted."
The company was seated when he slipped into the hall and took his place behind Prince Draculea.
Vlad was pretending to listen to some rambling of Ernestu, but his eyes were fixed on the empty seat
at the end of the table.
When Ernestu turned his attention to Elizabeta on his other side Simion leaned over Vlad. Before he
could speak, Vlad muttered. "He isn’t here, Simion. Did I frighten him that much?"
Simion could not tell him now, but the hurt in Draculea’s voice hurt him also, and he felt he must say
something. "It is not on your account, my prince. There are circumstances that keep the boy away."
Vlad looked at him sharply. "After the feast, Domn. Remember your duty before your pleasure."
Draculea had faced unpleasant experiences for the good of his country and people before, he could
endure an hour or two of this for the same reasons. He looked pleased and proud as Ernestu, the
braying jack ass, stood and announced their betrothal. He even managed to stand and say a few
graceful phrases himself, and look properly contented when Ernestu moved Elizabeta to sit on
Draculea’s right hand, where Nicolae had sat the night before. Vlad gave Elizabeta much more room
than he had the librarian.
As they ate, Vlad said, as casually as he could, "The dark haired boy does not join us tonight?"
Elizabeta frowned, only then becoming aware of her half-brother’s absence. She shrugged. "Perhaps
he had a return of the malady he suffered this morning." She giggled. "Or he may be on his knees in
the chapel, begging forgiveness for actually enjoying himself last night."
Draculea’s feelings toward the girl had been lukewarm at best. He could feel them cooling even farther
now. Yes, he thought the boy agonized too much over his tiny transgressions, but it was through a
good heart rather than foolishness or false piety. He did not like it that this girl, whom Nicolae
obviously adored, could jest about something so important to him. Draculea did not like the spiritual
strictures that helped keep Nicolae from him, but he respected the boy for them.
Vlad graciously accepted all the fulsome congratulations as each noble in turn approached the table
and wished him well in his marriage. There was much talk of strong sons and beautiful daughters, and
Vlad thought, with mild interested, that Elizabeta did not smile quite so brightly during these.
Finally he felt he had endured enough to leave without insulting guests or host, and he rose, making
his apologies. He used the excuse that his future bride needed her rest so that she could attend to her
packing the next day. The guests murmured at his boldness when he pressed a kiss to her hand before
he left.
The moment they were away from the hall, Vlad took Simion’s arm. "Nicolae?"
"I will speak of him to you as you change, my lord. You must put away your finery." When Draculea
started to protest, Simion said firmly, "Maria Ta, I have my reasons. Have I ever given you bad
advice?"
There was no need to answer that. Simion had been Vlad’s most trusted companion and advisor for
many years. He trusted the older man’s wisdom, so he did as Simion wished.
In his room, Simion helped him strip out of his stiff formal wear and don simple breeches and shirt.
"Now, you must come with me to my quarters. I have something to tell you, and something to show
you."
As they entered the servants’ area, Simion told him, "Distaste or fear was not the reason the boy was
not at table tonight, Domn."
"No?"
"No."
He stopped at the hall that led to his room. Draculea did not know which were his quarters, so it would
be difficult for him to locate them without Simion’s direction, and Simion did not intend to lead him
there until he had a promise from his lord.
"Before we go farther, my prince, I must ask something of you."
Vlad frowned. "You are grave, Simion. I have never denied you anything of great import. What do you
desire of me?"
"This, my lord, is something different. It is no material thing I ask for, but your solemn oath that you
will not act rashly on what I will reveal to you."
"Simion, of late you have showed little faith in my patience."
"In this, Prince, I believe myself justified. This is of mortal importance. You must swear to me that, no
matter your rage, your pain, or your heartbreak, you will not commit a violence. Not now."
Vlad’s eyes narrowed. "Simion, I begin to suspect a great wrong. You fear that I will do murder."
"Yes, my lord."
"Is it so serious?"
"Yes, my lord."
His face paled. "Nicolae?"
Simion drew a small crucifix from his pocket and held it up to Vlad. "Give me your word, my prince.
For the sake of your country, your people, and your own soul."
"Simion..." His voice was threatening.
"And for the sake of the boy."
Draculea hesitated, then bent his head and kissed the cross. "I swear by the Most Holy Cross and the
blood of Christ that this night I will not commit violence." He turned burning eyes on Simion.
"Beyond that, my friend, I cannot say."
Simion pocketed the crucifix. "It is enough, I think."
He led the prince to the door of his room. "Wait a moment while I light the lamp. I did not want to
leave a flame."
Draculea waited impatiently in the hall. He heard the rasp of flint and steel, saw the sparks jump, and
then the wick in the oil lamp caught, flickered, and the flame burned steadily. He stepped into the
room. Simion moved behind him quickly, shutting the door.
The room was tiny, and his eyes went immediately to the bed in the corner, and the figure lying on it.
There was no mistaking the dark head lying on the pillow, face turned to the wall. There was also no
mistaking the fact that he was naked beneath the thin sheet.
Draculea’s eyes flicked, surprised, to his servant. "He is willing, then? Simion, why did you not bring
him to my room?"
Simion was shaking his head. "He may very well be willing, my lord, though not fully aware of it
himself. No, that is not why he is here. I found him earlier in the hallway, without the strength or sense
to find his way to his own room."
"What do you mean, Simion?"
Simion gripped Vlad’s arm. "I charge you to remember your vow, Prince Draculea."
Vlad shook him off, hissing, "What has happened?" He went to the bed and bent over the boy.
"Nicolae?" No response. He bent farther over...
and his gaze fell upon the swollen purple bruise that surrounded the two blood crusted cuts. Vlad
jerked back violently, eyes wide with shock, and dropped to his knees beside the bed. Simion, who had
come to stand beside him, reached down and lifted away the sheet.
Vlad gazed at the ruin of torn skin, the thick pink-purple welts extending from the rawness like greedy,
clutching fingers. The only sound he made was a sharp intake of breath.
Draculea’s eyes moved from the ravaged lower body and noted the criss-cross of old scars across the
boy’s back. For a long moment he was as still and silent as if he had been carved from stone.
Then Simion saw his hands slowly clench into fists at his side, and he threw himself in front of the
door a split second before, with a low, keening cry, Draculea surged to his feet. There was no question,
no doubt on his face as he stalked toward Simion. "Ernestu!" The name was a curse on his lips.
"My lord, your vow!"
Draculea had almost reached him. "You will not hold me to it, Simion. God will not hold me to it! The
man died the moment he laid rough hands on what is mine."
"I will hold you to it, my lord. Remember the boy!"
Draculea stopped, only inches away from Simion. He was fairly quivering with rage. "How will it
better his lot if that filth draws one more breath?"
"Filth he may be, but he is the boy’s father..." Draculea snorted in disgust, but Simion spoke over him.
"and you have seen how the child torments himself. If he knows that you killed Ernestu because of
him, what will it do to him? Would you kill any hope you had of winning him along with Ernestu?"
Vlad hesitated. Simion saw the rage and grief fighting against the cool logic of his words. Restraint
finally won out, but only barely. His voice rough, Draculea said, "And what do you suggest, Simion?
Surely he will know it is I, even if I delay."
"He may suspect, my lord, if you do as I suggest. But he will not know. And, as his heart is good, he
wishes to believe the best of every man. He will not condemn you unless he is sure. You need only
contain yourself a few more days, until after the wedding. Ernestu is going to Castle Draculea for the
ceremony. Afterward he will return home. And there are many dangers on the road."
Draculea was silent, staring at Simion. At last, he smiled. It was cold and cruel. Had Ernestu seen it
and known it was at the thought of him, he would have soiled himself like an infant. "Simion, you are
a treasure. This puts me in mind of a saying the Italians have."
He walked back to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, and resting a hand lightly on Nicolae’s
back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
"What is the saying, my lord?"
Draculea’s eyes were the color and chill of a winter sky. "Revenge is a dish best eaten cold."
Back to index
Chapter 13: Seduction

Author’s Notes: Fandom: Dracula
Pairing: Vlad/Nicolae
Sequel/Series:
Archive: Yes. CKoS, WWOMB, all others please ask.
Criticism: Yes.
Feedback: Yes. poet_77665@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Characters, except Nicolae, originally belong to Bram Stoker. Some concepts and
dialogue may be borrowed from Universal and Hammer Studios, and the Coppola film, ’Bram
Stoker’s Dracula’.
Warning: Non consensual sex. Nicolae is drugged when Vlad seduces him, no matter how tender and
loving it is.
Rating: NC-17
Child of the Night, Part Thirteen

Simion’s Room
Seduction
Draculea looked up at his patiently waiting servant. "He shouldn’t be disturbed now, or I would have
him moved. Simion, go to my room. Bring back whatever will be needed for Nicolae and myself to
rest comfortably."
"You will remain here tonight, Maria Ta?"
"Yes, Simion. I will not leave him like this. You will take my room."
Simion had expected no less. He hurried to the prince’s room and returned with all he thought they
would need. He spread smooth sheets and a soft blanket over the sleeping boy, replacing the thin
pillow with a fat one, stuffed with goose down. He carefully tipped Nicolae’s face to the side when he
did this, so there would be no danger of the boy suffocating in his sleep. Simion made sure there was
another lamp, well filled, in case his lord desired light throughout the night.
As his servant worked, Draculea said, "Simion, did the filth truly think that he would win my favor by
beating the boy into my bed?"
"It would seem so, Domn."
"Good God. I can only hope that his daughter will not pass on his stupidity to our children. It astounds
me that he would not realize that this is an insult. I have not needed anyone to pimp for me since the
night my father chose my first whore. In any case..." Draculea stroked Nicolae’s hair wistfully, "It
doesn’t seem to have worked, not in the way he expected. The boy has a stronger will than he
thought."
"The boy is afraid, Domn." When Draculea looked up sharply, he continued. "Oh, not of you, my
prince. Well..." He smiled. "Perhaps a little. You can be overwhelming at times. He fears himself. He
finds that he wants what he has been told all his life is wrong, and he fights the urges. He fights
valiantly, but this is one battle he should lose. The question is, will he be forced into submission, or
coaxed to surrender?"
Vlad, from his campaigns, knew the difference. Some lands and people were taken only through bitter
struggle. They preferred to destroy themselves rather than submit. Others welcomed their conqueror as
a savior, placing themselves freely and joyfully under their new master’s hand. Which would Nicolae
do? Vlad desperately wanted the boy to do the latter. He knew from bitter experience how difficult it
was to hold on to that which was taken in violence. Preparing to go, Simion said, "He should sleep till
break of day, master. He may seem to awaken, but it will be a waking dream for him. The drug I have
given him will keep him peaceful, but dazed." Draculea nodded his understanding.
Simion considered a moment, then took the jar of ointment once again from his bag and placed it on
the tiny table beside the bed. "This is what I used on his cuts, my lord. It is soothing without being
numbing. It is very slippery, so if you choose to tend the boy’s wounds with it, be careful of your grip
when you are done."
Draculea studied Simion, then looked down at the little pot of white salve. "I understand, Simion.
Thank you. I will not need you further tonight." Simion bowed his head, and left the room.
Draculea gazed thoughtfully at Nicolae for a moment, then shook his head. *No. I do not want a
simple vessel for my lust. I want a warm and willing partner.* Unable to resist touching him
somehow, he began to toy with the wisps of dark hair that feathered against his neck. They were as
soft and fine as that of an infant.
Vlad sat for awhile, but he soon decided that he must lie down. Tomorrow he must face Varga and
pretend that he did not intend to kill him at the first opportune moment. Holding his temper would take
all his will and strength. He should rest.
Vlad removed his boots. After a moment’s thought, he removed his shirt, also. The boy was a limp,
warm bundle when he lifted first his torso, then his legs, and moved him over in the bed, near the wall.
Vlad would sleep on the outside, so that there was no chance Nicolae would fall out and hurt himself
in his drugged state.
He left the lamp burning: the low flame gave only dim light. Vlad slipped beneath the covers and
stretched out on his side beside Nicolae. "This was not how I pictured the first time we would lie
together, little one," he whispered as he laid his head on the pillow beside Nicolae.
His breath seized in his throat as the boy’s eyes drifted open, dark lashes rising slowly, but they
opened only halfway. His gaze was vague, his pupils dilated till the rich brown of his irises was a mere
hair-fine ring around the black pools of his pupils.
*Does he see me?* Draculea dared not move for fear of frightening the boy. *Simion said it would be
nothing but a dream to him. Does he even know I am here?*
Perhaps he did. His lips, bruised from where he had bitten them during his ordeal, moved. As close as
he was, Vlad barely heard the whispered word. "Blue..." He thought it might have been naught but
wishful thinking. But then Nicolae spoke again. "Blue eyes..."
Vlad felt a soft touch on his chest. Looking down, he saw that Nicolae had laid his hand there. It rested
limply, but then the long, slender fingers moved slightly. He looked again into the boy’s face, trying to
gauge his consciousness.
The gentle touch moved against his left nipple. He closed his eyes, drawing in his breath. *He does not
know what he is doing. His touch is innocent.* But it came again, warm and lingering. Vlad felt his
nipple begin to stiffen, drawing into a hard, pebbled peak. The fingers circled, squeezing. Sensual
warmth spread from the teased flesh, drifting over to cause his other teat to begin hardening, and
settling down to his crotch.
Vlad bit his lip. *I swear that he is unaware, but his touch... It is as if he knows the very things that
delight me.*
The sensation was becoming too much for Vlad. He took the boy’s hand, holding and stilling it, seeing
the same ink smudge he had noted this morning. It seemed long ago, and he followed the impulse he
had then. Lifting Nicolae’s hand, he took the thumb into his mouth and sucked it softly.
As he had imagined, the tang of the ink was faint. It was overwhelmed by the sweet, meaty taste of
Nicolae’s flesh. He felt Nicolae’s fingers fan against his face, settling along his cheek. Releasing the
thumb, he instead drew the two middle fingers into his mouth and suckled them. He swirled his tongue
over and around them, licking to tickle the sensitive skin in-between. Nicolae sighed quietly.
Vlad removed the spit slick fingers, and drew them down again, settling them against his right nipple.
Immediately the boy began to stroke and pinch in the same dreamy manner, and Draculea groaned, his
lust rising.
"Nicu," he whispered. "Little one, do you know me?"
"Strong." The single word was no louder than the others had been.
Vlad might have been able to resist but for what Nicolae did next. The boy’s hand crept upward
slowly, burning a trail along Vlad’s skin. It moved along his throat, then draped over his neck and ran
up into his hair, and the boy whispered, his voice achingly humble and needy, "Love me?"
Vlad felt as if his heart would burst in his chest. "Yes, Nicu. Yes, I do. I will. Yes." *But how? How
can I pleasure you without causing you pain?*
Vlad fumbled behind himself, blindly finding the little jar that Simion had left. Nicolae made a sound
of protest when Vlad sat up and threw back the covers, but the prince stroked his back soothingly, and
he quieted.
Draculea coated the fingers of his right hand with the slippery ointment, and knelt on the mattress
beside the boy who would from this night forward be his lover. Careful of bruises and welts, he gently
spread the cleft of Nicolae’s buttocks. The dark haired young man whined deep in his throat as Vlad
stroked the cool, oily substance down the shadowed valley. Vlad murmured, "Hush, Nicu. Just a little
cold, just a little pain. It will feel so good very, very soon." He rubbed, working the salve into the
boy’s flesh, warming it with his own body heat. The whine died slowly.
Vlad eyed the crinkled pink spot that marked the entrance to Nicolae’s most private part. "So tiny, so
perfect." He massaged, feeling the strong, springy muscle. "You will grip tight when I take you, dear
one." He patiently ran his finger around the opening, coaxing the flesh to soften. It did not take much,
the drug in the boy’s system had relaxed him.
When he thought it was time Vlad pressed one finger to the virgin hole and pushed forward. He slid in
slowly, not stopping till his knuckles were nestled against the stretched opening. Nicolae moaned, and
his hips shifted slightly, but Vlad put his free hand on Nicu’s back, holding him in place. Soon he was
still again, but his breathing was deeper.
"Yes, boy," Vlad murmured. "You see? Not so bad." He pumped in and out, holding him so that he
could not twist away. But he really didn’t need to. Nicolae quivered, but he made no attempt to evade
the thick finger moving in his back passage. Vlad dared remove his free hand long enough to dip it
into the white cream again, and smear more around the loosening hole.
He pulled out entirely, but then inserted two fingers, held close together. Nicolae took them with
scarcely a murmur. Vlad’s prick was fully erect now, straining against his breeches insistently. "Why
am I doing this to myself? I can’t fuck you tonight, Nicu."
The boy sighed, as if in answer, and began to hump shallowly against the mattress. "Oh..." Vlad
pushed deeper, feeling, and found the small bump. Nicolae tensed slightly, probably as much as he
was able in his state, and made a mewling sound of pure longing. Smiling fondly, Vlad caressed the
boy’s most sensitive spot till Nicolae was gasping, his hips moving jerkily.
Curious, Vlad slipped his left hand under Nicolae’s body. His fingers closed around firm, hot flesh.
"Sweet Nicu. You want me even if you do not know it. There must be some way."
Nicolae had pushed his face into the pillow, hands fisting by his head like a sleeping child. Now he
was moving as he had longed to this morning when the prince first caressed him. He thrust his
hardened prick down into the large, hard hand, and pushed his bottom up onto the deliciously impaling
fingers. When both were withdrawn, he whimpered with loss.
"Wait, impatient one." Vlad stood, and stripped off his breeches, then went back to the bed, naked. His
prick was fully and proudly erect. It was already slick with the first issue of the liquid that eases the
way for a man’s seed.
Vlad maneuvered Nicolae onto his side, then moved farther into the bed and pulled the boy down on
top of himself. He spread his legs, and settled the boy between his thighs, bringing their crotches
together.
The younger man sprawled loosely, his head settling on Vlad’s shoulder. Vlad just held him, arms
wrapped around his back, feeling the warm, living weight. It was so odd. The boy was a mixture of
oblivion and awareness. His eyes had closed again, but Vlad felt the firm points of Nicolae’s aroused
nipples press against his own with each breath.
Vlad again dipped his fingers in the salve. This time he reached between their bodies and smoothed it
first on Nicolae’s straining erection, then his own.
Vlad guided the boy’s body with his thighs, shifting him slightly. His own prick had been lying up
against his belly in its excitement, and now Nicolae’s slick, heated flesh slid against it. Draculea put
back his head, groaning, and began to thrust upward slowly, grinding himself against the pliant body
above him. It was not all that he wanted, but it was very, very good.
The boy’s head rolled, more than could be accounted for by the motion of their coupling. His eyes
opened again. The pupils had shrunk a bit toward normal, but he was still drifting. He had some
awareness, but no understanding.
All he knew was that someone was holding him close. He could not remember anyone doing that
except his mother in his dim and distant past. It felt good. Gradually he became aware that it felt very
good. He scarcely felt the pain that had gripped him since he had received the first stroke of the rod.
He was bathed in warmth that seemed to come from inside as well as out. Large hands, a little
callused, stroked his back in rhythm to the rise and fall of his body.
He felt the delicious heaviness in his groin that had always accompanied the dreams, the dreams that
had left him weak and sticky when he awoke. He could remember the feel of his linen drawers against
his swollen flesh, but this was different. It was hotter, and slick. The friction as what was beneath him
moved was maddeningly pleasurable.
Moved? Nicolae suddenly realized that he was lying on living flesh. It was a man’s body that lay
pressed beneath his own, and it did not just lie: it moved. They were both naked, and the man’s loins
thrust up to his own hot flesh, their arousals rubbing together firmly.
A faint spark of panic flared deep in the boy’s hazy mind. His head was heavy, but he lifted it a little,
wavering, to see who it was who was giving him such pleasure at the peril of both their souls.
He looked down into hot blue eyes, set in a face handsome enough to make an angel weep. Nicolae
gasped in dismay. "Domn."
A hand cupped the back of his head and pushed him down till his cheek lay against the solid, shifting
shelf of his shoulder. Nicolae began to struggle, but his efforts were kitten-weak. The one hand held
his head down, and the other arm went about his waist. Again he squirmed, and felt a dart of shamed
lust when the man below him made a greedy, approving noise.
"Please, master, let me go." The words were husky, cracked.
"Not yet, Nicu." The prince’s voice was thick. "Soon, sweet lover. I am very close." He never stopped
moving. When Nicolae again tried to pull away, Draculea hooked his ankles over the boy’s calves,
locking him in place, and began to pump against him more strongly. "I can’t stop, Nicu. Don’t you
see?"
Nicolae began to cry silently, tears streaking his face as the prince thrust against him, his hard dick
streaking the boy’s belly and thighs. Then Vlad’s grip tightened, and Nicolae felt a gush of hot liquid
coat his belly and his sex as Draculea found his release.
The prince stilled, except for his heaving breath. His grip on the younger man relaxed into more of a
caress. Nicolae managed to pick his head up again, and looked at Vlad. The prince’s face almost
seemed to glow, and there was a serenity in his eyes Nicolae had not seen before. For a moment
Nicolae hesitated, unsure. Could a man who had just committed what he had always been taught was a
grievous sin look so peaceful?
Vlad said quietly, "Why do you weep, my lover?"
Nicolae did not know what to say. He supposed it was the brandy that the prince’s servant had given
him that made his senses reel and his head so light. Not really knowing what he was saying, he
stammered, "Master, please... I... I didn’t..." *Didn’t want, didn’t know, didn’t consent...*
But Vlad was nodding as if he understood perfectly. "I am sorry, pet. You will think me selfish." He
pulled the pillow from beneath his head and put it against the wall, then rolled Nicolae off onto his
side, so that he was propped comfortably against it.
He brought his face up to the boy’s, and licked away the salt drop that was trickling down his cheek. "I
understand. Do not worry." His hands were smoothing down Nicolae’s torso, and the boy shivered at
the sensation. "I will take care of you."
He moved down on the bed. Nicolae cried out as Draculea flicked his tongue, darting it across the slick
head of his sex. The feeling was like nothing he had ever experienced. It came again and again as Vlad
lapped away the clear fluid that drizzled from his slit.
Draculea seldom pleasured other men with his mouth. He far more often merely sat back and received
service, but he wanted to do this. Nicolae was delicious, and he felt half starved for him.
Nicolae could never have imagined anything more intense, and then Draculea took him into his mouth.
All resistance, all thought of anything but the hot wetness engulfing him fled. Nicolae reached down
and tangled his hands in Vlad’s hair holding him and pushing deeper.
For some minutes it was like that. There was no sound in the room save the boy’s sobbing breath and
the wet sounds of Draculea feasting on his manhood.
Nicolae’s climax, when it came, was not the abrupt spasm he had been used to in his involuntary
dreams. It rolled through his body, long and sweet and hot. He felt his seed pour forth, surging into the
man who held him deep, swallowing his entire shaft. The prince did not pull away, did not reject him.
If anything, he pulled the boy closer, hands on Nicolae’s jerking hips. *I am dying* Nicolae thought,
dazed. *and it is so beautiful.*
When the boy was spent, Vlad cleaned him with his tongue, licking away their combined sperm in
voluptuous leisure. Nicolae lay quiet beneath his attentions. He did not speak again till the prince
moved up in the bed and pulled him to lie against his side, tight in his embrace. Then the boy
whispered dully, "Am I damned?"
"No, Nicolae." Draculea pressed a kiss to the ruffled hair. "You are blessed."
Back to index
Chapter 14: Part 14: The Claiming

Part 14: The Claiming
The Next Day
Nicolae came awake slowly. This was not unusual. When he had a deep sleep, he often spent a
peaceful half hour in a state of drowse, moving gradually toward consciousness. This sleep had been
deeper than any he could remember. It was as if he had dropped off into a pit at some point the
previous day.
He remembered his shock when the curtain of the confessional was suddenly whipped aside, and he
remembered the rage on Ernestu’s face. After that, there was confusion, leading to blackness, more
confusion, and more blackness. He wasn’t really sure that he wanted to be aware of what had
happened. Somehow he knew that much of it was very unpleasant. But oddly enough, he had the sense
that some of it had been FAR from unpleasant.
The first thing he knew for certain was that he was in pain. Ernestu must have beaten him again. Well,
there was no surprise in that. That had happened often enough for him to accept it as part of the natural
order of things. He could tell that it was bad, but he had endured others not much gentler.
The next thing he was aware of was that he was naked. That was unusual. Since Elizabeta had given
him the drawers, he had slept in them. He had decided that in doing that, they became a help toward
modesty rather than a vanity or sensual indulgence. Why was he not wearing the garment now?
Eyes still closed, he tried very hard to think. There was something about the drawers, they... *I ruined
them.* In his mind he saw red bloom on the white linen, like rose petals against snow. *Why didn’t I
take them all the way off? I might have saved them.* It never occurred to him to blame the man who
had flogged the blood from him.
*I need to get to the library. So much to do...* He tried to push himself upright, but failed on the first
attempt. He was just trying again when the door opened. The prince’s manservant, Simion, came into
the room, carrying a tray. He said sharply, "Boy! Lie back down. You are not fit to be getting up now."
Nicolae was surprised, but he obeyed, because really, he was lightheaded with that small effort. "Sir,"
His voice was hoarse. "Please, you need not tend to me. I am..." He trailed off, taking in the details of
the room. "I am not in my own room?"
"No." Simion put the tray on the bedside table, drawing a chair up beside the bed. "This is my room.
You could not be left alone. Move closer to the edge of the bed, Nicolae." Nicolae managed to scoot a
few inches over, and Simion nodded approval. "You cannot sit yet, and you are weak. I will feed you."
Nicolae blushed as he brought a spoonful of stew to his lips. "Please, Domn, I am not a child."
Simion smiled sardonically. "No? In any case, I am not a Domn. I work for my living, the same as
you. You will call me Simion. You may use ’sir’ if you wish. I am your elder, and deserve that respect.
Now eat."
Nicolae’s stomach rumbled at the rich, meaty smell drifting from the bowl, but he felt queasy. "Please,
sir. I do not think I can."
"You will. You need nourishment, boy. You cannot have eaten since you broke fast yesterday
morning, and it is near noon now. Take a little of the broth to start. Once you have something in your
belly, the sickness will go." He still turned his head away. "Nicolae, the prince ordered me to see you
well fed. Will you make me fail my duty to him?" Nicolae stared at the older man. But the next time
Simion offered the food, he sipped the broth dutifully. After a few mouthfuls, his stomach settled, and
he was hungry. Simion fed him, and the boy finished the entire bowl, and a good slab of bread spread
with sweet butter. Licking away a last greasy smear from his lips, he said hesitantly, "The prince... the
prince knows of my... misfortune?"
Simion put away the bowl, and his eyes were unreadable as he looked again at the boy. "Yes, Nicolae.
He is aware. And he knows why you suffered."
The boy’s pale face grew whiter still. "How?"
Simion crossed his arms on his knees, leaning forward to speak. "How much do you remember of
yesterday?"
"Not much."
"You remember the beating?"
"Some of it, sir."
"Do you remember how you came to this room?"
He shook his head. "If I troubled you, sir, I am sorry."
"Stop it, boy. Do not apologize for something that was none of your doing. You were viciously
abused, and you did not deserve what was done to you."
"I angered my guardian. But sir..." One hand gripped the hem of Simion’s tunic, as he struggled to
convince the man who needed no convincing, "I could not do as he wished!" *Why does he look at me
so oddly?* "I cannot tell you what he wanted, but it was something that would lead me and another
down a perilous moral path."
Simion sat back. "I know what he wanted you to do, Nicolae."
The boy’s hand dropped. "But how?"
"You told me, when I brought you here to tend you."
He turned his face to the pillow. "You should not have listened to me, sir. I no doubt spoke little sense.
And that should have been heard by none but my confessor."
"Why?" The tone was so blunt that Nicolae looked back in surprise. "There was nothing for you to
confess, boy. As I told you, you did no wrong." He stood up. "I must dress your cuts again. They are
already much improved, almost all are closed. Still, you must be cautious for the next day or so, lest
you tear them open again. And you will not sit comfortably for a week or more, I think."
When Simion went to pull down the sheet, Nicolae clutched at it instinctively. Simion’s voice was
amused, "There is nothing under there that I have not already seen, Nicolae. Think of me only as your
physician. Now, stop fighting what I try to do for you. Do not make me report your misbehavior to the
prince." He had only been teasing, but he saw the half-fearful look on the boy’s face as he released the
sheet.
Simion pulled down the sheet, and retrieved the little jar of medicine from the table. He examined it,
and his lips quirked. Yes, there was a good bit less than there had been when he had left the room last
night. That would have explained Prince Draculea’s good mood and peaceful demeanor when he
returned to his rooms this morning. It also explained the heavy, musky scent of the room when Simion
had slipped in to check on the boy.
But from the healing state of the cuts on the boy’s buttocks, his lord had not taken his pleasure in that
manner. Still, something had occurred, but Nicolae did not seem fully aware of it. Simion wondered
how much of it was because of the drugs and his shock, and how much had been willfully blocked out.
Simion once again cleaned the cuts, and dressed them with the salve. "You heal quickly, Nicolae. It
will not be long before Prince Draculea can show his devotion fully." The boy shuddered, and turned
alarmed eyes on Simion. Simion spoke to him gently as he replaced the sheet. "Come, boy. You are
innocent, and ignorant, but you are not stupid. If you care to, you can remember most of what
happened last night. There is no reason why you shouldn’t."
Nicolae closed his eyes, whispering, "I had hoped that I dreamed. I have... odd dreams, sometimes."
"No dream, Nicolae. I know not the details, but it is clear enough that Prince Vlad took his pleasure of
you last night. And I cannot help but believe that you found pleasure with him, as well."
"I am weak of spirit, and weak in the flesh. I should have stopped him.
"Pfft. How could you? Even had you not been both weak and drugged, my lord is a powerful man,
both in body and in will. You would have surrendered to him eventually, Nicolae. It is better that this
first time was eased by the medicine I gave you." He touched the boy’s dark hair. "You see? It was not
your fault, Nicolae. Your heart can be free of regret in this."
"No, sir. I must bear this burden."
"If you are troubled, Mircea will hear your confession, and give you absolution."
"He cannot, sir. I cannot speak of this and ask for forgiveness."
"But why, Nicolae? I do not understand."
"Sir, the grace of absolution is granted on four conditions: confession, penance, sincere regret of the
sin, and a determined purpose to not repeat the sinful act." Nicolae’s expression was miserable. "I can
comply with the first two, but the last two..." He swallowed hard. There was so much pain in his eyes
that Simion felt the urge to take him in his arms and rock him like a child, soothing it away. "The
regret, and the vow to never repeat the act? Simion, I do not think I can do that."
Simion’s face relaxed into a smile. "Boy, you cannot know how happy that makes me." He took the
tray and went to the door. "I must attend my lord at his mid-day meal. Rest, Nicolae. Do not try to
leave this room, not even the bed you lie on. There is a chamber pot beneath it, should you have need."
Nicolae’s head was low, hair hanging over his eyes, shadowing them. "As you said, Simion, I must
work for my living. My patron does not notice me save to pick at my faults, and shirking my duties
will earn me another beating."
Simion’s voice was firm and cold. "He will not touch you again, Nicolae." He paused, and there was a
significant tone to his next words. "In ANY way. My lord has claimed you, and no one hurts what is
his."
When the other man was gone, Nicolae lay, stunned by the import of his words. The prince claimed
him? It wasn’t possible. He was such a great man, he could command any servant, even any noble.
Why would he stoop to concern himself with one so poor and obscure as Nicolae Calugarul. Even if it
was only fleshly desire, there were others more beautiful, male and female, who would fly to him at
the least hint of interest. *A passing amusement,* Nicolae thought sadly. *To him I am like a flower in
a field. Walking past, it catches the eye for a moment. One may even feel driven to pluck it, and keep
it for a little time. Perhaps it is tucked in the bosom for the sweet smell, perhaps worn in the hair for its
gay look. But soon the freshness fades, and the flower is tossed aside. When I am tossed aside, where
will I land? I will surely die if I am torn from my place and discarded.*
He mused on this for awhile, finally deciding that his only hope was to try to forget what had
happened. Indeed, it was half done. All he had was flashes and impressions.
The clearest memories were these: the sense of something filling him, moving inside him and bringing
a sense of wholeness and great pleasure, and the incredible warmth and wetness that had engulfed his
sex just before he once again fell into blackness. And... tenderness. He had been held and caressed
with gentleness that seemed to speak of caring. But he thought it better to forget these things. His life
would be easier if he had nothing to regret losing.
His hunger sated, he grew drowsy again, and drifted off to sleep.
Vlad wished he could have avoided Ernestu. When he looked at the man, he felt a near overwhelming
urge to take his neck in his hands and wring his head from his shoulders, like a chicken. But he
restrained himself, for Nicolae’s sake. Simion was right. If Vlad killed the man out of hand, he might
escape punishment, but it would kill the boy inside, so Vlad held his temter. The beast would be
allowed to walk the earth a few more days before he was sent to his justly earned place in Hell.
The prince was scrupulously polite, but still Ernestu Varga was suspicious. Vlad had never been warm
to him, but he had been cordial, if condescending. Now the stiff formality of his addresses and the
coldness of his gaze told Ernestu that the Wallachian ruler was highly displeased about something.
*It’s that damn bastard, it must be! Either he disobeyed me and did not go to Draculea, or he was so
clumsy in bed that the prince was displeased. Either way, I’ll whip the skin from his body if he spoils
Beta’s chances.*
Ernestu wanted to do just that. He remembered the sight of the boy crouched before him, robe rucked
up to expose smooth, pale buttocks. He remembered how the flesh had quivered and reddened under
the stroke of the rod, and how soft and trembling his mouth had been as he pleaded with Ernestu. Most
of all he remembered the hot, liquid rush when the boy’s hand had come to rest over his lust swollen
flesh.
Unconsciously, Ernestu licked his lips. He wondered why he had ignored the boy for so long. This
convenient bit of flesh had been in his charge for eighteen years, and he had yet to taste him. *I have
been wasteful. The boy can do more than copy out scribbles. When Beta is safely married and out of
the castle, there will be time...* It had been some time since Ernestu had someone to warm his bed on
a regular basis. Once he set himself to training the boy, Nicolae should serve admirably.
Sitting across the table from his fiancee’s father, Vlad noted the flush rising in the thin cheeks, and the
swipe of tongue across dry lips. *I know what you are thinking, you incestuous dog. You’ll not have
him. I will take him from you, and kill you with my own hands. I have men enough to kill at my
bidding, but I will not deny myself that pleasure.*
They were in the process of negotiating the marriage contract. Vlad and Stefan sat on one side of the
table, Ernestu and his lawyer, Ivan, on the other. They had already specified the lands that would be
turned over to the prince, along with the people who tilled them, and the livestock thereon. Stefan had
smoothly argued the gold of the dowery up to three hundred gold pieces. Ivan would have bargained,
but Ernestu, a bad haggler, was eager to agree. His lawyer could only shrug and acquiesce.
Ernestu proudly boasted of the rich wardrobe Elizabeta would bring with her. "You will not need to
dress her for some time, Domn. She has dozens of garments, from the simplest to the richest. She will
not disgrace you on any occasion, be it gracing your household from day to day, or a ceremony of
state." Draculea only nodded, his expression never changing.
Stefan studied the notes he had made. "Now we come to the final, and lesser part of the agreement.
Elizabeta is to bring with her any servants the prince deems necessary for her comfort, or a benefit to
the prince’s household."
Draculea had been lounging in his chair, toying with a glass of wine. Now he sat up and leaned
forward. He was suddenly interested in the proceedings.
Ernestu nodded eagerly. "Of course, of course. She will need some of her maids to attend her. I do not
hint, Prince Draculea, that you could not supply her with adequate body servants, but some of these
women have been with Beta since she was a little girl, and
she would miss them terribly."
"How many?" It was the first time Draculea had spoken since the negotiations began.
"Well, no more than two or three. She must certainly bring Lena Albu with her. The woman has cared
for Beta, and tutored her, since she was young."
"Albu, and two others of her choosing," Stefan looked to Draculea, who indicated his approval. "Any
others?"
"No those are the only ones we ask that you bring. The prince is welcome to order whoever else he
wishes."
Stefan looked at Draculea, who appeared to be giving the matter consideration. "My lord, unless you
have run across someone you simply must add to the household, there is no need. We have a fine staff,
and others available from your own land, should the need arise."
"Could you spare your priest, Varga? The lady would most likely be more comfortable with a
confessor she knew."
Ernestu agreed eagerly. "You are kind and thoughtful, Maria Ta. Yes, Mircea will be happy to
accompany Beta, I am sure."
"One of your better cooks, also, I think. They can teach my kitchen the dishes that the lady most
enjoys."
"Yes, my prince. An excellent thought. My second cook has been looking for a chance to travel, I
think."
"What else? It seems there was one more..." Draculea put a finger to his brow, frowning, as if in deep
thought. At last he said, "Ah, I remember now. Elizabeta wishes to bring along the librarian,
Calugarul."
Ernestu’s expression fell. "I would grant you anything joyfully except that, Prince Draculea. The
whelp must remain here."
Stefan exchanged glances with Ivan. This was a complete turnabout. Till now Ernestu had fallen over
himself in an effort to give Draculea more than he asked for. And to balk at such a trivial and useless
thing as a librarian...
"Your daughter expressly asked me to request the boy accompany us to Castle Draculea."
"Perhaps he might be allowed to see her wed there, Maria Ta, but he must then return here with me.
You would not want him in your household. Elizabeta is a good, kind-hearted girl, but it makes her
foolish sometimes. Calugarul is not a fit companion for a lady of high birth."
Vlad was silent for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table. At last he said, "Varga, I hope that you
trust me to control my own wife once we are wed." His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it.
Ernestu felt himself paling. "I meant no disrespect, Prince Draculea."
"That is good to know. Now, what other reason could there be for the boy not to leave your household
and join my own?"
"I... he is all I have to tend the library, my lord."
"You seemed little impressed with his efforts before, Varga. If I recall correctly, you said that his
’scribbling’ could be done at any time, and was of no consideration."
"I did not wish for your lordship to be inconvenienced by his absorption in his work. He seems humble
enough, but there is a rebellious streak beneath that meek exterior, Domn. He needs constant
correction to show him his place in the world, and his duties toward his betters. Choose any other of
my people, and they are yours."
"Varga," Stefan, alarmed at the quiet, hard tone of Draculea’s voice, looked at him. The prince’s face
was unreadable, but his eyes burned. "Are you refusing me this small thing?"
Varga gestured helplessly. "I do not understand your interest, my lord. The boy is nothing, no one,
practically useless."
"And that is why you babble in an effort to keep him in your ’care’?" There was a twist on the last
word that escaped no one.
Castle gossip moved swiftly. Everyone knew of the beating Nicolae had suffered the day before, and
some suspected Ernestu of more than simple violence. "I will make this clear for you, Varga. Elizabeta
wants the boy to come with her. I have a library at Castle Draculea that has been sadly neglected since
my father died. He can be a companion to Elizabeta..." He paused. "...and he can serve me. I will have
him, or there will be no union. Nicolae Calugarul must be included as part of the dowery." Stefan
started to say something, and Vlad growled, "You will not question me on this."
Ernestu studied the prince, seeing no softness or indecision in him. *He means this. The boy must be
better than I thought. Damn, and I have not sampled him yet. Still, there is nothing to be done. There
will be time, though, before we go to Castle Draculea, and before I must return home. Perhaps then.*
Varga bowed his head, spreading his hands. "It will be as Prince Draculea bids. The boy is in my
charge, to dispose of as I will, and I give him to you, with my blessings."
*How wise, Ernestu, since you knew I would take him otherwise.* To Stefan he said, "Write. Get it
down on paper."
Stefan dipped his quill, and began to write, muttering. "Among the household goods included in the
dowery are one cook, one lady’s maid, two serving wenches, and... a librarian."
"Use his name. He’s not just an object."
Stefan blinked mildly, then wrote, "One Nicolae Calugarul." He looked up at Ernestu. "And by what
authority do you make disposition of this man?"
"He is the bastard child of a lady’s maid who served my wife."
"And you took charge of him? Rather generous, sir." Stefan observed. "No other reason? If the boy is
free born, we cannot just order him from the control of one to another."
"I have authority over him."
"But what authority? Have you papers showing guardianship, given by the parents?"
Ernestu was slowly passing from the red of embarrassment to the purple of mortification. At last he
said stiffly, "The boy is mine. I sired him."
Stefan nodded. A father could dispose of his children as he would. Draculea stared at his future
father-in-law with barely concealed loathing. *It is good that you did not say you fathered him, Varga.
You have been no father to the boy. No, sired is the proper term. You dropped your seed, then moved
on, with no thought for what you had created, save how it inconvenienced you. Well, he is out of your
charge now, dog. And some day you will have cause to regret ever emptying your balls into that poor
woman who bore my Nicu. How a bag of pus like yourself could spawn such an angel, I will never
know.*
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 15: Chapter 15 - Dominance

Author’s Notes: Pairing: Beta/Lena
Disclaimer: Originally belong to Bram Stoker.
Summary: Elizabeta’s relationship with Lena is explored.
Author’s Notes: Lena Abul is Beta’s lady’s maid: a noblewoman of lower rank. She began tutoring
and caring for the girl in her early teens, and seduced her later. Lena is ambitious, and plans to rise
through her attachment to Beta.
Warning: Graphic, rough f/f sex. Lena is maipulative, and a borderline pedophile, considering how
young Beta was when their affair started.
Later in the day of the marriage contract
Elizabeta sat beside Prince Draculea at supper that night, at his right hand as was befitting his
betrothed. Beta had always been the highest-ranking female at her father’s table, but now the
assembled guests seemed to look at her with even greater respect and admiration. At least it seemed so
to her, and she was perfectly happy to accept the added attention. She deserved it, after all. She was
going to be a princess.
But in her new station, Elizabeta did not forget her obligations and promises. She leaned close to the
prince and said confidingly, "The marriage contract is signed?"
He nodded. "This afternoon. I put my seal to it, and it has been sent ahead to my castle archives. Your
father retains a copy."
"Did you ask him to let Nicolae come with me?"
Draculea’s smile struck her as a little odd. "The boy will come to Castle Draculea."
"Oh, good! I am so happy. Now, I need only one thing to make my happiness complete."
"And what is that, Elizabeta?" Vlad had no objection to keeping the girl happy, as long as it did not
interfere too greatly with his own interests.
"If you will but say that my dear Lena may come with me, I will be fully content."
"Lena... Ah, yes, Abul, your maid. Yes, Beta, she was included in the marriage contract. As long as
she is willing, she will be with you."
"Oh, she is willing, my lord! She half raised me. She is my dearest friend and confidant. I could not
have thrived without her. And she will be a benefit to your house. She is a very clever woman."
The most dangerous kind. Draculea frowned as this thought flitted across his mind. He dismissed it as
unworthy. "Which one is she?" He was a bit curious as to whom his future bride deemed
indispensable.
"There, just down the table on the right." Beta pointed to a thin woman with jet-black hair.
All ladies of the gentry tried to achieve a pale complexion, but this woman was so white as to be
almost ghostly. In contrast, her lips were blood red. I do believe the wench wears cosmetics. I wonder
that Ernestu would let a woman who paints near his precious child. Vlad shrugged the thought off.
Lena Abul was of little concern to him.
Instead he was anticipating seeing Nicu again in a few hours. The boy was still in Simion’s room, and
Vlad intended to spend the night there again, with him. They would leave early in the morning, and it
would be simply too indiscreet to have the boy too close when they encamped on the trip. That meant
that unless they joined again tonight, Vlad would have to remain celibate till after his wedding,
because the ceremony would take place the very day they arrived. "Have you finished packing?" he
asked, not really curious.
"Oh, yes! Lena was invaluable in that. She knows my possessions better than I do."
"Really?" Not a trait I would trust overmuch in a servant. Well, any servant save Simion.
"In the castle, Maria Ta, how shall I live? Do you wish me with you at all times? I must confess that I
am used to my occasional solitude, and would miss it."
"You will have your own room. There is a small hallway that connects it to mine, so that I may travel
to and fro without making it known to all the castle."
"And my maid?" "There is a dressing room that lets off yours that she may occupy. Or there is a
trundle under your bed, which on which she may sleep when I do not visit you. It is your choice."
"Oh, good. I do not think I could sleep if she was not near."
It sounds as if Abul will keep you well occupied. That is good. It would not do for you to feel
neglected, and I fear I will have little time for you. I suppose it is a selfish thing I do, marrying you
when you might have some young man who actually loved you. But you are not being forced into this. I
only hope you do not regret choosing rank over passion.
Vlad had no way of knowing that Elizabeta was in no way giving up her passion for rank.
She was pleased when the prince left the table early, explaining that it would be best for all of them if
they retired, so to be fresh for their journey on the morrow. As usual, her maids accompanied her to
her chambers, whispering and giggling excitedly. Elizabeta did not have as many attendants as some
women of her rank, so the three maids she was being allowed to bring with her, and Nicu, were her
entire coterie.
In the bedchamber, Lena turned to the other, younger women. "Off to bed with you. I know you two,
you will chatter the night away if I allow it, and we need our rest. I will attend my lady."
The other girls didn’t mind. They shared a room, and intended to spend a good bit of time talking
before they slept, no matter what their senior said. They left in a rustling of brocade and scuffing of
velvet slippers.
Lena turned to the young girl she had cared for over six years, smiling. "Well, Beta. So it is set in
motion. Soon it will be accomplished, and you will be a princess."
Beta smiled at her coyly. "Nicu says that I am already a princess."
Lena’s smile became stiff at the mention of the librarian. "Nicu is something of a fool." She did not
like Nicolae. Well, she disliked anyone else who occupied a place of interest or affection in her Beta’s
life. When she saw Beta begin to pout, she said quickly, "I only mean that he cannot see the
practicality of things, Beta. You know very well that he lives in his own world."
Beta sighed. "Yes, Lena, I know. But sometimes I envy him that world. It is so full of goodness and
hope. He wants so much to believe the best of all people."
As I said, my dear, a fool. But Lena did not say this aloud. She did not want to alienate Beta at this late
stage. Her misguided affection for the boy would have to be dealt with later, subtly.
Lena stepped behind Beta and began to undo the many buttons that closed her dress in back. "I
suppose we cannot do without dreamers, but some of us must see to the practicalities of life. You, my
Beta, you must think of your future. Yes, Prince Draculea has chosen you, but men’s attentions can
fade. We will have to be clever to keep your newfound position secure."
Lena slipped the girl’s stiff brocade dress off her, leaving her to stand in her thin silk shift as she laid
the dress aside in a trunk, prepared for the trip to Castle Draculea. Elizabeta went to sit on the side of
the bed as she did this, kicking off her slippers.
"Beta!" Lena scolded as she set the shoes neatly in the trunk (all the travelers would wear sturdy boots
for the journey). "You still act like such a child sometimes."
Beta had unfastened her garters, and was rolling down her fine wool stockings. Her shift was rucked
high, and Lena had a good view of her pale, shapely legs as she pulled the stockings off. "But I am not
a child, Lena. You know that," she said teasingly. Lena licked her lips. "No, Beta. You are a woman."
Lena Abul was in her thirties, and had never married. She was considered by most to be a hopeless old
maid. She was pretty enough, but of low rank, and poor. Even with these handicaps she might have
made a fair match, if it was not for the fact that she was a clever, ambitious woman, and incapable of
concealing either trait for long. Lena had early on determined that she would not be able to better
herself through the common method of marriage. Well, then, if she could not rise through a man’s
help, then why not a woman’s?
This suited Lena fine, as she had never felt desire for a man. Women were much more suited to her
taste: the softer and more feminine, the better. Women actually admired her strength of character, and
her intelligence, and did not view them as a threat.
When Ernestu Varga had begun looking for a woman of gentle birth to teach his daughter to be a lady,
Lena had presented herself. Ernestu was not tempted by Lena’s physical attributes, and knew that she
had no dealings with men, so he saw little potential for scandal, and engaged her. It never occurred to
him that there might be women who fancied other women, though he himself indulged occasionally
with a fresh faced youth. Ernestu was, in many ways, a very stupid man.
Lena took charge of Elizabeta when she was twelve. She was already a charming, pretty child, but
Lena was scrupulously correct for the first few years. She made sure that Beta loved her. She was a
friend, ally, and confidante.
All the while she imbued the girl with the idea that the male of the species was somehow slightly
ridiculous, and physically distasteful. Men were by nature crude, unrefined, and simply not worth the
fuss that was made over them. True, they must be catered to, at least in public, but a cunning woman
could usually get whatever she wanted from them without expending too much energy.
She had told Elizabeta the facts of life when the girl first asked, a shockingly incorrect thing to do. She
had made the girl promise not to tell anyone: father, confessor, or lady’s maid. The act, as she
described it, sounded messy and uncomfortable, if not actually painful. She provided Beta with
sketches of the male anatomy, both at rest and aroused with desire. "I would not have you shocked into
hysterics on your wedding night, child." she had said at the time.
Lena saw to it that there was little chance for Beta to satisfy her natural curiosity. She made sure the
girl was even more thoroughly chaperoned than most girls of her class. The only man with whom she
was ever alone with was her father (thank heavens the pig had not formed a desire for his own child.
Lena would not have put it past him. It was fairly obvious that he’d developed a lust for his bastard,
Nicolae. Maybe that could be fostered, to insure that the boy remained at Castle Varga instead of
going along to Castle Draculea). Lena did not even trust Father Mircea. She sat in the nave while Beta
made her confession, narrowly watching the priest’s side of the booth.
Her attention and diligence had paid off--Lena was the most important person in Elizabeta’s life. It
was to be expected that the girl turn to her when her physical desires began to manifest themselves.
It had started when Beta was just past fifteen. Lena had allowed herself to be caught in the act of
dallying with one of the younger maids. Beta had hurried into Lena’s room to find the older woman
with her hands up under the skirt of the youngest lady-in-waiting, a girl only two years Beta’s senior.
The girl’s bodice had been open, her nipples stiff pink points peeking over the top of her shift, which
seemed to have been pulled down to improve access. Beta had realized with astonishment that those
little buds were wet and shiny. Since Lena had just been lifting her head from the girl’s bosom, it was
apparent that the older woman had been licking or sucking them.
Both of the other women were breathing heavily. The little maid had been flushed, but now a tide of
red flowed from her neck up to her hairline as she frantically tugged at her clothing. Lena pulled her
hands out from under the girl’s skirt, and Beta saw that the older woman’s fingers were also slick and
shiny.
Lena had patted the maid on the cheek, murmured to her reassuringly, and sent the girl out of the
room. Then she calmly sat on her bed, looked at Beta, and said, "You have questions?"
Beta came to sit beside her. "What were you doing with Elise?"
Lena smiled. "Just playing with her a bit. Making her feel good. Making myself feel good."
"But what were you doing?"
Lena reached out and touched the young girl’s throat. "Would you like to see? I think you are old
enough now, Beta. You have your woman’s courses, your bosom has filled, your maiden-hair has
grown. You are ready to learn about pleasure. I would like to teach you."
Feeling breathless, Beta had said, "Yes, please."
Lena had locked the door to her room, then slowly stripped both Beta and herself. There, on her
narrow bed, she had explored the girl’s untouched body with hands and mouth till Beta was squirming
and whimpering, her sex dripping with desire. Then Lena had knelt between her legs, parted the lips of
her sex, and found the little bud of flesh that had become hard and swollen. She had lapped and
nibbled at it till Beta was arching and crying out, then had thrust her tongue deep into the fragrant, wet
slit and moved it vigorously till she felt the girl’s body clench and shudder in her first orgasm. From
that moment on, Beta belonged to Lena.
Beta grew to be a lovely young woman. She and Lena spent many nights cuddled together in Beta’s
bed, whispering and laughing. Gradually, Lena taught her all the things that women could do together
to give each other pleasure. Now the girl was almost as proficient a lover as Lena, Lena thought that
she’d have to tell the girl to act awkward and shy, if not frightened, on her wedding night. That should
not be too difficult.
Despite their lovemaking, Beta was still a physical virgin. Lena had made sure of that. Whenever she
used her fingers, Lena was careful to penetrate the girl’s slit only shallowly, no matter how Beta
begged her do go deeper, harder. "No, child. You must keep your maidenhead. If you do not bleed on
your wedding night, there will be a scandal. Your husband will have just cause for annulment, and you
will be disgraced. You know very well that your father will send you to wither in some convent if that
happens. And much as I love you, pet, I could not wall myself up by your side." Beta still pouted
occasionally, but agreed. She knew enough of the world to know that what her lover said was true.
Now Lena sat on the bed beside Beta, reached behind her, and removed the pins that held the heavy
coil of her hair in place. It tumbled down the girl’s back in blue-black waves. This was one way she
resembled her bastard half-brother. They had the same coloring, and the same slanted brown eyes.
Lena supposed that if it were possible for her to desire a man, Nicolae Calugarul would have been the
one, since he resembled her.
Lena kissed her, gently at first, nibbling at the tender, pouting lips. Beta parted her lips readily, silently
inviting Lena. The older woman accepted, slipping her tongue in to explore the sweet, moist interior of
the girl’s mouth, even as she tugged the shift down to expose her breasts.
Beta sighed into her mouth, her nipples rising to stiff points as Lena toyed with them. She loved this
so, and Lena never failed to satisfy her, but there was more that she wanted. Pulling back a little, she
murmured, "Can we use The Staff tonight, love?"
"Of course, my darling."
Lena stripped as Beta pulled off her shift and stretched out on the bed. From a hidden pocket in her
skirt, Lena drew The Staff. It had been a gift to her from the concubine of an eastern vizier who had
once visited court when she was younger. The barbarians in the east had remarkably novel ideas about
sex. Since their women were shut away from all but their husbands or consorts, and since the men
wanted the women to be satisfied enough not to seek other men, they were allowed toys.
The Staff was a tapered cylinder of wood, about nine inches long. It was near four inches wide at the
base, tapering to about two inches at the peak, and it was fitted in a smooth sheath of soft leather.
Beta eyed it hungrily as Lena climbed on the bed, holding it. She was not allowed to use The Staff on
herself: her virginity must be preserved. Lena had promised her that this would not be so, once she was
married. "When you have been breached, my love, then... Then I will plumb your depths. I even have a
belt and harness it will fit on, so that I may take you in the manner of a man. But I will be more careful
of your pleasure than any of them will ever be. Untill that time, Beta could watch Lena use The Staff,
or she could herself work it into the older woman’s soft, grasping hole, but that was all.
Beta fondled Lena’s tits, leaning down to suckle and nip at the woman’s dark nipples, which thickened
at her caresses. "Let me take you tonight, Lena."
"Yes, Beta. But first, sweet girl, taste me." She spread her legs wide, and Beta eagerly moved up
between them. She parted the coarse, dark curls that covered the slit of Lena’s sex. Pressing the crease
open, she began to lick and suck. Lena lay back with a sigh. She loved this, loved having the young,
beautiful woman, who was her superior in class and rank, service her like a common wench.
Elizabeta ran her tongue over the pink folds of flesh, licking diligently till the small slit began to
trickle with clear fluid. Then she pressed her mouth to the flow, flicking her tongue against the little
opening till she managed to penetrate it. Lena groaned as Beta thrust her tongue in and out of her cunt,
probing as deeply as she could. At last she said, "Now, Beta."
"I wish we had the belt. I wish I could mount you."

"So do I," she lied. She did not want Beta to fuck her in that manner. Lena enjoyed having the upper
hand, but there was no harm in pretending that she was interested. She was sure that once she actually
got The Staff inside Beta, the girl would be content to remain the submissive in their relationship.
"Lie down. I will position myself so we can pleasure each other at once."
Beta lay down, and Lena turned to face the foot of the bed, then straddled her charge on her hands and
knees, her face hovering over the girl’s groin. The smell of musk was already heavy, and she could see
the glisten of juice on the girl’s sparsely haired sex. "Now, Beta. Fill me, but gently at first."
Beta pressed the tip of The Staff to Lena’s hole and pushed gently. Her lover moaned as the false prick
slowly speared into her steaming sex. Beta watched, fascinated as the dark leather disappeared
between the pink lips into the white flesh. It amazed her how much of The Staff Lena could take inside
herself. Beta was sure that she, herself, would split in two if she tried to do that. But the idea was
intrigueing.
At last there was only a small bit of The Staff outside Lena’s body, enough for Beta to hold. Lena
lowered her head and began to delicately lick Beta’s genitals. She used her thumbs to press aside the
pads of flesh so she could get at the marvelous little bud that gave such pleasure, and proceeded to
drive the younger girl wild with desire.
Beta began to move The Staff, pulling it almost all the way out, then thrusting again, deeply. As Lena
tormented her with soft licks and sucks, she increased the speed and strength of her pumping, till she
was shoving the dildo in and out of Lena in short, hard jabs. Lena enjoyed rough sex, despite her
praise of the gentleness of women, and the older woman was panting so hard that she had to
concentrate to keep devouring her lover.
In reward for her diligence, Lena thrust her tongue deep into Beta’s cleft, licking toward her very core.
Beta moaned Lena’s name, pressing her streaming crotch hard against the woman’s mouth. "Your
fingers, Lena! Please! I feel so empty, I need them!"
"Then fuck me harder, pet, and I will give you what you need." As Beta drove The Staff harder and
harder, jolting the woman on top of her, Lena plunged two fingers into Beta’s wet sex and began to
pump. But she ignored the girl’s cries to go harder and deeper. She would not endanger the precious
maidenhead, even in the throes of passion. Instead she used her other hand to pinch Beta’s clitoris,
hard, while she fingerfucked her. She felt the girl begin to spasm around her probing fingers, as she
wailed in release.
And Lena found her own release, shuddering around The Staff as it plunged in and out of her body.
Ah, there was never a man who satisfied as well, and The Staff was always ready for another round of
pleasure. It did not try to command, it did not sneer at dreams or ambitions, and it could not plant a
whelp in your body. How could it be more perfect?
When they were done, Lena moved off the limp girl and lay beside her, the dildo still deep in her
body. She rather liked to keep it there for a time, after they had made love. Occasionally her or Beta
would reach down and give it a few lazy pumps, keeping the embers of desire glowing for long
moments. She would remove it later, wipe it clean, and return it to the secret pocket. It wouldn’t do to
leave it lying about. Most castle inhabitants would not have guessed its purpose. But Ernestu had a
small collection of indecent literature, and just might have known what it was. She couldn’t risk that.
Beta snuggled against her, but continued to complain about not being able to use The Staff herself.
Lena finally grew weary of her whining, and thought of an amusing way to quiet her, and tighten her
hold at the >ame time. The more humiliation the girl was willing to accept for Lena, the closer they
would be bound.
Lena said thoughtfully, "Well, if you really must try The Staff, there is a way to do so without losing
your virginity."
"How?" Beta sounded eager.
"Do you wish to try it?"
"Yes, please!"
"I warn you, it will be uncomfortable, perhaps as much as your actual deflowering will be at the hands
of Draculea." She never missed an opportunity to critisize ’normal’ relations.
"I don’t care! Anyway, I don’t see how it could."
"Very well. You have committed yourself to this. I will not let you back down. Turn on your belly."
Elizabeta obeyed. She watched as Lena moved the dildo in her dripping pussy for a moment, then
removed it. It glistened with Lena’s juices. "How can you put that in my sex and not break my
maidenhead?" she asked curiously.
"Foolish child. Don’t you know that God gave you more than one hole?" As she spoke, she had spread
the white globes of Beta’s ass. Before the girl knew what was going on, Lena had clapped one hand
over her mouth. With the other, she rammed The Staff into the girl’s rectum.
Beta felt a stabbing, burning pain. It felt as if she were being torn open, split in two. She tried to
scream, but her lover’s hand was tight against her mouth. Lena did not stop. She twisted The Staff,
sliding it deeper into the trembling girl’s bowels. The only lubricant she had used was the oils from her
own body, and she had not taken the time to gently tease Beta into relaxation, as Vlad had with Nicu.
But then, Lena was not making love to Beta now. She was cementing her dominance.
"Quiet, Beta. I know it hurts, but you wanted this. It will be easier to bear in a little while. After a few
times, you will even come to enjoy it." Beta moaned as Lena once again began forcing the dildo in. It
wasn’t easy, given the dryness and tightness of the virgin passage. Lena reflected that it was a good
thing that there would be a wagon or carriage to carry the women tomorrow, because her lady wouldn
NOT want to mount a horse.
At last Lena stopped, with about six inches of The Staff anally impaling her young lover. She wouldn’t
force the entire length into her tonight. That might cause damage. She finally took her hand away, and
listened to the girl moan, her own sex growing even slicker.
"Take it out, please Lena." There were tears streaking Beta’s smooth cheeks.
"No, child. Now that you have it, you must get used to it. You will keep it inside you the rest of the
night, and I will remove it in the morning."
"Lena, please, it hurts."

"I warned you, didn’t I? Perhaps you will listen to me the next time. Now, be quiet, and sleep." She lay
back, listening to the girl whimper.
Every time Beta shifted to try to get more comfortable, the false cock would move in her ass, bringing
fresh pain. She tried to sleep, but every so often Lena would grip the base of The Staff and move it a
few strokes, fucking her ass. Gradually it did begin to hurt less, but it didn’t become pleasureable, as
Lena had said.
At last Beta said, "This wasn’t what I wanted, Lena."
"I know. You wanted me to fuck you. Very well, if it will make you be quiet."
Lena got up on her knees, throwing a leg over Beta. Beta realized that she was crouched right over the
protruding end of The Staff. "Lena! No!"
"Be quiet, Beta." Lena lowered herself till the thick, blunt end of The Staff butted against her vulva.
Then she pushed down, taking the short exposed end into her own sex and finding a narrow grip with
the circle of her thumb and finger between their bodies. Holding The Staff, she began to move her
hips.
It drove the blunt end shallowly in and out of her own cunt. She began to pump back and forth, and
soon she was plunging the dildo in and out of Beta’s ass as the girl moaned in pain and the beginnings
of desire. Lena continued this till she orgasmed again, ramming the rod all the way into Beta’s
cringing flesh this time.
Leaving it embedded, Lena quickly pumped two fingers into the girl’s slit, and rubbed her clitoris hard
till she came, muffling her scream by biting the pillow. Finally Lena lay back down again. "There,
Beta. That is a little of what a man would do to you, given half the chance. I was only cruel to prepare
you, you know that."
Beta kissed her, leaving wet patches on Lena’s face from her tears. "I know. Thank you, Lena. You
always look after me."
As the girl tried to go to sleep, despite the throbbing agony in her ass, Lena thought smugly. And you
will take care of me, Beta, no matter who I have to deal with.
TBC
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Chapter 16: Part 16: Lulling

Part 16: Lulling

Simion’s Room
Simion returned to Nicolae that afternoon, but had to leave him alone that evening, going to help
Draculea prepare for the evening meal, and wait on him at table. He did not really like doing that: the
boy was far too quiet and subdued to suit him. He had been expecting questions about his lord, the
natural curiosity of a young man about a new lover.
Nicolae scarcely spoke at all. He had his rosary, which had been tucked in his belt, and he told the
beads ceaselessly, his lips moving silently. His eyes would be closed, and the steady, whispered stream
would falter. Dark brows would draw together in dismay, or frustration. The brown eyes would open
to dart around the room, then close, and the litany would begin again.
*You have a hard time keeping your mind on your devotions, boy,* Simion thought. *I would hazard
a guess that it is thoughts of my lord that draw your concentration from the spiritual paths.*
When Simion left, Nicolae got up and dressed, pulling on his cassock. He looked at the drawers, but
left them folded. He was much better, but his bottom was still far too tender for any cloth close against
it. Once he had this meager token of modesty, he thought about going back to his own room, or to the
library. But Simion had told him that he was to remain here. "Your father has been warned, boy, but it
would be better for you to stay out of his path as much as possible."
Nicolae shuddered. Yes, that was wise. He had remembered most of what happened the day, and night,
before, and it frightened him terribly. Ernestu had never shown a carnal interest in him before. It had
never occurred to Nicolae that he might.
Oh, Nicolae knew of his father’s debauchery. The castle was small. No doubt there were secrets there,
but one had to work diligently to keep them. It was well known that Ernestu could not keep well-born
pages or squires because of his proclivities. The base born servants, male and female, had no recourse.
Most, if not all, had been tumbled in some fashion at some point. But Nicolae had never expected
Ernestu to stoop to pursuing his own blood. He never had with his own children.
*A mark, I suppose, of how close he feels to me,* Nicolae thought ironically.
He was pacing again when the door opened. Simion frowned at him as he entered, carrying another
tray. It was laden with a plate of rich foods, and a goblet of wine.
Draculea came right behind him. Nicolae froze in the presence of the other man, feeling a wave of
cold, then heat sweep over his body. Draculea observed him, his wide mouth quirking slightly. "Well,
I suppose I could not keep you naked forever, though the thought is tempting."
He indicated the brown robe, as Simion set the tray on the small table by the bed. "Simion, that rag is
offensive. Find something more suitable for him for tomorrow, would you? No doubt one of the higher
servants or lesser nobles will have something they will gladly donate." He gave the word "gladly" a
twist, and Simion smirked. No one in the castle was likely to deny Draculea anything he wished.
Draculea went to Nicolae and stroked the boy’s arm, murmuring, "We’ll have to make do for a little
while, pet. Soon I’ll have you dressed in more fitting style."
Nicolae looked at the floor. "Domn, I could not repay you."
"Not in coin, perhaps. But there are other ways to recompense me, sweet." He looked at Simion.
"Some warm water, I think, Simion, then you may leave. I trust you to wake us in due time on the
morrow." Simion bowed, leaving the room, and Vlad turned his attention back to Nicolae. "Did you
sleep well today, pet?" Nicolae nodded. "You were very weary from your ordeal, and I..." He touched
the boy’s cheek. "I am afraid I did not help you last night. I’m sorry if I wearied you further, but you
were quite irresistible."
"Maria Ta..." Nicolae whispered. He turned away from Draculea, pressing against the rough stone of
the wall.
"What is it, little one?" Vlad stroked his shoulders, then his back, feeling the tension in his body. "You
are grieving yourself. Why? I tried so hard not to hurt you. Did I hurt you, Nicu?"
Nicolae shook his head numbly. "Oh, Domn." Vlad heard him swallow. "I had thought that I had
overcome such wicked urges. Nothing but a little brandy, and the devil took hold of me."
Draculea moved up behind him, and Nicolae drew a deep breath as Vlad’s larger body pressed lightly
against the length of his own. "No, Nicolae. Do not blame either the spirits, or the devil. You may, if
you wish, blame the Son of the Devil. I know that some call me that, though never to my face."
He sighed, nuzzled the soft nape of the younger man’s neck. It sent a shiver through the boy. Draculea
whispered against his skin. "You have to forgive me, Nicolae. I should not have taken you so soon, not
when you were only half aware and half able to enjoy. But I did my best to make it good for you, pet."
He grazed his lips over to the side of Nicolae’s throat, coming to rest over the spot where the pulse
beat strongly beneath the skin.
Simion came back in with a large pitcher of warm water. He was not surprised by what he found: he
had expected his master to begin seducing the boy as quickly as possible. And the pair scarcely
seemed to notice him. Nicolae darted him a glance that was wordlessly pleading, but Simion only
shook his head. *This is your situation now, boy. You can enjoy it, if you allow yourself.* He left
quietly.
Draculea was pressing against him more firmly, fitting his loins against the cushion of Nicolae’s
buttocks. The boy finally tried to squirm away, murmuring "Please, Domn."
Draculea pulled back a little. "I’m sorry, child. For a moment I forgot your hurt." He stroked Nicolae’s
rump lightly. "Is it still very painful?"
Nicolae pulled away from his touch. "I... a little. But it is not that, Domn. You MUST NOT."
Draculea ignored his protest. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots, then swung his
long legs up and took the tray across his lap. Patting the mattress, he said, "Come. Sit and eat." When
the boy hovered anxiously, he said patiently. "Nicolae, if I MUST order you, I WILL, but it would
please me greatly if you would obey without a command."
After another moment’s hesitation, Nicolae went and sat on the bed beside Draculea. He tried to stay
at the edge, but that was not allowed. "You’ll fall off, boy. Closer." Draculea put his right arm around
Nicolae’s shoulders, and drew him close, leaning back so they were both propped against the wall.
"Can you sit like this for a while without discomfort?"
"Yes, Maria Ta."
"Good. Now," he indicated the tray. "I had them fix this from the food prepared for my table." He
touched Nicolae’s cheek. "Only the best for you, pet."
"Thank you, Domn," he whispered.
Draculea picked up a choice bit of meat and brought it to Nicolae’s lips. "Thank me by eating well.
Simion said he had to coax you this afternoon."
Nicolae turned his head slightly away. "Domn, I can feed myself. I am not a child."
"Oh Nicolae, how wrong you are. You are a child in so many ways." Draculea put his hand into the
soft, dark hair and turned Nicolae back toward him. "You will not deny me this pleasure, Nicu." His
touch and voice was gentle, but his eyes said that he would have his way.
Nicolae opened his mouth, and Draculea tucked the morsel inside, then chose another as the boy
chewed. Truthfully, Vlad was a little surprised with himself. Oh, he was generally thoughtful of his
lovers, seeing that his servants made them comfortable and tended to their needs. But Nicolae was the
first one he had ever felt the urge to care for with his own hands.
Draculea spent pleasant moments feeding the boy. As the meal progressed, and the plate emptied, his
fingers began to linger against Nicolae’s mouth after he gave him the food.
The last of the food was a small cake, soaked with honey, and smelling deliciously of orange-water.
Vlad broke it into small pieces, and again fed Nicolae. This time the boy accepted eagerly, and
Draculea smiled. "Yes, you like your sweets, don’t you?" When the boy blushed, he said, "There is no
shame in that, Nicolae. Your appetites are not so gross as you seem to believe."
When the last crumb was gone, Nicolae sat back with a satisfied sigh, licking smears of honey from
his lips. Draculea watched him, eyes almost glowing. Nicolae was surprised when Draculea again
brought his hand to the boy’s mouth. He pressed his fingers to Nicolae’s lips, and the boy felt the
sticky smears. "Clean me?" Nicolae stared at the prince, his eyes going round. Vlad ran one slightly
rough fingertip over the boy’s delicate bottom lip. When he spoke again, his tone was still soft, but
firm. "Clean me, Nicolae."
Hesitantly, Nicolae put out his tongue, and lapped at the sweet stickiness. Draculea watched as the
boy’s warm pink tongue slithered over his fingers, wiping away the last traces of the dessert. As he
licked, Nicolae’s eyes drifted half shut. When the fingers pressed, slipping into his mouth, he did not
pull back, or protest. Closing his eyes the rest of the way, he sucked softly.
When the fingers were removed, Draculea cupped Nicolae’s chin, rubbing his thumb over his bottom
lip. "Are you thirsty, Nicu?" He offered the goblet.
Nicolae bit his lip. "I do not drink... wine, Domn."
"No? This is not so strong, Nicolae."
He wrinkled his nose slightly, and admitted. "It is not so much that. I do not like the taste."
Draculea smiled. "I think I can teach you to enjoy the taste." Draculea took a sip of wine, then leaned
across Nicolae to place the goblet on the table. But he did not sit back. He remained leaning over the
boy, and pressed his mouth to Nicolae’s. The younger man opened his mouth to protest, and Vlad let
the wine trickle from his mouth to Nicolae’s. Nicolae tasted the tartness of the wine mingle with the
honey he had eaten. Then there was the taste of the prince himself as Draculea’s tongue moved into
Nicolae’s mouth.
The boy moaned deep in his throat. Draculea pulled away for a moment, "One moment, pet. Let me
put this aside." He moved the tray to the floor, then reached for Nicolae again.
Nicolae whispered desperately, "Maria Ta, please don’t."
He sighed, pressing his forehead against the boy’s. "Nicolae, you won’t fight me, will you? I don’t
want to hurt you, I only want to give us both pleasure." His hand moved to the neck of Nicolae’s robe,
and his fingertip dipped into the hollow made by his collarbones. He bent his head and licked the
sensitive little spot.
Nicolae closed his eyes, feeling helpless. The heat was rising again, despite his fear and shame. "There
are so many others who would gladly service you..."
"That’s not what I want, sweet Nicu." Draculea moved over him, straddling Nicolae’s thighs. He took
the boy’s hand and pressed it to the front of his breeches, forming it over the bulge that grew there.
"This is for you, Nicu. You are all that I want."
Nicolae turned his face away, and his voice was bleak. "...now." If you mean it as a suffix to Vlad’s
sentence, I might put an ellipsis on it, particularly before the word.
The sorrow in the boy’s tone brought Vlad up short. For a moment he was surprised, then almost
angry. But that quickly faded as he looked at Nicolae’s pale face and downcast eyes. *Yes, what else
could he believe? When a royal makes advances to one who is little better than a serf, what can he
think but that it is no more than a dalliance? An amusement?*
The trouble was, Draculea was not sure himself what this thing was that he felt toward the dark haired
young man. He knew that he desired Nicolae more than he had ever lusted for anyone else, that much
was certain. He also felt very protective of the boy. Ernestu would die for what he had done, and what
he had almost done.
He also wanted to care for Nicolae. He had some idea of how harsh and barren of comfort the boy’s
life had been, and he wanted to do things for Nicolae, give him things. He wanted to see him clothed
in soft garments, wanted to feed him rich foods. He wanted to see his eyes light up at the sight of the
great library at Castle Draculea. He wanted to spend long moments watching his graceful hands move
as they transcribed the wisdom of great men. Perhaps most of all, he wanted to be able to awake to
find Nicolae in his arms, peaceful and safe.
These were not impulses with which Vlad was familiar. He had taken countless men and women to his
bed over the years. He had liked all of them, been fond of many of them, but there had never been
anyone like Nicu. How had the boy crept into his heart so quickly?
Draculea sat back on the bed, pulling Nicolae once more into his embrace. "I move too fast for you,
don’t I, little one? It’s hard for me. I am not used to one so innocent and tender. I’ve been ruled by my
flesh for so long that it isn’t easy to deny myself, Nicolae. So..." he added as he rested his chin on the
boy’s head. "I must go slowly. Very well. Tonight all I ask is that you let me hold you. Can you do
that, boy?"
Nicolae nodded. "I... would like that."
"Let me put out the lamp." Draculea arose from the bed and snuffed the lamp, then began to remove
his clothes.
Nicolae said, "Domn, you said..."
"I do not sleep clothed, boy. It is not healthy. Neither should you. Take off that rag. Do not fear. I
will... restrain myself."
Nicolae pulled the cassock over his head, dropping it to the floor. He blushed, even though he knew
Draculea could not see him in the darkness. The prince climbed into the bed beside him, and pulled
him into his arms. Nicolae turned to him, tentatively draping an arm across the man’s broad chest, and
Draculea sighed.
As he lay there in the dark, Draculea thought, *Well, I am either mad, or a fool. I have the boy in my
arms, and I do nothing.* In fact, Vlad was half aroused, just from the nearness of Nicolae. But he was
determined not to do anything further to distance the boy, not this night.
He was almost dozing, when he felt the touch. It was so light that at first he thought it was part of a
dream with which he was to be gifted. Then he realized that Nicolae was brushing his cheek across
Vlad’s chest.
The boy’s skin was not quite as smooth as a girl’s. There was the first bare roughening of a beard, just
enough to stimulate. Vlad held very still. It was the first caress Nicolae had offered willingly, and he
was afraid to respond, lest the boy shy away.
Nicolae hardly knew what he was doing. He only knew that Draculea had stopped this time when he
protested, and he was grateful for the consideration. And it was so good to be held like this, almost as
if someone actually cared. He only wanted to show his appreciation for the prince’s kindness, and
understanding. It was such a simple gesture that he had not expected how he, himself, would react to
it.
The crisp hair on Draculea’s chest tickled, and he smiled to himself in the dark, then repeated the
gesture. The prince was so solid, so warm, so alive. Nicolae found himself rubbing his face against the
broad chest, listening as the heartbeat that pulsed so close gradually sped up.
Kisses were tokens of respect, weren’t they? Respect and gratitude. Nicolae placed a humble kiss on
the firm swell of the prince’s chest. Then another seemed most appropriate. And another, and...
Nicolae’s lips brushed a small, stiff peak, and he paused. There was a groan from the man who held
him, and Nicolae’s immediate response was to soothe, so he repeated the kiss, making his lips soft
against the hardened bit of flesh. Draculea shifted, groaning again. It wasn’t enough? What else...?
Of course. He’d seen animals tending a swollen and aching paw, and knew what to try next. He licked
carefully, swirling his tongue over the thrusting point.
Draculea’s voice was hoarse in the darkness. "Jesu, Nicolae. Are you trying to drive me mad? I
promised not to take you tonight."
Nicolae moved up to bury his face against Draculea’s neck, contrite. "I am sorry, Domn. You have
been good to me. I wanted to tend your hurt."
Now he sounded puzzled. "My hurt?"
He gasped as Nicolae took his nipple between his fingers. "You see?" His free hand had been
smoothing over Draculea’s torso, and passed over the other nipple, fastening on the hard bud. "Oh, and
here, too. Swollen, Maria Ta." He was astonished when he felt and heard the quiet rumble of Vlad’s
laughter. "You must not laugh at sickness, Domn! Should I call Simion? He seems most skilled in
tending hurts."
Draculea wiped at his eyes. "Yes, boy, this is the type of hurt that Simion is quite skillful at tending,
and he has done so for me, many times. Oh, Nicu, and you say you are not a child!"
"I only meant to help. I am sorry if I am stupid..."
"No, sweetheart. Not stupid. Only very young and very new to all this. There is nothing wrong with
me, Nicolae. This is a most pleasant type of swelling." Nicolae squirmed as he felt Draculea’s hand
questing across his chest. "Here." The prince took Nicolae’s hand and guided it to his own smooth
chest. "Feel."
Nicolae found that his own nipples were as swollen and straining as those of the prince. When he
touched them, there was a sharp tingle of pleasure that washed through his body, down to his groin.
No wonder the prince had moaned. "Oh..."
Draculea’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. His night-vision was excellent, and he could just see the boy.
There was an expression of pure wonder on his face as his long fingers plucked lightly at the hard tips
of his nipples. Vlad felt his sex begin to harden as he watched the boy pleasuring himself. He reached
down and touched himself, stroking his length firmly.
Nicolae needed to be shown that there was no wrong, no shame in physical pleasure, that he could
satisfy his desires without the risk of hellfire.
Vlad looked down Nicolae’s torso. The thick, pale shaft was beginning to rise from the dark nest of
curls that cushioned it. Draculea licked his lips, remembering the thick trickle of fluid he had drawn
from it the other night, then the hot gush. But he did not reach for the tempting sex himself. Instead he
gently guided one of Nicolae’s hands down the boy’s own body, pressing it to the warm flesh at his
crotch.
Nicolae moaned quietly, and Vlad hardened even further, till he was like stone. He continued to pump
himself as Nicolae tentatively caressed himself. *He hasn’t even done this,* Vlad marveled. *He
doesn’t know how to touch himself to achieve the greatest pleasure.* "Stronger, Nicu," he whispered.
"It’s all right. You’ll know if you are too rough, but it will feel so much better if your touch is more
firm."
The boy gave his shaft an experimental squeeze, and suddenly bucked his hips, throwing himself into
his own grip strongly, with a little grunt. Draculea chuckled. "You see? Touch the head, Nicu. Find the
wetness that you have made, and use it. Your hand will glide." Nicolae followed his suggestion,
smearing the pre-come over his straining flesh. His hand slid more easily, and he gave a cooing sound
that made Draculea want to throw him over on his belly and ravish him. But he did not.
Instead he watched as the boy brought himself to a long, shuddering climax, hips arching wildly as his
seed sprayed forcefully. Draculea cupped his hand over the boy’s jerking prick, catching the spunk.
Then, slicking it on his own fevered organ, he quickly found his own release.
The boy, panting, lay watching him. At the very end, he mimicked Draculea, holding his hand over the
prince’s sex as he spewed his lust. Vlad lay, catching his breath, and saw Nicolae peering at his fingers
in the darkness. Then he sniffed at them delicately, looking thoughtful. Finally, he tasted the milky
drops that clung to his fingers.
"God, Nicu!" Vlad pulled him roughly into his arms, kissing him. The boy’s body was pliant, yielding,
and Draculea tasted himself in the boy’s mouth.
Nicolae, relaxed and sleepy, settled against the older man’s side, again resting his head on his chest.
*So, that is lust. It is not as horrible as I thought. But perhaps that is just because it was with HIM.*
Nicolae sighed. It was such a shame that things could not be different. If he was a noble, perhaps this
man could have loved him. *As it is,* Nicolae thought sadly, *I must plan for what I will do with Beta
away. I cannot remain here after Ernestu... after what he tried to do. I fear he will not be stopped next
time. No, I must return to the abbey. The abbot is a kind man. Perhaps he will let me stay on as a lay
brother, helping in the labors. And if I work hard, they may let me see the scrolls, sometimes.*
Nicolae knew that life would be rough, with little joy or comfort, but he honestly saw no other
recourse. He listened to the sleep quiet breathing of the man who held him in his arms, and thought of
how nice it would have been to be loved.
TBC
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Chapter 17: Part 17: Passage

Summary: Still unaware of his new status, Nicolae begins the journey to Castle Draculea, believing
that he is only going to see his sister married.
Child of the Night, Part 17: Passage
by Scribe
Nicolae awoke the next morning to Simion jogging his shoulder. "Awaken, sleepy head. My lord has
already broken his fast, and is seeing to the disposition of the goods his bride will bring with her."
Nicolae sat up, yawning and stretching. He felt wonderful, completely relaxed. He hadn’t known that
feeling often in his life. But he was a little sad that the prince would be leaving today. The man had
frightened him, but it seemed that he meant Nicolae no harm. And, a rosy blush rose in the boy’s
cheeks as he thought of this, he had made Nicolae’s body sing. "Yes, I must get up. Elizabeta would be
angry if I were not there to say farewell." He was preoccupied with trying to spot his garment, and did
not notice the questioning look Simion gave him. "Simion? My cassock?"
"Has been properly burned. Its work here on earth is finished, and it has gone to its reward." Simion
laid a pile of clothes on the bed, and set a pair of boots beside them. "This will serve till my lord can
acquire more for you."
Nicolae examined each garment. There was a soft, white linen shirt, leggings, loose, dark breeches,
and a pair of drawers. He looked at the last item, and picked them up with a glad cry. "Beta’s present!
I thought they had been ruined."
"Blood is not easy to remove, but it can be done. Will those aggravate your wounds?"
"I do not think so. I am much improved."
"Let me see." When Nicolae hesitated, Simion said briskly. "We have gone over this ground before,
boy. I have to be sure that the wounds do not become poisoned." Simion got the jar of ointment again.
"Show me." Blushing, Nicolae turned on his side, moving the sheet up.
Simion looked at the boy’s buttocks critically. "Yes, much better. They will heal smoothly, the scabs
are already soft. It is now mostly bruising. Hold still." He once again smoothed the ointment on the
abused flesh, careful not to press too hard. Then, under pretext of continuing the nursing, he slightly
parted the boy’s cheeks and looked. His ass hole was still tiny and pristine. *I know my lord. Nature
has gifted him generously, and no matter how gentle he was, there would doubtless be some tearing
the boy’s first time. He did not take him like that last night. My opinion of his self-restraint rises every
day.* He finished the treatment with a last dab, and went to wipe his hands.
As Nicolae pulled up the pants and tied the lacing, Simion said, "Tie them tightly or you will lose
them. I got a pair from the fattest man I could find in the household, so that they would not bind your
hurts." Nicolae smiled his thanks, buttoning the shirt. "And try the boots now. I have to see whether or
not they fit."
Nicolae sat on the bed and picked them up, looking at them admiringly. "I am sure they will."
"No guessing, boy. If they are too large or too small, I have to replace them immediately. You could
not go long in ill-fitting boots without agony. Let me help."
He knelt before the boy and eased first one, then the other foot into the boots. He allowed his hand to
linger for a moment on the boy’s firm, shapely calf. It was a pleasure to perform such small,
subservient tasks for one so pretty, and so appreciative. "Try them."
Nicolae stood up, and made a few steps across the room. He turned quickly, grinning at Simion, and
strode back, making the heels rap on the stone floor. Simion returned his smile. "I’m guessing that
those are your first boots."
Nicolae nodded, bending down to run a finger over the mellow, gleaming leather. "They feel
wonderful. But I do not know how I will repay the prince for them, and I scarcely need anything so
fine for the castle."
"Nicolae, you could not possibly wear those flimsy sandals on the journey."
"Journey?" Nicolae’s face lit up. "I am to go see Beta wed?"
*Then he didn’t tell him. Did he just assume that the boy would know, after the last two nights? Well,
if the prince has not seen fit to tell him of his new position, I will not.* "Yes, Nicolae. You will see
Lady Elizabeta married."
He clasped his hands together, almost bouncing in eager happiness. "I have wanted that so much! I
even prayed to the Blessed Virgin to let me, if it was not too much trouble. But I did not think my
patron would allow it."
"The prince insisted. He knows how fond you are of the lady."
"Oh, yes! There have not been many in my life who have been truly kind to me, Simion. Beta, a few of
the brothers, and now you and... and the prince."
"You think him kind, Nicolae?"
Nicolae became very interested in the toes of his boots again. "I... was afraid of him. I still am... a
little. But I do not think he means me harm. He has been... good to me."
"Yes, Nicolae. Prince Draculea has it in him to be kind. It is simply that there are not many who bring
out that side of him. Now, what do you want to take with you? You won’t need much. No more than
what will fill this sack." Simion shook open a canvas bag, and prepared to argue with the boy about the
amount he was allowed to bring. Draculea wanted him to have as little as possible to remind him of
this place. He wanted to provide everything for him.
The young librarian gave him a sunny smile. "My packing is easily done, Simion." He took a rosary
from the table, and said, "Come."
*Only a dungeon could be in a more miserable section of the castle* Simion thought when he saw
Nicolae’s room. *My room was small and grim, but at least it was dry, and fairly warm. How has the
child escaped sickness in this pit?*
Nicolae took a bible from the table, dropping the book into the sack. Then he hung the rosary around
his neck, kissing the crucifix before he dropped it under his shirt. "I will wear this."
Simion peered into the bag, then looked at Nicolae. "This is all you want?"
He shrugged. "It is all I own."
"Boy?"
"Truly, Simion. That and the cassock and sandals, but I don’t want to scrape the ashes from the grate,
and I have my boots now. All the scrolls, the ink, the quills... They belong to my patron. Really, this is
all I have, but it is all I need. Now..." He patted his stomach. "I must go and feed the lion that has
made his lair in my belly before it roars and scares the women."
Simion slowly tied a knot in the bag, watching the boy go. *Would that your cheerful mood lasts once
you know your new situation, boy. I have never known anyone who had such a low opinion of
himself, and deserved it less.*
He passed through the kitchen on the way to the courtyard, and found Nicolae eating bread and cheese,
ignoring the bountiful remains of the meat pies that had fed most of the household that morning.
"Nicolae, will you PLEASE stop trying to starve yourself!" Simion scolded. He set a well-filled plate
before the boy. "Don’t you realize how much harder you make it for me when I have to keep
wheedling you to eat? You will need your strength for the trip, and if you fall away, I will never hear
the end of it."
Simion had judged Nicolae correctly. While the boy tended toward abstention, he could not bear the
thought of causing trouble for someone who had done him a kindness. Simion left, satisfied that the
boy would eat a hearty breakfast.
Draculea was in the courtyard, supervising the loading of the goods Elizabeta would bring with her.
He sighed, indicating the crowd of wagons, draft animals, and mounts. "You’d think I was an Eastern
potentate, bringing back a treasure train. I don’t think I can justify not taking some of Ernestu’s men to
help guard, but I’ll send them back as soon as we arrive in my territory." He eyed Simion significantly.
"My men can escort him back to Castle Varga after the wedding." Simion smiled his understanding.
"So, are Nicolae’s things packed and ready to go? I want to leave soon. We’ll be moving slowly, and I
do not want to waste good daylight."
"Aye, lord. His packing was done quickly."
Draculea did not notice his servant’s ironic tone. He gestured to a sturdy horse that already had a
number of bundles strapped to its back. "Will it all fit on this one, or do I need to order another beast?"
"I believe it will fit."
"Good. Take all the men you need to carry it. We are almost ready to go."
"No need to trouble the other’s, Maria Ta. I can handle this myself." Simion stepped up to the horse
and tied the bag to the cords that held the other burdens in place.
Draculea looked at the limp sack, then at Simion. "Simion, are you jesting with me?"
"I often jest with you, my lord, but not in this."
"That is ALL?"
"No, my lord. He has a rosary, but he prefers to keep it on his person. That is his bible." Draculea
hefted the sack, feeling its meager weight, then looked again at the rest of the caravan. He turned
burning eyes on Simion. *Varga, I did not think it was possible for you to fall farther into disfavor, but
I believe you have managed it.*
"A book and his beads, that is all he has to show in material goods for eighteen years on this earth?
Simion, the trousseau Varga sends with his daughter fills two wagons and burdens three more horses,
and THIS is all he gives his son?" Draculea’s voice dropped to a growl. "It will be a joy to kill the
vermin."
"Softly, lord, softly." Simion glanced around cautiously, but those around them were busy. "Varga is
unlikely to be loved by his people, but loyalty can be inspired by fear, also. We do not know how
sharp the ears of his followers are, nor how diligently they guard his well-being. Such matters are
better left unspoken."
"Wise counsel, as usual, Simion." Draculea pulled on his gloves with vicious tugs, working his hands
into fists in a manner that spoke eloquently of what he would like to do to his future father-in-law.
"See to it that Nicolae is comfortably placed in the wagon with the cook. I’ve had some cushions put
in for him, and make SURE he doesn’t give them all away to the other man. I know him well enough
by now to know he’ll think first of the other’s comfort. I must go and escort my bride to her seat."
Nicolae was already making his way to the courtyard, and Simion met him in the halls, urging him
along. The boy was eating an apple, crunching as he hurried. Simion reflected that this was the
happiest and most relaxed he had ever seen Nicolae. In his new clothes, well fed and cheerful, he
looked as fine as any young noble. *It may be wise that my lord places him with the cook instead of
with Elizabeta and her ladies. I think he would make a few hearts beat faster.*
In the courtyard, Simion took Nicolae to the wagon that would be just behind the one carrying Beta
and her ladies. The cargo wagon was open, not closed like the passenger one, but there was a heavy
piece of canvas that could be secured over it in case of foul weather. As Draculea had predicted, the
first thing Nicolae did after greeting the cook was try to press the fattest cushion on him. The cook
noted Simion’s warning glance and refused graciously. Nicolae settled himself and watched the rest of
the activity with lively eyes.
Draculea came from the castle, leading Elizabeta by the hand. The girl was dressed in sturdy, but rich,
traveling clothes, her hair modestly covered by a cloth to keep out the dust of the road. She was
followed by her ladies, all similarly dressed, and so excited that Nicolae was surprised that some of
them did not faint. He felt sure that the excitement would fade after a few hours on the road.
Elizabeta spotted Nicolae in the wagon, and threw him a quick smile as Draculea handed her up to her
seat. The two youngest ladies noted her look, and began whispering to each other almost frantically.
Surely that wasn’t Nicolae the Monk? That brown, quiet librarian couldn’t be this fair young man.
They craned their necks to see him as they mounted the wagon, and Nicolae was perfectly innocent of
the interest he had aroused.
He had also aroused interest that he would have been better off without. Ernestu noted his daughter’s
gaze. When his eyes lit on Nicolae, he frowned. The last time he had seen his bastard son, the boy had
been bruised, bloody, and completely humbled. Now...
The cook said something to Nicolae, and the boy laughed excitedly. He was a picture of youth, joy,
and beauty. Ernestu had his pick of the servant’s in his household, but they were all of obvious peasant
stock: coarse and sturdy. Nicolae... The blood Ernestu would have denied leant the boy a fineness that
his harsh life could not erase. Before it had been just a craving based on convenience, but now Varga
felt his lust rise up in earnest. There had to be some way for him to have the boy before he returned
after the wedding. He would just have to look for his chance.
At last they were ready to leave. Draculea, Simion, Ernestu, and the guards were all mounted. It was a
matter of honor for Draculea to ride behind the advance guards, leading the party. Ernestu, as second
in rank, came next, and the rest of the party ranged behind.
As they moved out of the castle gates, Nicolae took his rosary from around his neck and calmly began
telling his beads, letting the familiar litany lull him into a peaceful near trance as the wagon jolted and
swayed down the road.
The cook watched him curiously. So, this was Prince Vlad’s new lover. Everyone in the castle knew it,
there were very few things hidden in such a close environment. When the cook had first heard it, he
had been skeptical. He knew Nicolae as only a shadowy, humble presence in the castle. The librarian
was scorned by Ernestu and his attendants, treated with off-hand, careless affection by Lady Elizabeta
(when she could be bothered), and mostly ignored by the rest of the household. This young man
seemed totally different. The cook could well imagine that he might become the favorite of royalty.
*Well, good enough. He isn’t so high and mighty as some might be. He seems to have a good heart.
And it isn’t beyond chance that he might remember kindness.*
The cook took a small cloth from his bag of belonging, and nudged Nicolae. Nicolae finished an Ave,
and looked at him questioningly. The cook opened the kerchief and offered it to him. "Sugared
almonds?" Nicolae’s eyes brightened as he reached for the offered candy, and the cook smiled.
tbc
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Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Traveling

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer: All characters except Nicolae, Lena, Simion, Ernestu, and some minor
ones belong to Bram Stoker originally.
Summary: On the road to Castle Draculea.
Author’s Notes: Don’t be squicked by the reference to once-a-week baths. Hygiene was a lot different
back then. Many people considered all over bathing to be actually unhealthy, and possibly sinful (as
an example of vanity). Many people were bathed fully twice in their lifetime: when they were born, and
when they were readied for burial. Nicolae is remarkably clean for his time.

Romania, On the Road
Father Mircea was mounted also, having declined a place in one of the wagons. "I have a fine mule.
Let the space go to someone else who doesn’t." In any case, he liked the idea of being able to range up
and down the length of the caravan, speaking with the various members of the party.
Not long after they were away from the castle, he checked in on Lady Elizabeta and her women. The
young girls were much more subdued than they had been when they boarded the wagon. Though it
was the sturdiest, with the best balance and cushioning, and the road was well maintained, none of the
gentlewomen were used to traveling. It was not unusual for someone to be born, live their entire lives,
and die and be buried without going outside a ten mile span.
Next he located Nicolae in the second cart. The boy looked wonderful. Mircea had always known that
he was handsome, and the new clothes were a proper foil for his youthful good looks. But it wasn’t
just the garments that made a difference. Nicolae’s features were animated, his eyes bright, as he
chatted to the castle cook who shared the wagon’s bed with him. *Here is how he might have looked if
he had never known his father,* Mircea thought. *Blessed Virgin, you look after innocents. Let this go
well for him? He is such a sweet soul, and Ernestu will kill him, physically or spiritually, if he remains
at Castle Varga.*
Nicolae saw Mircea, and greeted him gaily. "Father, you fare well? You aren’t tired yet, are you? You
can ride with us, if you are. There is plenty of room, and I have cushions..."
"No, Nicolae. I do very well on Patience." He patted the mule’s neck.
The beast stretched its neck toward Nicolae, large dark nostrils quivering, and gave a questioning bray.
Mircea laughed. "You’ve been feeding her treats again, Nicolae. Now she expects it."
"Yes, Patience. Just a moment." Nicolae reached back into the wagon and came up with an apple core.
He leaned out toward the mule, offering it on his palm. The beast took it from him delicately, velvet
soft lips brushing his palm and making him laugh.
"Nicolae." Simion rode up behind Mircea, frowning. "Careful, boy. If you fall and break you neck, the
prince will break mine for not watching you."
"Yes, Simion." The boy sat back dutifully, but not until he had stroked the mule’s nose again.
Father Mircea nodded to Simion, and indicated with a subtle movement of his head that he wished to
speak to him farther up, out of earshot of the boy. Simion followed him, drawing along side to pace
him. Mircea studied the man for a short distance, then said. "You are the prince’s man."
"I am that."
"He entrusts you with many things, unless I am mistaken."
"Yes." *The priest has something he wishes to say or know.*
"Including the care of his possessions?"
"That is so." *Yes, old man. Go on and speak what is on your mind.*
Mircea stared over his mount’s head, not looking at Simion. "Would that include Nicolae?"
"It most particularly includes him." Simion waited for the disgust and outrage.
It didn’t come. "Good. He needs someone to care for him. He’s had little enough of it in his life to this
point, and I fear things would only worsen if he were to stay at Castle Varga. Ernestu has scented him
now, and the boy will have no peace in his keeping. If Ernestu can keep the boy in his power..." The
priest flushed, but if it was from embarrassment or anger, Simion could not say. "...I would fear for his
body and his mind"
"Not his soul? I thought that was your main concern."
Mircea looked at Simion, as if surprised that the man did not understand. "No one can touch his soul,
Simion. That will remain as gentle, sweet, and pure as a dove. I won’t say he’s a saint." Mircea smiled.
"He loves this world too much for that. No, he doesn’t long to discard it so quickly in favor of the
next."
"You care about him a great deal."
Simion’s tone was mild, but Mircea heard the hinted question. "Like a favored child." He shook his
head. "Your master has nothing to fear from me. I long ago crushed the embers of fleshly desires, and
I will not try to turn the boy from him by railing of sin and hellfire. I only want Nicolae to be safe, and
happy. Can your master give him that?"
"He can, priest. He will, if the boy allows him."
"But for how long, Simion?" Mircea glanced back at the wagon. Nicolae was once again telling his
beads, his long fingers moving slowly, his gentle face placid. "If he knows tenderness, then is sent
away, it will kill him. Even worse to be kept on and pushed aside in favor of another."
"I can assure you of nothing, Father. But from what I have seen, I think you need not fear. Draculea is
a worldly man. Though he has taken many to his bed, never has he taken one into his heart. Nicolae
has a place there, if the boy is willing."
"I will pray, Simion. The boy has so much love to give, and up till now no one to lavish it upon. Oh,
there’s Beta, but..." He sighed. "I don’t want to speak ill of her, but the chit is self-involved to a fault.
And she listens to the wrong people, people I fear have no great love for her brother."
"So?" This interested Simion.
But Mircea again shook his head. "Those are matters of the confessional, Simion, and may not be
spoken of outside its holy confines."
"As you will, Father." *It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out. You seem worried of a continuing
influence, and we do not bring many with us from her home."
Simion rode farther ahead, pulling up to the wagon that contained Elizabeta and her ladies. There were
shutters to cover the windows in case of foul weather, but these were raised. He peered inside. None of
the four women looked best pleased by their situation, though the one called Abul seemed the most
sour. "Ladies, you fare well?"
Before Elizabeta could respond, Lena snapped, "We are jolted half out of our senses, and near choked
with the dust. How long till we may take a rest?"
Simion’s eyebrows climbed. "Lady, we have scarce begun. The prince will not call a halt till time to
break fast at mid-day. Even then, it will be brief. Granted, the longer we take to arrive, the more
preparations will be finished for the nuptials, but he is not a man who is patient with delays." Before
Lena could protest further, he put his heels into his horse’s side and urged it forward. *That one will
bear watching.*
The day progressed, and the troupe moved more slowly than Draculea would have thought, or liked.
At this rate they would have to spent two nights sleeping on the road, and would arrive at Castle
Draculea at dusk or twilight of the next day. He was eager to get Nicolae to his new home, and his bed,
and to get the nonsense and pomp of the wedding out of the way.
At midday they broke their fast. The horses were tethered where they could crop lush grass, and the
servants brought them buckets of water to slake their thirsts. Draculea was careful of every living thing
in his care, Father Mircea noted with approval.
Draculea had spent his time at the head of the line, fulfilling his duties as leader, but now he was ready
to relax a bit. He moved among his men, saying a word here and there, slapping a shoulder, letting
them know that they were appreciated. Draculea could be a hard master, but he was a fair one to those
who served him with diligence and loyalty.
At last he went to where a cloth had been spread in the shade of a great tree, and Elizabeta and her
ladies were taking their meal. The priest and Ernestu sat with them. Vlad looked around for Nicolae,
and finally located the boy, sitting with the servants. He frowned at this, but perhaps it was best. He
was better off away from that whoreson, Ernestu.
He gestured to the ladies to remain seated as he approached, in consideration of their weariness.
"Please, ladies. We are informal, here on the road. Ceremony can wait while we are in the open air."
Draculea did not stop Ernestu from struggling to his feet, however, though he quickly motioned for
him to sit again. He felt no urge to set the man at his ease.
Vlad sank gracefully to sit beside his fiancee, accepting the goblet of wine she offered him. "How do
you fare, Beta?"
He noticed that she glanced at her senior lady’s maid before speaking to him. "This is the longest
journey I have ever taken, Prince, and I find it tiring and uncomfortable."
Draculea shrugged. "Nothing more can be done, lady. Only the Eastern potentates, who are carried in
litters, travel more smoothly than you. And as for the length of the journey, it is not even a third gone.
You must gird yourself to endure."
Lena looked darkly at the prince, but smoothed her expression when he returned her gaze. *That is not
the right attitude,* she thought. *You will have to be more solicitous by far, Prince Draculea. But the
training can wait until after the ceremony. I must not risk you simply sending us back, for you might
very well do that, I think, despite what is expected of you.*
Lena knew very well how lucky Beta, and by extension herself, was to have secured this marriage. If
Draculea had chosen to take the time to consider all possibilities, he could have chosen among many
women who were just as young and beautiful as Elizabeta, and perhaps more wealthy and well-born.
Draculea ate a wedge of cheese while Abul leaned over and whispered to Beta. His future bride
nodded, then turned to him. "We wish to bathe this evening, before the meal."
Draculea cocked an eyebrow. *Mm. That had more the air of an order than a request.* His tone was
equanimous. "An excellent idea, lady, if we can reach the area I am thinking of before even fall. There
is a fresh spring there with a sandy bottom, perfect for bathing."
Elizabeta looked startled. "Oh, no. Bathe in open water? No, the servants may set my bath up in the
shielded wagon. My ladies may use it after me."
"Bath?"
Beta’s cheeks pinked. "My bath. The great tub of copper."
"Oh, that. Yes, if I recall correctly the servants were packing such an item. I told them to remove it
from the cart."
"What?!" The exclamation was from Lena Abul, and she quickly lowered her voice. "I am sorry,
Prince Draculea. I had seen to that particular item being included myself, and did not... did not expect
to be countermanded."
Draculea shrugged. "I am being most generous in allowing my bride to bring what she needs for a
comfortable life, but she did not need that. There are baths enough at my castle, and we did not need
an added burden on our journey. You need not fear for your modesty, lady. The spring is well shielded
by brush and trees. The women can bathe first, then any man who wishes. Now, if you will excuse
me." He stood, brushing his hands. "I want to see to the rest of our band before we proceed."
Now, finally, Draculea went where his heart had been urging him. He strolled to the little knot of
servants who were seated beneath another tree, at a fair distance from the gentry. All of these leapt to
their feet at his approach; there was no question of lax etiquette here. Indeed, the more humble
travelers would have been uncomfortable if Draculea had seemed overly familiar.
Again he gestured for them to sit, and they did. Nicolae lingered a bit longer than the others before
dropping back to sit. Draculea stood beside him, looking down. The bright sunshine picked out glints
in his glossy hair, like the sheen on a raven’s wing. Draculea tried to speak casually, but there was a
particular warmth in his tone when he addressed the boy. "How fare you, Nicolae?"
He tipped a shy smile up at Draculea that made the older man’s heart catch. "I am well, Domn. This is
a great adventure. Never have I been so far from my birthplace, not even when I went to live with the
friars."
"I am happy you enjoy this, Nicolae." He glanced back at the party he had left. "There are others
among us who are not at all content with their present state."
Nicolae followed his look and, as was his habit, made excuses for his half-sister. "Well, Maria Ta, she
is a woman, after all, and a lady. They are not used to such rigors. Can we fault her when it is we men
who cosset them, and protect them from all the harshness of life that we may?"
*Boy, should she spit in your face, you would claim she did it only to give you drink.* Draculea
squatted beside him. He noticed the faint pink rising in the boy’s face, and thought, *Let it be because
of me. Let my nearness bring the sweet blood to his cheeks.* Aloud he said, "I think tonight we camp
near a spring, Nicolae. Would you like to bathe?"
"Oh, yes!" he said swiftly. "Domn, I have missed that so much since I returned to Castle Varga. In the
monastery we bathed each week, perhaps even more often if our labors had been great."
"And you stopped at Varga’s?"
"I tended myself with my basin, lord."
"But why not bathe?"
"There was no means nearby, save for the pond in the garden."
"Nicolae, I know that there was at least one bathing vessel in the castle. I have almost been scolded for
leaving it behind."
He regarded Draculea with surprise. "But that belonged to the family."
He felt another brush of anger. "You were not allowed to use it?"
He shook his head. "I asked once, when I first returned. My patron told me to bathe in the horse
trough, as the chickens did." Draculea felt a sting of pain, and realized that he had dug his nails into his
palms. Nicolae did not notice, but continued speaking. "That was far too public. But..."
He looked at the ground, the blush rising even hotter. "I will confess that there were times when I
couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to feel the pure water all over my body. Late at night, while the castle
slept, I would go to the pond and bathe."
The image arose in Draculea’s mind of Nicolae, naked under moonlight, bathing himself in the dark
quiet of the garden pond. He knew that the thought would haunt him until he had seen it with his own
eyes, instead of just imagining it. "You will have your bath tonight, Nicolae."
Draculea arose and called his company back to their respective mounts or seats. It was time to
recommence their journey. He was more determined than ever to reach the spring before nightfall.
Author: Patience. I promis a little smut in the next episode. SKINNYDIPPING!
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Chapter 19: Part Nineteen: Ablution

Child of the Night, Part Nineteen: Ablution

Wallachia, On the Road
It was dusk when they came to the area Draculea had been speaking of. There was a lush grove of
trees and brush a hundred yards or so from the road. The party made camp quickly. The tent for the
women was set up in the most sheltered area, under a large tree, with another beside it for Ernestu. The
wagons were drawn up around them.
"You have no tent?" Ernestu asked Draculea.
The prince shrugged. "I saw no need for the added burden. I have often slept in the field with my men:
this will be no great hardship." He turned away, dismissing the man, to speak to Elizabeta. Indicating
the grove, he said, "There is your bathing spot, Lady. I have been here before. It is small, but lovely:
very clean, very clear, with a sandy bottom instead of mud."
Elizabeta glanced at Lena, then said regally, "We will wait until we arrive at Castle Draculea. I will
not bathe in the open air like... like a barbarian."
"As you wish. I myself have no problem with a bit of barberism." His eyes glittered as he looked at
Lena. "Or, indeed, with barbarity. I will bathe later, after supper. And speaking of that meal, I will go
and check its progress."
He knew well enough that the meal was progressing apace. The Varga cook had martialled his men to
find wood and haul water, and was already preparing several tempting smelling dishes over two large
fires. Nicolae hovered by him, fetching spices and herbs when asked. Draculea smiled when he saw
the boy, sniffing hungrily, stretching his neck slightly toward the fire where a pot of something good
bubbled. "Niclolae."
He turned to the prince, and Draculea was gratified to see the small, shy smile. "My prince."
He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, turning him and pointing out the trees. "There. That is where the
spring I told you of lies. I will bathe tonight. Come with me?"
He nodded. "Yes, Maria Ta. I long to feel the water."
Draculea’s hand slid up to massage the back of his neck. There was no one nearby, and he whispered,
"I long to feel you, Nicu."
"Domn," Nicolae’s voice was just as soft, but this time it was not as distressed as it had been the other
times Draculea voiced his desires. "You should not."
Draculea continued rubbing, watching as the boy’s eyelids slowly drooped to half-mast. "I think I
make progress, Nicu. This time you tell me I should not, rather than I must not." He gave the boy a
gentle shake before releasing him. "We shall see."
That evening, Nicolae again ate with the servants, and Draculea ate with his bride and her party. He
managed to remain civil, but it was a struggle. Elizabeta was turning out to be less than he had hoped.
She seemed interested only in gossiping, and about the most frivolous subjects. Judging from her
cutting remarks about some of the lesser members of her former household, her sweet, soft exterior hid
something more stinging than Draculea had suspected. He noted that the Abul woman seemed to
aggravate this fault, subtly goading Beta to ever more acid jibes against others. Then there was
Ernestu.
The older man had enough sense to not try to engage Draculeain conversation, but his very presence...
nay, his very existence was gauling. And Draculea did not miss the way he watched Nicolae when he
thought himself unobserved. All through the meal he stole glances at the boy as he sat a few yards
away, laughing and murmuring with the common men. You hunger, old man, but not for the food in
your dish. I know that you have your eyes on a more succulent, dainty morsel. He’s taken, dog. He’s
mine, and you had best remember that. Your fate is sealed. You are dead, but I plan to let you see your
daughter wed. I only hope you do nothing to force my hand before I am ready.
When the meal was done, Simion approached Nicolae. "My master bids you attend him at his bath,
Nicolae."
Ernestu had been hovering nearby, waiting a chance to speak to the boy. "But are you not Draculea’s
man? Why do you not attend your lord?"
Simion’s reply was chilly. While remaining scrupulously civil, it held warning. "I am Draculea’s man,
and so I do not question his orders." He turned back to Nicolae. "Come with me, boy."
From one of the wagons, Simion took two large, soft cloths, and what looked like a stone. He led
Nicolae toward the grove. "My lord often bathes in a stream or spring. His father..." Simion shrugged.
"The elder Dracul was bathed when he was born, and when he died. He felt that bathing weakened the
blood."
"I have not noticed that, Simion, though I know full well that its lack strengthens smell." Simion
laughed in delight. When he had seen the broken, bleeding young man in the lower halls of Castle
Varga he would never have guessed that he might hide an impish sense of humor. Yes, he would be
good for Draculea. His master was entirely too grim at times.
At the edge of the grove, Simion pointed out a narrow path that wound through the concealing brush
and trees. "Follow the path, Nicolae. It will take you to the spring."
"But Simion, you do not come?"
"No, boy. I stay here to watch the path, and turn away those who might pry." As he spoke, he glanced
back at the camp. Ernestu sat by the fire, staring after them. Simion pushed the cloths and stone into
Nicolae’s hands. "Take these to him."
Nicolae draped the cloths over his arm. "These I understand well enough, but this..." He examined the
stone curiously. It wasn’t exactly a stone, he saw, but a lump of some smooth, pale, waxy substance.
He sniffed experimentally, and looked at the older man in surprise. "It smells of flowers."
"It is called soap, Nicolae. It is quite new, only now becoming fashionable in royal courts. Usually my
lord does not bother with the passing fancies of society, but this he likes."
Nicolae turned it over in his hand, intrigued. "What do you do with it?"
"You use it to cleanse yourself." When he saw the confused look, he continued. "You wet it. Nicolae,
have you seen beer foam when it is poured roughly?" The boy nodded. "The soap makes foam like
that, and the foam cleanses the body." Again the boy looked at the soap doubtfully. He couldn’t
imagine cleaning with beer foam. Simion smiled at his bewilderment. "My lord will show you. Just
remember, it becomes very slippery. Now go." Nicolae looked past Simion, his eyes straying to where
his patron glared after him. Simion said softly, "Do not think of him, Nicolae."
"But Simion, he is my guardian. He..." The boy’s expression puckered anxiously once again, and
Simion sighed inwardly. "He is tolerent now, but when we return to Castle Varga..."
"Nicolae." Simion touched the boy’s shoulder, drawing his gaze away. "Wipe him from your mind.
Think only of the prince. Can you do that?"
Nicolae hesitated, then said quietly, "I will try." He started down the path. Simion positioned himself
in the center of the walkway, turning back to face the camp.
The trees of the grove were close growing, their branches entertwining over Nicolae’s head so that he
seemed to walk down a narrow green tunnel. When he stepped out into the open air, he blinked. It
suddenly seemed brigh, almost as bright as day, with the beams of the great, full moon streaming
down to reflect off the water of the spring.
Draculea was sitting on the sandy bank, arms wrapped around his drawn up knees, watching the
fireflies that darted across the grass nearby. He looked up, smiling, when Nicolae approached, and
gestured toward the silvered water. "What think you, librarian?"
"It is beautiful, Maria Ta. So peaceful, almost as if we are the first men to venture here." He came
slowly to where Draculea sat, his gaze roaming the clearing. "Or as if we were the only ones in the
world."
Draculea stood, his long body uncoiling from the ground, and looked down at the boy standing before
him. He reached out to caress a cheek still smooth, unroughened by a man’s beard. He tipped
Nicolae’s face up, and studied him. The great, tilted eyes were even darker in the moonlight,
mysterious pools. "Yes, Nicolea, let that be the way of it. We are alone in the world at this moment.
Nothing exists outside this place: neither country, nor man, nor God. Only we two."
He bent toward the boy. This time Nicolae did not pull away. To Draculea’s delight, he did not close
his eyes, either. They remained open as their mouths touched.
Draculea kissed him lightly at first, waiting to see his reaction. The boy just remained still, his breath
warm against Draculea’s lips. Vlad cupped the back of his head with one large hand, held his chin in
the other, and pressed more insistantly.
With a sigh, Nicolae’s lips parted. Draculea ran the very tip of his tongue over them, then flicked it
into the the boy’s mouth, shallowly. Nicolae gave a small, muffled laugh.
Draculea pulled back and looked at him, and the boy smiled. "It tickles."
Draculea laughed, pressing his head briefly to the boy’s shoulder, then pushed him away and pulled
his shirt over his head. "Remove your garments, Nicolae, and we will bathe."
Draculea made quick work of his own clothing so he could enjoy watching Nicolae strip. Whereas the
prince had discarded is clothes with the carelessness of one who has never had to concern himself with
such matters, Nicolae carefully folded each article, laying them in a neat pile beside his boots. When
he came to his drawers, he hesitated, glancing shyly at Vlad. Draculea said nothing, made no move,
and finally the boy pushed the drawers down his slim hips and stepped out of them.
In the weak lamplight of Simion’s room, Nicolae’s skin had seemed like pale gold. Now it was
silvered by the moonlight. Yes, he was all silver and black, with the darkness of his eyes and hair. As
Draculea stared, Nicolae moved his hands to cover his crotch, shielding his sex from Draculea’s
hungry eyes. Vlad smiled. The boy’s modesty was fetching, but he would cure him of that soon
enough.
Vlad realized that Nicolae was returning his stare. He felt a spark of heat as the boy’s eyes roamed
over him. Draculea did not hide himself as Nicolae did: he presented his body proudly for the boy’s
inspection. He was not vain, but he knew that he had a body to be desired. He said quietly, "What are
you thinking, Nicu?"
The boy’s eyes flickered. "You called me beautiful, Maria Ta."
"Yes, Nicolae. I meant it."
"But my lord, you..." He lifted his hand, reaching toward Draculea. But before he touched him, he
stopped, biting his lip. "You... The good book tells us that we are made in God’s image. Looking at
you, Domn, I can truly believe."
Draculea was tempted to pull Nicolae down to the sandy ground and take him, then and there. But no.
Perhaps the boy would not fight him, but he would still be frightened, and unsure. Draculea wanted the
first time he entered him to be nothing but pleasure. They would be at Castle Draculea tomorrow, if
they hurried. He could be wed the next day, get the consumation out of the way, and turn his full
attention on Nicolae.
"Come, Nicolae." The boy followed him as he waded out into the water, stopping when it lapped up
aboout his hips.
Nicolae looked at the soap he was holding, then offered it to Draculea, skepticism clear in his voice as
he said, "Simion says you use this to wash?"
"You haven’t seen soap before, Nicolae?"
"No, Maria Ta."
He smiled. "You will like it. Give it to me." Nicolae handed over the lump, and watched as Draculea
dipped it in the water, then began to rub it between his palms.
The boy’s eyes grew round as the white lather spread over the prince’s hands. "Simion spoke truly. It
foams like beer." He took the soap hesitantly when Draculea offered it to him, and mimiced the
prince’s actions. He was amazed when the foam bubbled up to cover his own hands.
"Now, like this." Draculea spread the lather over his shoulders and chest, and down his belly. Nicolae
did the same. He grinned in delight as his hands slipped and slid in the lather. They passed the soap
back and forth, scrubbing it over legs and arms.
Draculea called Nicolae to him. He put the soap in the boy’s hands, then grasped them in his own, and
worked the soap until both of their hands were thickly slathered in white and turned away from
Nicolae. The boy understood, and began to wash his back.
Draculea relished the boy’s touch as Nicolae rubbed away the tension that had settled in his back and
shoulders during the day’s ride. Then Draculea abruptly sank beneith the water, ducking himself.
When he came back up, the said, "Your turn now."
Nicolae turned from him, and Draculae worked up another lather, then tossed the soap on the grass. He
put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, then ran them the length of his back. Nicolae shivered slightly,
but did not move. Vlad washed him slowly, enjoying the shift of muscle beneith the velvety skin. He
moved closer to the boy, and put his arms around him, letting his hands glide up and around.
He found Nicolae’s nipples, and began to stroke them softly. Nicolae sighed again. He touched
Draculea’s arms, but did not push them away. Instead, his hands rested lightly on Vlad’s forearms.
Vlad pinched softly, bending to nibble at the junctor of his young lover’s neck and shoulder.
Draculea moved even closer. Nicolae gasped as the prince’s hard member nudged against his buttocks,
and Draculea whispered, "No, sweet one. Not tonight, not here. That is for later." His hands glided
down to cover the boy’s stirring prick. "I only want to touch you now. Relax." He stroked gently, his
hands sliding easily in the soap.
Nicolae pushed back the worries about how the Church would view such an act, and what Draculea
might want from him later, and allowed himself to enjoy this moment. He was supported by the solid
body behind him, and the strong arms around him. The hands that moved on his sex were warm, firm,
and knowledgable. Soon he was thrusting his himself into the tight grip.
Draculea paused in his manipulations to rub one hand quickly over Nicolae’s buttocks, slicking them
with the soap. Then he resumed pumping the boy’s turgid member, and began humping against the
smooth flesh of his rump. Nicolae whimpered, his fingers digging into Vlad’s forearms as he felt the
heated flesh slipping into the crease of his flesh. "Calm," Draculea whispered. "I promised you, Nicu.
Not yet." He moved, relishing the tight press of the boy’s cheeks. "Soon, little one. Soon."
Feeling his orgasm approaching, Nicolae instinctively ground himself against Draculea’s arousal. The
feel of the hard length of Draculea’s prick sliding over the tender skin that lined his crease, brushing
over the sensitive pucker that marked his back opening, was intense. He came, his seed glimmering
milkily in the moonlight as it splattered the water.
Draculea groaned, shifting his grip to Nicolae’s hips, and pumped against him with hard, fast strokes.
He had to move quickly, because the temptation to spear into the boy was so great. He came with a
few strokes, clutching Nicolae tight and shuddering, spraying his semen in a hot wash over the boy’s
buttocks.
He held Nicolae for a few more moments, then dipped up handfuls of the cool water to wash away the
evidence of their passion. He led the weak legged boy back to the shore. There he took one of the
cloths and wrapped Nicolae in it, drying him tenderly.
Nicolae sat on the grass while Vlad toweled himself. By the time he was done, the boy had curled on
his side, dozing lightly. Draculea watched him for a moment, then shook his shoulder gently.
"Mm?" Nicolae murmured.
"Dress, child. You cannot sleep here."
Nicolae stretched, then looked at Draculea with dreamy eyes. "You could lie with me, Domn."
Draculea felt his heart squeeze. "Not tongiht, pet, but I’d like that. We need to get back to camp, or
tongues will wag."
"Oh." Nicolae sat up quickly, suddenly awake, and reached for his clothes.
Draculea noted the blush that flamed up the boy’s cheeks. He realized what the others of the party
might think, and he was ashamed. It saddened Draculea. He wanted his relationship with Nicolae to be
easy for the boy. Well he thought as he dressed himself, It will be different when I have him at home,
and am rid of Ernestu. He will see that he is an honored member of my household. I will show him
that he has a place in my court, and my heart.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 20: Part 20: Retribution

Author’s Notes: Beta: Janet (Thankee)
Pairing: Vlad/Ernestu Don’t squick, it’s not what you think.
Summary: On his wedding day, Draculea humiliates Ernestu in token retribution for his abuse of
Nicolae.
Author’s Notes: What Draculea does to Ernestu is rape in its purest form: an act of violence and
power: used to control and humiliate the victim. Vlad does not view this as a sexual act, it is
punishment.
Warning: Vlad and Ernestu pairning, but there’s nothing romantic about this. Graphic coerced m/m
sex. This is a cold, calculated act that may be disturbing for some.

Castle Draculea, Romania
They arrived at Castle Draculea near sunset. Even in the waning light it was easy to see the frantic
preparations taking place. The castle was thronged with extra servants and guests who had arrived
early and would be staying the night. There was room for all: Castle Draculea was spacious, and the
provender was always ample.
Elizabeta tried to act unimpressed when she was shown her chambers but her pleasure could not be
disguised. They were well situated, spacious, and richly appointed. A giggling maidservant indicated
to her the discreet door in one corner that led to the short hall connecting her bedroom with
Draculea’s. Lena noted sourly that there was no lock on her door, but she ventured to guess that there
was one on his.
Beta finally got her bath, with Lena scolding the household staff to bring fresh hot water several times.
She took her meal in her room, as Draculea’s friends were having a bit of a celebration in the great
hall, saying farewell to his bachelor state--nothing huge, since the wedding was to take place the next
day.
There were some twenty of what could be considered his closest friends and as many of his most
trusted men in attendance. Ernestu was included. Draculea did not want him there, but did not very
well see how he could exclude him without causing a scandal.
Nicolae had tried to beg off. He was shy, and the idea of being in such a crowd of strangers (who
would most likely be the worse for drink) made him uncomfortable. But Simion told him pointedly
that the prince himself had requested his presence, so he could not refuse.
The party was lively, though not as boisterous as some. There were many toasts to the groom, and to
the bride, most of them only slightly obscene. Nicolae was kept in a constant state of blush by the
ribald comments of the company, and the free-spirited groping of the giggling wenches who served
them. At one point he found himself with a lapful of wiggling girl, and the room roared at his
astonished expression.
Draculea did not enjoy the festivities as he might have. He would have been perfectly content if he
could have had Nicolae by his side or, better still, on his lap. But that would have been too indiscreet,
so he allowed the boy to sit halfway down the table, and kept a close eye on him.
As he had known, Nicolae was attracting attention. His good looks and simple modesty drew the more
jaded members of Draculea’s court, but Simion had let the household know that the new librarian was
special to the prince, and there was nothing but speculation so far. Very few men were stupid enough
to consider poaching on the territory of Vlad, The Impaler.
They did, however, exist. Ernestu could not keep his eyes off the boy. I had that under my roof, and I
never noticed. Damn. I might have bargained harder with the prince if I had known. Perhaps when he
tires of the whelp I can have him back. Yes, I’m sure that Draculea is a man of varied tastes. He’ll tire
of him once his dewiness begins to fade, and that shouldn’t be long. I can offer to take him off his
hands. Besides, once he beds my daughter, I’ve no doubt she can turn his interests. He’ll be
preoccupied with producing heirs.
Nicolae soon rose, and bowed to the prince. "Prince Draculea, I beg your permission to seek my bed. I
fear that I am not used to travel, and I would like to be fresh for the ceremony tomorrow."
"You would leave me so soon?" There was a hint of wistfulness in Draculea’s tone.
Nicolae answered with perfect seriousness. "Oh, no, prince. It is not that I wish to leave your presence.
It is only that this flesh with which the Lord has gifted me is weak, and needs slumber."
"Go, then. Gentle dreams." Vlad watched him leave, longing in his heart. But he felt a chill, then a
flush of hot rage as Ernestu got up and followed him out. Resisting the urge to spring after them and
beat the man to death before all his guests, he called Simion over. "Simion..."
"I saw, my lord. I will attend to it."
"Just get him away from the boy, don’t do anything... permanent. Leave that for me. I look forward to
it." Simion hurried out. He knew where Nicolae’s assigned room was, and he started for it.
He found them not far from the great hall, and was glad that he had followed as quickly as he did. The
change in the boy’s demeanor in the few moments he had been out of Simion’s presence was dramatic.
The cheerful liveliness was gone. He was pale, and his eyes had taken on the alarming dullness that
Simion had seen after his beating.
Ernestu had hold of the boy’s arm, and Simion could see his fingers biting into the flesh. He heard the
older man’s hissing tones as he approached them. "...still your guardian, boy. You’ll do as I say. I want
you in my room in an hour. None of your false, blushing modesty. I know what you’ve been up to with
the prince. I’m not a fool."
That, Simion thought, is highly debatable. "Nicolae, there you are." Both heads jerked toward Simion.
There was a flare of hope in Nicolae’s eyes, and a spark of rage in Varga’s. Simion stopped near them,
and bowed his head to Varga. "I thank you for stopping him, Domn. The prince has asked that the boy
stay in my room, as there is pressing need for the one he was given. Come, Nicolae." He touched the
boy’s arm, staring hard at Varga. Reluctantly the other man released his hold. "If you need an
attendant, Varga, there are servants aplenty in the hall."
Simion could feel the boy trembling as he led him away. When they were out of sight he said quietly,
"Did he hurt you, boy?"
"No." He rubbed his arm. "Not really, not my body." His expression twisted, and Simion wondered
what had been said before he arrived. Given Ernestu’s proclivities and brutal nature, he could well
imagine.
Simion took him to his room. It wasn’t in the domestic quarters, as Nicolae might have imagined.
Granted, it was small, and simple, but it was not the room of a servant. Simion lit a lamp for him, and
indicated the bed. "You should sleep, Nicolae. I doubt that pus-bag will dare come here, but there is a
bolt on the door. I must return to the prince, and I will sleep in his room tonight." He put a hand on the
boy’s shoulder. "You will stay here. You will not go to Ernestu, no matter what he said to you, no
matter what he threatened if you did not."
Nicolae sat on the bed, covering his face with his hands. "He... if I anger him, Simion..."
"Nicolae, do not trouble yourself." He stroked the boy’s soft hair. "You are under the protection of
Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea. None can hurt you and live while he extends his patronage. Bolt the door
after me."
Simion left, listening in the hall till he heard the bolt drop into place. Then he went to make his report
to Draculea, and place another stitch in Ernestu Varga’s shroud.
Nicolae lay back on the bed, feeling numb. All his joy of the previous day had fled with Ernestu’s rude
touch and loathsome demands. He had been graphic about what he expected from Nicolae, and it had
been all the boy could do to keep from screaming. "While he extends his patronage," he murmured.
Tears streaked his face. "Holy Virgin, what do I do when I go home?" If Draculea had known the
depths of Nicolae’s distress, Varga would not have seen the next dawn.
The only thing that allowed Draculea to sleep was the knowledge that he would soon be able to rid the
world of Varga. That would have to wait until his future father-in-law began his journey home, but
Vlad had decided to mete out a small punishment before that.
The castle stirred early on the day of the nuptials. Servants scurried about madly with last minute
cleaning and decorating. The kitchen saw more work than all the festive events of the previous year
combined. The upper servants were driven near mad by the demands of guests for help with dressing
and last minute touches to hair and wardrobe.
Simion delivered new clothes to Nicolae before the ceremony. The boy was near speechless over the
finery. It was all of the softest, smoothest silk. The close-fitting breeches were black, and the elegant
shirt was a rich wine red that brought out the paleness of his skin and the darkness of his eyes and hair.
There were new shoes of leather so supple that it felt like a caress. "I will accept them, Simion,
because I must not shame Beta at her wedding. But really, I cannot continue to take things from the
prince when I can never repay him."
Simion sighed. "Nicolae, haven’t you learned by now that no repayment is expected, or wanted?
Draculea delights in giving you things. It pleases him. Will you deny him this?"
Nicolae blushed. "I am not ungrateful, Simion. It is just that... It hurts that I have nothing to give in
return when he has been so good to me."
Simion watched him dressing for a moment before leaving, shaking his head. The boy truly had no
conception of the power he held over Draculea. If he wished, he could coax riches, finery, and titles
from his lord. But that was not in Nicolae’s nature, and this was part of what attracted Draculea. The
boy never spared a thought for himself or his possible advancement. It was uncanny how different he
was from his half-sister.
Finally the appointed time drew near. The great hall was filled with guests, the chapel being too small
for the gathered throng. The archbishop of the diocese waited at the upper end, ready to unite the
couple in holy matrimony. All that was missing was the bride and her maids, who waited anxiously
upstairs in Beta’s room.
As it neared time, Draculea, in magnificent court clothes of a blue so dark that it was almost black,
whispered to Simion. He sent an enigmatic look toward Varga, who was standing in the front ranks of
the crowd, then went into a small room off to one side.
Simion went to Varga. "My prince has an urgent matter to discuss with you before the ceremony can
commence, Domn. He asks that you attend him." Varga, puffed with importance, followed Simion to
the side room and passed inside. Simion closed the door, then placed himself before it, arms crossed.
The message was clear: the prince’s business with Varga, whatever it was, would not be disturbed.
In the private room, Ernestu approached Draculea, smiling. "You wished to see me, prince?" His smile
faded as he saw Draculea’s cold expression.
"No, Varga, I do not wish to see you. It would give me the greatest pleasure if I never had to lay eyes
on you again, but there is a matter that must be attended to before the marriage can take place."
Ernestu felt a thrill of apprehension. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with this marriage. He was
prepared to do anything, even kill, to see it through. "What is it, Prince Draculea? A legal matter?
Shall I summon the lawyers? The priest?"
"No, this has nothing to do with legalities, nor religion. Justice, though... Yes, it has to do with
justice."
"I... do not understand, prince."
"What punishment do you deem fit for a man who would despoil his own male child?"
Ernestu swayed, the blood leaving his head in a sudden, dizzying sweep. "Domn, I know not what the
bastard told you..."
Perhaps if Ernestu had not been within arm’s reach, Vlad might not have reacted as quickly as he did.
But the man was near. Draculea lashed out, his hand moving even before he had formed the intent to
strike. Ernestu staggered back, clutching his face from the ringing, open handed slap. He would quite
possibly have been rendered unconscious if Draculea had chosen to close his hand into a fist, but this
was as humiliating as it was painful. It showed contempt. Draculea did not deign to use his full
strength.
Draculea’s voice was grim. "Your son told me nothing, dog. I did not need his supplication to see what
was going on."
"Domn, I swear, I never touched the boy!"
"Except to beat him?" Ernestu made no reply. He knew there was no way he could answer this that
would ease his trouble. "You tried to whip him into my bed, Varga. Do I look to you as if I need a
procurer?"
"Domn, I only..."
"Silence. I prefer my bed mates willing, Varga. And even if I’m tempted to take one who is reluctant, I
need no assistance. Lusting after your own flesh and blood, insulting me by pandering... These
offenses are bad enough, but then you compound them."
"What is it? What have I done, Maria Ta?"
"Nicolae is mine, Varga. You know that. You have known it since the marriage contract was drawn,
and still you covet him. Last night you would have ordered him to your bed, had I not sent Simion
after you."
"Lord, I..."
"Do you deny it?"
Varga made gabbling sounds, but could produce no sense. Finally he shook his head mutely, falling to
his knees. He was certain that he was about to die. Draculea would kill him, leave his corpse in this
small, obscure room, and go out to the great hall to marry his daughter while his blood still cooled.
Draculea took the last few steps to where the man cringed on the floor, and loomed over him. Varga
stared up at him, pasty faced, and managed to whimper, "Great prince, please. Do not kill me. Have
mercy."
Draculea studied him coldly, his fine mouth twisting in a sneer. At last he said, "I will not curse my
wedding day by spilling blood. But you will commit an act of contrition, Ernestu."
"Yes, Domn, yes!" he babbled in relief. "Anything! Rosaries? I can say many rosaries. Or a new
stained glass window for your chapel? I’ll hire the finest artisans." Draculea’s expression was growing
even colder. "Or a pilgrimage! I will visit every holy site in our land, if you will just spare me... and...
and wed my Elizabeta."
"You want that very much, eh, Varga? Very well. One act will spare your life this day and ensure the
marriage."
"Anything!" And Varga was sure in his own mind that he truly meant this. He was sure until Draculea
began unlacing his breeches. "Prince Draculea? You... do not mean..."
"You were willing enough to prostitute the boy to get what you wanted. You should be willing now to
perform the same duties yourself." Draculea had pulled forth his prick, and was stroking it roughly.
"Don’t think I will enjoy this, Varga. You disgust me. But you will learn that when I decide on a
course of action, nothing keeps me from it. Neither God, the Devil, nor my own mortal flesh."
"But Domn, you cannot truly mean this."
"If you do not drink my seed, Varga, I will go from this room and send the assembly home. You can
carry your daughter back with you and see what luck you have finding her a decent husband once I
have rejected her." Draculea had massaged his staff to semi-hardness. Now he pushed it at Ernestu. "It
is your choice." Trembling, Varga reached for Draculea, only to have his hands struck down. "You
will touch me with nothing but your lying mouth, swine."
Ernestu leaned forward, and Draculea closed his eyes as he felt the first, dry rasp of his tongue. He
wanted to flinch, but held himself. He had resolved to do this. It was the most humiliating thing he
could think to do, save one. And I will kill him rather than fuck him. There was no desire in this act,
only hatred and rage. Once he was aroused, that would be enough to carry him through, but he
wondered if Ernestu could give him enough pure physical stimulation for his body to override his
mind’s revulsion.
Draculea turned his thoughts to Nicolae. He would not imagine that it was his beloved performing this
act: that would seem like a sacrilege. But he would think of him, contemplate his beauty and goodness.
It did not happen quickly. The guests began to whisper and fidget in the great hall as Ernestu
desperately licked and sucked at Draculea’s reluctant member. But finally the thoughts of Nicolae
turned the trick.
Vlad imagined the boy nestled in his own great bed upstairs: safe, warm, and happy at last. He
imagined slipping beneath the sheets and pulling the long, pliant body against him, feeling the stir of
the boy’s member awakening against his own as he kissed him.
He was a little surprised to open his eyes and find that he was fully erect. But that was a good thing.
Now the punishment could proceed. He grabbed Ernestu’s hair, setting his hands in it tightly. "Open
your mouth, whoreson. And mind your teeth, if you do not want me to snap your neck."
Ernestu obeyed, and near choked when the prince roughly rammed into his mouth. He had no time to
recover. Draculea pulled out, then thrust again, hard. This time he managed to force himself down
Ernestu’s throat, bruising and even tearing tender tissue. The man moaned around the muffling flesh,
and Draculea began to rape his mouth with short, vicious jabs.
"You will remember this, Varga," he snarled. "You will remember this as long as you live. This," He
said as he gripped the back of Ernestu’s skull and pounded into him, "is what you would have done to
my Nicu. This, or worse. Do you like it? Is it pleasurable?"
Ernestu whined in pain and submission, and the vibrations were a further stimulation. Draculea was a
little dismayed that his prick could take such pleasure from congress with one such as Ernestu, but he
realized that it was more his anger than desire that drove his rampant dick again and again down the
throat of the man he hated.
At last his climax approached. He jammed Ernestu down on his cock, holding his face against his body
and commanded, "Swallow it, dog! Every drop you spill will earn you a blow." He closed his eyes as
the first joyless orgasm he’d ever experienced washed over him. All he felt beyond physical release as
his seed spewed down the frantically working throat was a sense of bitter triumph.
Finally it was done. He pulled free, shoving Ernestu so that he fell back on the floor. While the older
man puked and moaned, Draculea went to a basin and cleaned himself, eager to get the man’s spit and
blood off his body. When he was done, he closed his breeches, wet a cloth, and returned to where
Ernestu curled on the floor, retching. He threw down the cloth and said, his voice emotionless, "Clean
yourself."
Ernestu sat up, wiping his face and mouth. He groaned when he saw blood on the cloth. "It will heal in
a few days, though I would not advise drinking spirits. They would be like molten lead on the raw
spots. Get up. It is time to see your daughter wed. You’ve got what you wanted, old man. Your
daughter will be a princess. Your grandchildren will be of royal blood."
With lips bruised, throat torn and raw, and the bitter taste of Draculea’s come and his own vomit in his
mouth, Ernestu followed the prince out to the great hall and took his place at the front of the crowd.
Those who looked at him closely decided that Prince Draculea had been laying down the law to the
man. What else could account for his pale features, and the terrified look in his eyes?
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 21: Part 21: Marriage

Pairing: Vlad/Beta (Hey, they’re married, okay? It’s what people did. Be patient. Vlad and Nicolae’s
consummation will be in the next chapter.)
Summary: Vlad weds, and briefly beds, Elizabeta. Nicolae, still unaware of his place in Draculea’s
household and dreading a return to Castle Varga, makes a decision.
Author’s Notes: About Beta’s gown, it is only in western cultures, and only in the last century or so,
that white has been considered de rigeur for brides. Beta’s deflowering is uncomfortable, messy, and
emotionless. But remember, this is just a chore for both of them. I have no idea whether or not the sort
of ’witnessing’ I describe took place, but unbelievable emphasis was placed on a bride’s untouched
nature, and in the case of a royal wedding it would have been even more important, due to the desire
to protect the royal bloodlines and the line of succession.
Child of the Night, Part 21: Marriage

Later That Same Day
Draculea exited from the side room, and took his place before the archbishop. Simion came to stand
beside him. At the prince’s nod, he gestured to a footman, who hastened from the hall. He ran up the
great stairs to Elizabeta’s room, and gave them the news that it was time.
A small group of musicians played on pipes, lutes, and guitars as the ladies slowly made their way
down the grand staircase. As Elizabeta tread the length of the hall, moving at a slow, stately pace,
there were admiring murmurs from the crowd. She was very beautiful in her gown of sky blue velvet.
When she stood beside her groom, it was whispered that she looked like the morning sky, and he the
sky at midnight.
Nicolae watched as Beta passed, ready to offer her a smile of love and encouragement, but her eyes
slid past him to fasten on the priest at the head of the hall. Nicolae felt a brief twinge, then told himself
that of course her mind was elsewhere. This was the most important day of her life.
And as his half-sister stood beside Draculea, and the prince took her arm, a peculiar feeling washed
over Nicolae. He felt suddenly... bereft. *He is marrying her,* he thought. And he suddenly realized
that he was not feeling worry for Beta, binding herself for the rest of her life to a man who was known
to be hard, and sometimes cruel. He was feeling sorrow because Draculea was marrying her.
*They will be husband and wife, forever. He will hold her, touch her, kiss her. Like he did...* Nicolae
suddenly had to look down, pressing a hand briefly over suddenly stinging eyes. *Like he did with me.
Foolish Nicolae. You knew this day was coming, why did you not prepare yourself?*
The boy drew in a shaky breath that was dangerously close to a sob. The people beside him looked at
him curiously. Oh, yes, he was a relative of the bride, wasn’t he? How sweet for him to be so
emotional at her wedding.
*I will not cause a scene. I will not embarrass him before these people.* Nicolae lifted his head,
dropping his hand, and managed a smile. All attention turned back to the bride and groom, where it
should have been.
The archbishop spoke the words of the ceremony, intoning them gravely. He spoke of duty, and faith,
and honor. He did not mention love. At the end of the rite, Draculea slipped the traditional wedding
band of the head of the Dracul family onto Elizabeta’s slender finger. Then, holding hands, they turned
to face the crowd, and the archbishop introduced them for the first time as man and wife.
While he smiled at the cheering, clapping crowd, Draculea’s eyes sought for Nicolae. He found the
boy among the minor nobles. Nicolae did not shout and clap like the rest of the throng. He stood
quietly, watching the couple at the altar. His face looked strained, but when Draculea lifted his
eyebrows in question, the boy smiled faintly, nodding, and Vlad relaxed. He knew that Nicolae was
romantic enough to believe that a marriage should be made for love, and he’d worried about the boy
objecting to his beloved half-sister going into an arranged union.
The guests moved to the sides, and servants rushed in madly to set tables in place, then load them with
food. It did not take long for the feast to be in full swing. The ceremony had finish close on the noon
hour, and the celebration lasted well into the evening.
Outside the castle, the Draculea’s servants who were not needed to attend, and the local peasants and
townspeople had their own celebrations. A great deal of drinking went on both inside and outside the
castle, and there would be more than one chance-begotten babe born nine months after the prince’s
wedding.
The meal seemed to go on forever. Every man and woman with any pretension to gentility wanted to
offer a toast to the couple, and Draculea and Elizabeta received them graciously. Finally, halfway
down the table, Beta saw a familiar looking young noble rise, and hold up a goblet. "To Princess and
Prince Draculea, the fairest of both their sexes. May God bless you both with long life, good health,
and the love that you both deserve."
The voice was familiar, and Beta finally recognized Nicolae. "Nicu, you drink wine ?" Her voice was
teasing.
He bowed his head. "To honor you, my lady. And my prince." Nicolae tipped his head back and
drained the goblet like a seasoned drinker, and there was applause from the table. As he sat down,
Draculea saw one of the younger nobles gesture to a servant, who quickly refilled the Nicolae’s glass.
The boy regarded it with an almost puzzled expression, then sipped.
Draculea felt a twinge of unease. It didn’t seem like Nicolae to drink in celebration. But the next
well-wisher was rising, and he had to at least pretend to pay attention. He watched Nicolae through the
rest of the feast. The men on either side of him kept his glass brimming, and the boy drank steadily.
But he seemed to grow no more cheerful. The smile that he had offered with his toast was gone, and he
looked almost melancholy.
At last, when the night was not too far advanced, Draculea rose, taking Beta’s hand and pulling her to
her feet. He bowed to the risen assembly and said, "We thank you for your attendance, and your kind
wishes. If only a small part of the good things wished for us come to pass, we will be blessed indeed."
He bowed, and Elizabeta curtsied gracefully, then they left.
Some of the guests made their way out to the courtyard and stables, where horses and carriages were
waiting to take them home. Others were to remain overnight at Castle Draculea. Most of these either
repaired to their rooms, or went out to seek fresher, more earthy amusement among the local peasants.
The castle grew quiet. Soon the only ones stirring were a few servants, clearing away the last of the
feast, and a handful of the more libertine young nobles. They gathered before the hall’s great fireplace,
the one that could easily have roasted a whole oxen. They were amusing themselves by getting the
prince’s new favorite drunk.
They whispered and laughed together as one of their number refilled his goblet, assuring the boy that
the wine had been watered and was scarcely strong enough to addle the head of a child. They watched
Nicolae with measuring, speculative eyes, and more than one wondered if the Prince would decide to
share after the first flush of infatuation had worn off.
He was quite delicious, they all agreed, but he seemed so sad. What did he have to be sad about? He
was young, desirable, and the darling of a rich and powerful man. His life was good.
Nicolae drank. He had found that the taste became more tolerable as the evening wore on. From his
own observations, and his talks with the brothers, he knew that men drank both to make merry, and to
drown sorrows. Nicolae wasn’t entirely sure of his own reason for indulging in spirits tonight. He only
knew that neither goal was being accomplished.
Ernestu, Simion, Stefan, and Ernestu’s lawyer moved past the little knot of revelers, toward the great
stairway. Nicolae watched them, and said, "They pace so gravely, as if they go to perform some
solemn act."
There was much nudging and smiling among the other young men. One said, "Don’t you know where
they go, librarian?" Nicolae shook his head. "It is the prince’s wedding night. They go to bear witness
to the consummation." When Nicolae’s eyes widened in shock, he laughed. "No, no. They will not
look upon the act itself. Though no doubt that would be an entertainment to remember." Laughing
agreement greeted this statement.
Enjoying Nicolae’s confusion and embarrassment, the young lord leaned toward him, putting a hand
on his knee and confiding. "You understand, don’t you? They must be sure that the girl is pure, and
that the marriage duty is done. There must be no doubt that every effort is being made to produce a
legitimate heir. So, they wait in the corridor outside the bridal chamber. When the marriage has been
consummated, the prince will present them with a token to prove that he was the first to..." He eyed
Nicolae’s dismayed expression, and had a little pity on the boy., "have congress with her."
"Token?" Nicolae’s voice was choked. "What token?"
"Why, a cloth stained with her maiden’s blood, and his seed. All honest brides bleed on their wedding
night."
"And some not so honest," interjected another youth. "There are all sorts of devices they will resort to,
if they have dallied before wedding. A tiny sponge soaked in animal blood has saved the honor of
more than one girl."
"And I have heard," said another, "that certain unscrupulous midwives will sew a stitch or two in the
braver ones, so that they truly ARE torn when their husband comes inside them for the first time."
Simion came back down into the hall. Looking about, he located Nicolae, and went to him. He glanced
pointedly at the hand on Nicolae’s leg, then turned hard eyes on the young man who owned the
offending member. He withdrew hastily. Nicolae did not notice this silent exchange, and was startled
when Simion spoke to him. "Nicolae, you’ve had enough. You are not used to spirits, and your head
and belly will rebuke you tomorrow if you continue."
He set aside the goblet. "Yes, Simion."
"You should go to your room. YOUR room."
"Yes, of course." He got up, swaying slightly, and Simion took his elbow.
Leading him a few paces away, he said softly, "Make your goodnights, Nicolae. I do not think the
prince will be long with his new bride." He looked searchingly into the boy’s eyes. *How much do I
need to tell him? How much has the prince said? Surely my lord has explained things to him by now.*
"Do you understand?" Nicolae nodded, and Simion gave his arm a squeeze before going back up to the
little group waiting outside Elizabeta’s room.
After Simion left, Nicolae stood for a moment, eyes closed in thought. The prince would go to
Elizabeta, and after that... *After that, there will be no place in his life for me.*
He remembered the feel of Draculea’s hands on his body, the softness of his lips against his throat, the
hot urgency in his voice as he whispered to him. He remembered the shock of sensation as the prince’s
hardened flesh slid in the crease of his buttocks, and the shivering flash of pleasure as it had rubbed
over the tiny pucker that marked the entrance to his body. At the moment that had happened, Nicolae
had been seized by an almost overwhelming urge to push back. He had felt an aching emptiness that
he somehow knew only Draculea could fill. And Draculea himself had promised that. "Not now.
Soon," he had said. But now...
Tomorrow, or the next day he would have to return to Castle Varga. He knew that Ernestu would not
wait till he reached his home to take what he wanted. The first night they were on the road he would
call the boy to his tent. Nicolae shuddered as he contemplated what would happen. The idea of
Ernestu’s hands, plump, but somehow still hard and hurtful, roaming his body as Vlad’s had done
made him ill.
"Librarian!" Nicolae turned back to see the young men watching him. One gestured, "Come, sit."
Nicolae shook his head. "I have to go."
"Surely you won’t seek your bed so early? Your LONELY bed." There were chuckles at the
suggestion in his tone.
Nicolae only shook his head again and repeated softly, "I have to go."
In his room he stripped off the wedding finery, then donned the simple clothes in which he had
traveled, murmuring to himself, "I have to go. I HAVE to."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Upstairs, Simion went to Draculea’s room, ignoring the other three men clustered outside the bridal
chamber. Draculea was in a simple dark robe, pacing restlessly. His eyes glittered with anticipation,
and Simion knew well enough that it was not for the woman waiting at the other end of the private
hall. He stopped when his servant entered, and said, "Well?"
"As you thought, my lord. The lordlings were amusing themselves by making him drunk. I do not
think it would have gone any further, though. They show more wit than some of their elders. I sent him
to his room."
Draculea frowned, then shrugged. "Perhaps it is just as well if he has drunk a bit. It will make him
more relaxed." There was no need to discuss why this was a good thing. Even the gentlest, most
patient deflowering could be... uncomfortable. "The good thing about being with Elizabeta first is that
I should be able to hold back longer with Nicolae."
"How soon shall I bring him to you after you return here?"
Draculea thought. "An hour. Give those old fools time to repare to their rooms and settle in. I wouldn’t
want the boy embarrassed by being seen coming to me so soon after I said my vows." He walked to
the door that opened into the private hall. Putting his hand on the knob, he paused, sighing. "Well, I
think I’ve made a bad bargain with Beta, Simion. The only good thing about this marriage, I fear, will
be that it brought Nicolae to me." He smiled. "But that is a GREAT good thing." Simion went out into
the hall to join the others as Draculea entered the little hall.
There were candles burning in the wall sconces, left by efficient servants. There was no fear of fire
here, as the hallway was nothing but stone, with no paneling, tapestries, or rugs. Draculea walked the
short distance to the door that led to his bride’s room, and paused.
Now that the moment had come, the idea was distasteful. Oh, not disgusting, as his congress with
Ernestu had been, but it was nothing that he wanted or needed. Still, it had to be done. Custom had to
be satisfied, even if he were not.
*Best to get this finished as quickly as possible,* he thought. *The girl, if she is anything like the
others of her rank, will know nothing about pleasing a man, and will care even less about learning.*
Draculea reached down and cupped his sex through the robe. It was quiescent, and he sighed again. He
stroked himself a few times, but there was little response. He looked down at himself ruefully,
muttering, "So shy?" A few more strokes brought little more response, only a very slight thickening.
*Yes, I know. You are reluctant. But think of what we will have when this duty is done. Think of
Nicolae.*
He did, remembering the taste of the boy’s skin and the soft brush of his hair against Vlad’s cheek as
he had leant trustingly against him in the spring. His staff began to fill with blood as he stroked it
gently, imagining that it was Nicolae’s hands on his hardening flesh. So far there had been only those
few brief, drugged caresses that first night and the hesitant bathing on their journey, but now... *Now
he will love me. He will not be afraid, and he will touch me and give himself to me.*
Draculea’s hand moved faster. He looked down to find that he was fully erect, his eager prick tenting
the front of his robe and leaving a damp patch on the cloth. *Now we are ready.*
He entered the room. It was dimly lit by a good fire, and a few candles. It was empty save for his
bride, her attendants having readied her and left. Lena had lingered the longest, giving her charge a
brief, passionate kiss when the others were gone, saying, "Courage, my pet! He is only a man, so it
will not last long. When he is done, tell him you are weary and ask that you be allowed this first night
alone. I will come to you..." She stroked one small breast, "and soothe your hurts." Thus Lena
increased Beta’s dread of the coming act, while holding herself forth as a comforter.
Elizabeta lay in her great bed, dressed in the gown that had awaited this night since she was a small
girl. She and her ladies had spent many hours stitching and embroidering dainty garments for her
wedding. It was such a pity that there was no one to truly appreciate them. Her dark hair had been
woven into a thick braid, and hung over her shoulder. She watched her new husband approach, her
eyes huge and dark. *Like Nicu’s,* Draculea thought. *But not like his. His are warm when they look
at me.*
He stood beside the bed. "Lady. Are you ready?"
Elizabeta sat very straight, and said stiffly, "I am prepared to do my duty, my lord."
Draculea smiled ruefully. "Child, I have seen men go to the headsman with more good will." He
tugged lightly on her braid. "I cannot promise you great joy. But I will be as gentle as I can, and as
quick as I may."
Elizabeta cast her eyes down. "I thank you, my lord. I confess that I am more than a little
apprehensive."
"You know what will happen?" It was not unheard of for women of Elizabeta’s class and tender age to
be totally ignorant of the ways of sex.
She nodded. "My maid told me, some time ago. It sounds..." She trailed off, making a face.
"This is Abul you speak of?" Beta nodded again. "Yes, I can well imagine." Draculea pulled the robe
over his head, dropping it on the foot of the bed.
Elizabeta did not exactly gasp, but she drew in her breath sharply. The drawings that Lena had shown
her did not prepare her for the living embodiment. She knew that The Staff was actually larger than the
prince’s sex, but somehow it did not seem so. The fact that Draculea was warm, living flesh seemed to
impart a greater stature.
"Beta, there must be wetness for the union to be as painless as possible. Do you want me to try to draw
it from you, or would you prefer that I use oil? That will be quicker, and surer. I could try to prepare
you, but..." He shrugged. "There is no guarantee. You are young, and very nervous."
Beta knew that Lena had no trouble making her wet. She could have her sex dripping with juice with
only a few caresses, but the idea of Draculea doing the same revolted her. "The oil, please."
"Sensible girl." Draculea took the small bottle that had been left on the table beside the bed and poured
a generous dribble over his erection, rubbing it in thoroughly. Then he coated his fingers, and climbed
into the bed with the girl.
She stiffened, and he said, "Beta, try to relax. It will be much more painful if you do not, for both of
us."
She regarded him in surprise. "For you?"
He smiled. "The bit of flesh I will be using is sensitive, Beta. It can be like battering myself. Spread
your legs."
She lay back on the pillow and did as he bade her. Draculea reached up under her gown and found the
tangle of curls between her legs. *Huh. Nicolae’s is softer than this.* The thought of Nicolae brought
another pulse of blood to his staff, and he quickly stroked the oil down the crease of Beta’s sex, then
probed till he located the tiny slit. "I will open you a little first, Beta."
She gritted her teeth as he eased a finger up inside her. Lena had done this before, of course. How slim
and elegant her fingers seemed in comparison to this.
*It is good that I used the oil. She is as dry as dust. It’s rather a pity that neither one of us is going to
enjoy this.* Vlad moved his hand carefully, but there was scant softening or loosening. Finally he gave
up on waiting, and forced a second finger inside. The girl seemed to clench even tighter, giving a
small, complaining moan. "I am sorry."
"Please, prince. Just do it and be done."
Suddenly Vlad lost patience. "As you wish, lady." He pulled free, jerked her gown up around her
waist, and rolled on top of her. The girl made a startled noise, and he quickly braced himself to take
most of his weight off her. He reached down between them, positioning the weeping head of his prick
at the narrow opening, and said, "Breathe deeply. I will be quick."
He thrust forward, not brutally, but firmly. He intended to breach her maidenhead in one stroke, and he
succeeded. The thin membrane split before the fleshy intruder, and the unused walls of her sex were
rudely forced apart as Draculea buried himself in her body. She shrieked in shock and pain. Out in the
hall, the three older men looked at each other with solemn nods. Simion, behind them, rolled his eyes.
Draculea moved quickly, pumping into the girl with short, strong strokes. It would have been less
painful for her if he had gone more slowly, but neither one of them wanted to prolong this act. It lasted
only a very few minutes, but that seemed an infinity to Beta. The hard flesh moving over her and in
her brought no pleasure.
Soon Draculea gave one last, hard thrust and went still. She felt the scalding wash of his seed with
relief, knowing that it meant her ordeal was almost at an end.
Draculea pulled free of her clasp quickly, having no desire to linger. He rested beside her for a
moment, watching as she quickly pulled her gown back down. She said nothing, so he felt no need to
speak. At last he got up and took a folded piece of white cloth from the table. He used it to wipe
himself clean, then donned his robe once again. Finally he lifted the sheet once again, saying, "We
need proof for the legal vultures who hover in the hall, lady."
Reaching under Beta’s gown, he wiped the cloth the length of her slit. Then he went to the door to the
outer hall and opened it. The lawyers and Ernestu looked at him expectantly. The prince threw the
cloth at Ernestu, who caught it, startled. He handed it to his lawyer, who opened it. He and Stefan bent
over it, examining it. It was thickly stained with blood and semen. They nodded, looking back at the
prince. Stefan said, "The marriage has been consummated." The official pronouncement had been
made.
Draculea bowed to them ironically, and shut the door, then went back to Beta’s bed. Elizabeta was
trying to think of how to best ask him to leave her for the night when he bent and dropped a
disinterested kiss on her forehead. "I will leave you to your rest. I will also give you a few days to
recover before I visit you again. Pleasant dreams, Beta. I hope you will be happy in your new life."
Beta watched him go, just a bit disconcerted. *But,* she told herself, *I am HAPPY he did not wish to
stay.* She settled back to wait for Lena to come to her.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 22: Part 22: Mating

Author’s Notes: Pairing: Vlad/Nicolae (yes, finally)
Summary: Vlad misunderstands Nicolae’s attempt to flee, but all turns out well.
Author’s Notes: This could have turned out badly for both of them. See, children, why we should
communicate?

The Prince’s Wedding Night
When Draculea shut the door to the bridal chamber once again, Simion left the murmuring trio in the
hallway. Draculea had said to give him an hour before bringing Nicolae to his room, but Simion
wanted a chance to have a talk with the boy. He had a feeling that his master still had not made the
situation clear to Nicolae, and he did not want to send the boy in unprepared. He knew that Nicolae
was attracted to Draculea, and that there had been some small dealings between them, but...
*But my prince has not fully taken him yet, and that opens a whole different world. I expect he has
little idea of what will happen, and it must be a bit frightening for him. A few words may ease his
fears.* Simion smiled to himself. *He’s had a glimpse or two, but he’ll be finding his true nature
tonight.*
Nicolae was not in his room. Simion frowned, but decided that the boy still might not have felt safe
there. So he went back to his own room, but it was empty also. Feeling a tickle of unease, he went to
the library, even though Nicolae had not been shown to it before. Draculea was reserving that pleasure
for himself, and there had not yet been time.
The great room was chill and dim, the shelves of books and papers towering along the walls that rose
two stories on every side. There was a smell of dry dust and disuse in the air, and Simion reflected
briefly that it would change, now that the place had a keeper.
*Where else? Surely he wasn’t still hungry?* Even so, Simion checked the kitchen. The few scullery
maids tiredly washing the last of the dishes shook their heads when he asked after Nicolae. No, no one,
noble or otherwise had come there.
The unease was rising to alarm now, and the hour’s time was running out. There were still a few
drunken young nobles before the fire. One of them, an ambitious pup, was sitting on Ernestu’s lap, his
arms around his neck. Simion grimaced in distaste, and decided that he must watch this one. If he was
hungry enough for advance to endure the fumblings of a pig like Varga, he might prove either useful
or dangerous.
Simion stopped before them and said, "Gentlemen, have you seen Calugarul, the librarian?"
They all shook their heads. Ernestu, his hand moving in the loose, open shirt of the youth on his lap,
said sullenly, "He left after you spoke to him." His eyes glinted maliciously. "I expect he’s found some
bed to warm." Such a remark would usually have won chuckles from the decadent group, but now they
only exchanged nervous glances. The man was a fool, speaking so about the prince’s favorite to the
prince’s closest confidant.
Simion turned away without reply. He knew well enough that, even in the unlikely event that Nicolae
had sought out someone else, the other few guests left in the castle were unlikely to have been foolish
enough to accept his advances. There was still one possibility. Perhaps the boy had gone for a walk
outside to clear his head after his unaccustommed drinking.
Simion went outside and quickly searched the courtyard, and the stables. The boy was nowhere.
Thunder rumbled overhead, heralding an approaching storm, and Simion worried. It would be a
violent storm, from the sound of it, and he did not like to think of the boy outside when it finally
arrived.
The appointed hour had elapsed, and still he had not found Nicolae. A group of lower servants were
sitting near the gate, drinking ale from a small keg that had been provided in celebration of the
prince’s wedding. They were all more than half drunk, but they were the only ones who might have
seen Nicolae. Simion went to them.
When the men saw Prince Draculea’s man approaching, they struggled to their feet. Two of them tried
to clutch each other for support, and ended up dragging each other to the ground once again. The
other’s swayed unsteadily. Simion said, "Have you seen a boy come from the castle? A dark haired
youth, tall and slender, with dark eyes?"
They thought, scratching their heads and beards. Finally one said slowly and uncertainly, "Aye, there
were one what came from t’ castle a bit before now." He looked at his companions for confirmation,
and received drunken nods. "Near purty as a girl, he were. Ast him to sit an’ share a pint, but he jus’
kep’ sayin’ he ’ad to go." A shrug. "An’ he left."
Simion was horrified. "You just let him walk off into the night by himself?"
The man frowned. "I ain’t been told to hold no one. Figgered he were a guest off to home, or else a
young lord goin’ to the festival in the village to look for a bit o’ sport." He nudged a friend, who
almost fell over. "Plenty o’ sport to be had tonight. Why?" He tried to straighten. His tankard tipped,
spilling ale. "You need us to go find ’im for some reason?"
No, that wouldn’t do at all. It was known that Draculea was interested in the boy, but it was one of
those things that was not spoken of too freely in public. "No, go back to your celebrating."
Simion headed back into the castle, beyond simple worry and moving into dread. What in God’s name
was the boy thinking? Hadn’t he known that Draculea would send for him shortly? Simion hadn’t
actually said as much, but surely he had known, surely he could guess...
Simion stopped with a groan. *Why surely? I know how the boy was raised, and how little the world
has touched him. If he was not told, how was he to know that Draculea has made a place for him here,
and intends to keep him, and cherish him?*
There was no other course of action left open to him. Draculea would have to be told that his young
lover had run away. Simion started for the prince’s room, hoping that Draculea would not react
without stopping to think. If he gave free reign to his emotions instead of listening to reason, then
Simion greatly feared for Nicolea. Draculea had been more patient than Simion would have ever
imagined, but that patience was worn thin. He wanted the boy with a hunger that bordered on
obsession. And to be denied now, when he was so close...
He never got to Draculea’s room. The prince met him at the top of the grand staircase. He was dressed
in simple clothes that looked hastily donned. His dark, wavy hair was disarrayed, as if he had run his
hands through it in distraction, and his expression indicated this could well be true. He looked pale and
distraught. Simion saw that he was holding the dark red shirt that Nicolae had worn earlier.
Draculea’s voice was hoarse. "You didn’t come, Simion, and I became impatient. I went for him
myself. He’s not there. Where is he?" Simion hesitated, unsure of how to break the news to Draculea.
There was a very real old saying about those who killed the bearer of bad tidings. Simion did not fear
for his life, but he knew very well that, in his anger, Draculea could strike out before getting control of
himself.
Draculea saw his hesitation. "He isn’t with Varga." His voice was very soft. But then, Simon thought,
death can come with a whisper as well as a shout.
"No, my lord. Varga amuses himself with an ambitious noble in the great hall."
"Then where..." His face tightened, and Simion watched with alarm as a fire kindled in his eyes. "He’s
gone." He grabbed Simion’s arm, and the older man winced as iron fingers bit into his flesh. "Hasn’t
he?"
"Yes, my lord. Men at the gate saw him leave but a little while ago. He cannot have gone far."
Draculea released him, and Simion rubbed at the already bruising flesh. He watched, concerned, as the
tall man swayed slightly, all color draining from his face. There was a tearing sound, and Simion
looked down. Draculea had ripped the shirt in half, seemingly unconscious of what his own hands had
done. Simion’s eyes flashed to Draculea’s face in alarm. Vlad’s teeth were bared, and his handsome
face was set in hard, cold lines, but his eyes burned. "He left me."
"Domn, no! It is not like that, I am sure. Let me go for him. I will bring him back to you. I am sure that
all that is needed is a few words, a bit of explaining..."
The eyes Draculea turned on him were frighteningly lifeless, for all their heat. "He--left--me!" Then he
was gone, racing down the steps and throwing open the door.
Simion rushed after him. He did not call out: in this state, it was doubtful that Draculea would have
heard him, but someone else might have. He knew where his lord was going, and prayed he would be
in time at least to delay him long enough to let him cool down a bit.
But he was almost run down by Lucifer as the great black beast burst from the stables, Draculea
clinging to his back. The horse shied at his nearness, rising on its hind legs to paw the air with a shrill
whinny. Draculea stayed fast on the plunging animal, despite the fact that he had no saddle, only a
rough piece of leather that looked like a stableboy’s cloak thrown over the beast’s back. Simion called,
"Prince, please! Let me go! Return and wait!"
"No, Simion. He’s mine, I will retrieve him. And if you value your life, do not follow. This matter
concerns no one but Nicolae and myself." Then he dug his heels into Lucifer’s sides, and the horse
leapt away, thundering out the gate past the men who watched in stupefaction. They were so drunk
that for years to come they would tell of how they had seen the devil ride out on Prince Draculea’s
wedding night.
Draculea flew down the road, driving Lucifer through the darkness. Normally the road would have
been bright with moonlight, but it was pitch black tonight. Not a singe star winked overhead: all were
blanketed by angry black-purple storm clouds. The only illumination came from the lightning that
laced the clouds in ever more frequent flashes. The wind was rising into cold gusts, and even the
revelers in the nearby village and the estates of the prince began to seek refuge wherever they might. It
was whispered that it was an ill omen to have such a storm on a wedding night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nicolae paused as thunder boomed almost over his head. The storm was going to be a bad one, and he
needed to find shelter. In the brief flash of lightning, he saw a small cottage up ahead by the side of the
road. No light gleamed around the edge of the door, and he knew that the owners were probably either
at the castle or in the village, roistering. He could take refuge there, and probably leave before they
returned. Surely no one would be moving about in the coming storm, but would stay wherever they
were.
He took a few steps toward the cottage, but stopped again, listening. There had been something
different about that last grumble of thunder. It hadn’t stopped. It was continuing, and it was growing
closer. *No, not thunder. Hoofbeats.* Feeling the fear welling up inside him, he gazed back up the
road.
At first he saw nothing. Then there was the barest hint of something, black moving on black. Another
bolt of lightning split the sky with a crash. In that second the land was illuminated as bright as day,
and Nicolae saw the approaching rider. At the distance he might not have seen the man’s face, but
there was no mistaking the huge ebony stallion: Lucifer. And there could be only one man the beast
would allow to drive him with such violent kicks. "Draculea," Nicolae whispered.
He felt numb. He had been found out, and the prince was angry that he was trying to escape his new
in-law’s service. Nicolae knew that there were harsh penalties for any man or woman legally bound to
another who tried to escape. It was not the law he feared, though, but only what Ernestu would do now
that he actually had an excuse to abuse him.
As Draculea approached, part of Nicolae’s mind screamed at him to run, to bolt for the forest on the
other side of the road. There he might be able to lose his pursuer, or hide in some cave or hollow. But
he couldn’t move. *What is the point? I could never escape him.* The boy watched sadly as his
destiny raced toward him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was there, standing beside the road. He didn’t try to run, or hide. Beneath his anger, this puzzled
Vlad. He was fleeing: why did he not continue?
When he neared the boy, Draculea hauled back on the reins, and Lucifer skidded to a stop, dancing
madly in excitement. Nicolea moved then, cringing back from the near maddened beast in alarm.
Draculea thought, *You need not fear HIM, boy. You have other things to fear.*
He threw himself off, landing neatly in a near crouch, and Lucifer skittered over to stand beside the
cottage, his sides heaving. For a moment Draculea looked at Nicolae. Then he straightened up and
came toward him. Still the boy did not flee.
Draculea regarded the boy. NIcolae’s eyes were downcast. At last the prince said, "You ran."
The boy’s head drooped even lower, and his voice was meek. "I am sorry, my lord."
"Sorry?" He grabbed Nicolae’s hair, jerking hard so that his head was forced back, and Draculea put
his other hand on Nicolae’s throat. His voice hissed. "You APOLOGISE to me, boy? You think that
will be enough to right what you have done?"
"It is all I can offer, Domn."
He pulled harder, till the boy’s neck was arched sharply, and he squeezed lightly, till Nicolae gasped.
"No, Nicu. You have much more to offer. Much more." A cold raindrop splashed on the hand that
gripped the unresisting boy’s neck, and Draculea seemed for the first time aware of the approaching
storm. "But not out here."
He looked around, and spotted the cottage that Nicolae had seen earlier. He released the young man
with a shove, pushing him toward the building. "Go inside and wait for me." As Nicolae went to obey,
he led Lucifer to the small open shed that stood beside the house and tethered him in its shelter. It
wasn’t as warm or comfortable as his stables, but Lucifer was a war horse: he was as used to hardship
as his master.
Draculea went to the cottage. Inside, he saw that Nicolae had lit a lamp, setting it on the mantle of the
fireplace. Vlad looked around the structure quickly. It was no different than most houses of the time:
nothing more than one large room, with different areas for different things. There was a decent enough
bed in one corner, and he saw with satisfaction that it had sheets, which even appeared to be clean.
He looked at the boy waiting quietly beside the crude table, and turned, dropping the bar in place
across the door. Then he turned back to Nicolae, voice toneless, and said, "We will not be disturbed till
this business between us is finished."
He walked to Nicolae and stood before him. When he lifted his rigid palm to the boy, Nicolae merely
flinched and did not try to evade the blow he saw coming, making Draculea hesitate.
*I can’t beat him. God help me, I can’t mark him like Varga did, even if he does toy with my heart.
But I WILL have him tonight. Nothing will stop me: neither Heaven nor Hell.*
He grabbed the back of Nicolae’s neck, his hand hard, and ripped the front of his shirt away with one
vicious pull. The boy gasped, eyes going wide. "Why, Nicolae? Tell me why you ran."
"I... I was afraid, Domn."
He removed the remains of the shirt with impatient jerks. "Afraid? Damn, boy, what have I done for
you to fear me before this night?," he growled. "I have shown you nothing but kindness, nothing but
gentleness and care." His heart should have been hardened by now, but when tears welled up in those
dark, slanted eyes, he felt a stab of pain.
"Yes, Domn. You have been so good to me, more than I could ever deserve. That was why I had to
go."
"Madness!" Draculea snarled. With his grip on Nicolae’s neck, he threw the boy face down on the bed.
Then, before Nicolae could move or arrange himself, he turned him onto his back, pulling him up to
lie full length on the straw stuffed mattress. Then Draculea swiftly straddled him on his hands and
knees. "You’ve made me mad, too, librarian. What can I do but give in to this insanity?"
He bent and kissed the boy roughly. No gentle coaxing this time. Draculea’s mouth moved hungrily on
Nicolae’s, forcing his lips open so that his tongue could sweep inside. The boy made a pitiful sound
that might have been protest, or pleading. Draculea ignored it. His hands moved to the boy’s chest, his
thumbs stroking hard over the soft nipples. He rubbed, his fingers digging into the flesh at his sides as
he plundered the boy’s mouth.
Nicolae’s hands fluttered up, but he did not try to push Draculea away. They settled against his
shoulders, stroking timidly. When Vlad pulled up a bit to breath, the boy gasped, "Please, Vlad."
Draculea froze. *My name, he called me by my name.* No one in his adult life, save his father, had
ever dared call him that. It broke through the haze of angry lust that had possessed him, and he truly
listened to what the boy said next.
"Do not send me away. Let me stay and be your servant."
"Send you away? What do you mean?"
"Please, master." He stroked Draculea’s cheek timidly. "I can care for your library, make it the finest
in the land, and I ask nothing. Only... only do not send me back to my father."
"Varga? Nicolae..." he hesitated, a feeling of dismay washing over him. "You thought you were to go
back with him?"
Nicolae nodded. "Please, Domn. I will die. Either he will kill me, or I will commit self-murder from
despair."
Draculea closed his eyes. "Blessed Virgin, I am a fool."
His voice was bitter, and Nicolae said hesitantly, "Domn?"
"You said outside that you ran because I had been kind to you. What did you mean, Nicolae?"
The boy turned his face away, unable to look in Draculea’s eyes. "I had never known such tenderness
before, master. To go from that to my father’s doubtful mercies... I could not bear it."
"But why did you think you would be sent away?"
Nicolae looked at him in surprise. "You have Beta now."
"Nicolae, did you think you were a substitute? Did you think that I pleasured myself with you only
because I did not yet have her?"
His voice was small. "She is your wife."
"Nicolae," He took his chin, forcing the boy to meet his eyes, and said deliberately, "Beta may be my
wife, but YOU are my MATE. It is YOU I want." He kissed him again, gently this time. "It is you I
love."
"Love?" The bewilderment in Nicolae’s voice made Vlad ache. Nicolae’s eyes searched his anxiously.
Draculea returned his gaze steadily, letting the boy see the truth of his feelings. Finally the worry
drained slowly away, leaving a soft wonder. "You... love me?"
"More than my own life, little one. When I thought you had left me..." He dropped his head on
Nicolae’s chest. "Forgive me, Nicolae. Can you love me, just a little?"
He felt the gentle, long fingered hands move through his hair. Nicolae whispered, "How could I not
love you?"
Draculea sighed as the boy ran his hands over his back, stroking slowly. "You will return with me,
Nicu. You will stay with me."
"Yes, my lord."
Draculea looked up at him. "You called me by my given name before. Say it again."
He smiled up at him. "Vlad. My Vlad."
"Yes. Yours."
Nicolae reached up and pulled Draculea down for another kiss. This time his tongue shyly touched the
older man’s lips. Draculea opened his mouth eagerly, inviting him inside with a flick of his own
tongue. Nicolae was hesitant at first, barely daring to touch but soon, with Draculea’s obvious pleasure
in his actions, he grew bolder . He licked almost delicately into his lover’s mouth. learning his taste.
Draculea was still on his hands and knees over the boy. Now Nicolae put an arm around his waist and
pulled him down till he lay on top of him. He spread his legs so that Draculea settled between his
thighs, bringing their groins together. Vlad moaned quietly, and humped against the boy. He reached
between them, cupping his hands over Nicolae’s sex.
The boy was soft, but as Draculea touched him he gave a shuddering sigh and pushed up into his hand.
Again he spoke the words he had said the first time Draculea had held him, and this time there was no
drug clouding his mind. "Love me." He pushed again, and Draculea felt the first thickening. "Please."
"Oh, God, Nicu, I want to. But I have nothing to ease the way, my darling. I don’t want to hurt you."
He craned his neck and bit very softly, his teeth rasping at the hinge of Draculea’s jaw. "Please Vlad. I
don’t care. I need you."
Draculea moved his hips, rubbing their arousals together. "This will be enough, till I can get you back
to the castle."
He was surprised when the boy shook his head. "No! There is more, I know there is more."
"Yes, pet, there is more." He bent his head and found Nicolae’s nipple. The little bud was hard, and he
kissed it, then drew it into his mouth to suckle. Nicolae arched to him, sighing. Draculea released the
morsel of flesh with a tender bite. His hands slid under Nicolea, and he cupped his buttocks. "Here. Do
you remember the first night, when I used my hands to
pleasure you that way?"
"I... a little, master. But there is MORE."
"Yes. When you are ready, I will mount you, Nicu. We will truly be joined then, in flesh as well as in
spirit."
Nicolae clutched at his shoulders. "I want that!"
"Nicolae, no, not now. I want your first time to be special."
"It will. It cannot be anything less than that if I am with you. Please, domn. I ache. I feel so empty. Fill
me."
"Nicolae, please..."
Nicolae grabbed his head, stared into his eyes, and said very deliberately. "I want you to fuck me."
Draculea shivered. He had been hard, but now... Hearing the obscene plea from the sweetly innocent
boy, he grew still more rigid. Nicolea saw his response, and knew that he was weakening in his
resolve. He continued quickly, "Give me your staff, my lord. I want to feel you inside me. I want to
feel you moving, feel the heat and hardness of your flesh plunging into me. I want to feel your seed..."
With a groan Draculea began to strip off his clothes. Nicolae helped as best he could. When Draculea
was naked, he removed the last of Nicolae’s garments, and began running his hands over the boy’s
smooth skin. "I still must prepare you, Nicu. Since I have no oil, there is only one way left. Get up on
your hands and knees."
Nicolae rolled onto his belly, then pushed up onto his hands and knees. He felt Draculea grip his
buttocks again. This time he spread them, and his thumbs brushed down the crease. Nicolae jerked
slightly when he felt a fingertip caress the puckered opening that guarded his back passage.
"Easy, Nicu. You must be easy. Let me help you." Draculea bent forward. Nicolae groaned as he felt
the soft wetness of his lover’s tongue on the sensetive, crinkled flesh. Draculea kneaded the firm flesh
of Nicolae’s rump as he licked steadily, feeling the tight, muscular ring begin to relax. He pressed
forward determinedly, working his tongue into the narrow passage, and relishing the soft noises that
the boy made. The taste of Nicolae’s flesh was earthy, but somehow clean. He pushed hard with his
tongue, driving it in and out, mimicking the action he would soon perform with his sex.
After a few moments, Draculea pulled back and spat into his hand, then rubbed it on the twitching
entrance. "Breathe, Nicu." He put one finger to the boy’s anus, and pushed firmly. It slid in slowly.
"Oh." Nicolae’s exclaimation was breathy, and Vlad stopped, his finger buried deep.
"Are you all right, my love?"
"Yes. More, please."
Draculea kissed his back. "Patience, my pet. Get used to this first." He moved his hand, pushing in and
out slowly, and Nicolae hummed softyly, beginning to thrust back to meet him. Draculea laughed.
"You like that, my sweet little wanton." He added a second finger, and the boy almost purred. "Oh,
Nicu." Draculea worked his fingers, carefully stretching the resilient ring of muscle. Reaching under
the boy, his other hand found the stiff prick that angled up along his belly, and he stroked it.
Nicolae groaned. What his lover was doing made him ache a little, but it was a sweet pain that melded
into pleasure, and he wanted even more. He protested when Draculea removed his fingers, but Vlad
said, "Wait." He rubbed his fingers over the head of Nicolae’s sex, gathering the slick moisture that
oozed from the slit, then did the same to his own straining sex. He returned his fingers,and this time,
with the added slickness, pressed three fingers into the willing hole.
Nicolae tried to impale himself even deeper, pleading, "Now, master, please! I burn."
"Your legs, Nicu. Spread your legs." Draculea’s voice was hoarse as he once again pulled free. The
boy quickly parted his knees, bracing them wide, and looked back over his shoulder eagerly. He
watched as Draculea got onto his knees and moved up between his legs. He put one hand on Nicolae’s
ass, once again spreading the cheeks. With the other he he gripped his sex and fitted the swollen,
weeping head against the loosened ring.
Draculea pushed, spreading the entrance and moving forward till the bulbous head of his organ pushed
past the guarding ring and was swallowed in Nicolae’s body. He paused, feeling the boy trembling,
and wanting to give him time to adjust.
But Nicolae had waited too long, and could not bear a delay. He thrust backwards, hard, and
Draculea’s thick staff slid deep. The boy cried out as his virgin passage was breached, the narrow,
clinging walls of flesh spread apart. He paused, panting raggedly, sweat forming on his brow.
Draculea was very still, fighting desperately not to spend himself while still only half inside his lover.
"You’re so tight, Nicu, and so warm."
"Please, lord. I... I can’t do any more. You must be the one."
In reply Draculea gripped the boy’s hips tightly, tilting them a little higher, and moved forward with a
strong, steady pressure. He slid in slowly, and Nicolae whined as the firm head rubbed over a tiny spot
deep inside, sending out a hot flare of pleasure. Draculea noted the point where the boy reacted,
tucking the information away safely for Nicolae’s future pleasure, and began to stroke into the boy.
At first he moved slowly and gently, mindful that this act could cause pain as well as ecstasy. Once
Nicolae became acquainted with the novel sensation of something moving inside him, he relaxed a
little more, and Draculea could penetrate more easily. He mostly stayed buried deep, not wanting to
cause fresh pain with forcing the passage to close, and open again. But every few strokes he drew back
far enogh to pass over the boy’s anal gland, making him jerk and whimper with need.
Nicolae was moaning continuously now. "Please, please, oh master. So good." He thrust back again.
"Harder!"
Drauclea answered his plea with a growl, slamming his loins against the boy’s buttocks. Nicolae
shrieked in pleasure, his own hips working, frantically fucking empty space. Again Draculea bent and
caught hold of his bobbing prick, stroking him in time to his thrusts.
The prince felt the boy’s orgasm approaching first in the way that the sleek internal muscles rippled
along his buried shaft. Then Nicolae gasped, "Vlad! I die..." and reached climax. His essence spurted
from his sex in thick white streams, coating the hand that caressed him, slicking it so that it slid even
more easily over his sensitized flesh.
Draculea pulled free of his body, and Nicolae cried out, "No! It can’t be over. Vlad, you haven’t spent
yet. Give me your seed, I need it!"
"Yes, little one, but not like this." He grasped the boy around the middle and flipped him onto his back
again. Nicolae gazed up at him with lust glazed eyes. Draculea loomed over him, face flushed, body
sheened with sweat, cock jutting lewdly from the tangle of dark hair at his groin. Nicolae licked his
lips unconsciously. The prick was huge, glistening with his own body’s moisture and the clear passion
liquid that dripped from its tip.
Draculea gripped his knees and lifted, pushing them back. Nicolae realized what he was doing, and
willingly lifted his legs to brace them over his lover’s shoulders, opening himself for the mounting.
With no hesitation this time Vlad thrust into him again. This time the way was open, and he slid all the
way in smoothly, and began to ride the boy hard.
"I want to see your face...," Vlad panted. "Your eyes, your beautiful eyes."
Nicolae gave him that, never looking away or turning his head as Draculea drove into him. His cock
had softened only a little. Now, with the astonishing resilience of youth, it was full and hard again. As
the other man fucked him, he reached down to grasp himself, jerking the turgid flesh. "Come, my
lover," he crooned to the man working over him.
Unable to any longer resist the sweet, hot grip of Nicolae’s body and the whispered urging, Draculea
let go and plunged to his own release. He shuddered as he let loose jets of hot semen, bathing the
tender flesh that enfolded him. When he felt the liquid bursts deep in his rectum, Nicolae cried out in
release and triumph, and came again. It was no more than a weak
dribble, but it was intense, despite that. He felt drained in more ways than one.
Draculea pulled out of Nicolae and sat heavily on the bed, then pulled the boy up onto his lap and held
him, burying his face against his pulsing throat, whispering, "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful..."
Nicolae leaned over him, draping over his body in a half-trance of satiation. At last he murmured, "We
can do this again?"
Draculea chuckled. "Not right away, boy. I am not so young as you are."
Nicolae sighed. "No, I meant to speak of the future. We can do this again, in days to come? I will stay
with you, and you will love me like this... often?"
Draculea sat up, kissing him. "As often as I can will this mortal flesh to perform, boy."
Nicolae smiled blindingly. "I will pray for you, my prince."
Draculea laughed helplessly. But he felt a wetness on his thighs, and reached down to pass a hand over
the boy’s rump, trailing his fingers down his crease. Nicolae winced slightly. When Draculea looked at
his fingers, they bore traces of his own seed... and blood. He sighed. "Oh, Nicu. I’m sorry. I didn’t
want to hurt you, my treasure."
Nicolae kissed him. "Do not apologize, beloved. It is fitting."
Puzzled, Draculea frowned. "Fitting? How so?"
With a yawn Nicolae cuddled even closer in his arms and said sleepily, "I have heard that all honest
brides bleed on their wedding night."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 23: Chapter 23: New Union

Disclaimer: Major characters and concepts (besides Nicolae) belong to Bram Stoker.
Summary: Vlad brings Nicolae back home, and prepares to exterminate a vermin.
Author’s Notes: Yes, I know you’re anxious to see Ernestu get his. Next episode, I promise. I could
have gone ahead and done it now, but it deserves its own chapter. I want to give it special attention. :)
Before you think Draculea was a piker for leaving the peasant one coin to pay for the use of his house
and the shirt, remember that it was not uncommon for the
peasants of this time to go their entire life without actually touching real money. Most things in their
class was done on the barter level.
Child of the NIght, Part 23: New Union

The Day After the Wedding
Draculea’s Estates, Romania
Vlad came awake slowly. Half-awake, he analyzed his environment. It was always good to know what
you were waking up into: sometimes your life depended on it. He was in a bed, but it was not the
great, luxurious bed of his castle. The sheets were a little coarse, not the silken ones he was used to,
when he had sheets at all.
But the single most important thing about this awakening was the body curled half over him. One
long, bare lag was thrown over his own, two firm arms were twined about his neck. He felt the soft
tickle of hair on his chest, and the warm, moist puff of measured breath. A sense of peace and joy
settled over him. "Nicu."
It was a whisper, barely spoken, but the body stirred against his own, and a sleepy voice said,
"Master?"
Draculea lifted Nicolae’s head and planted a lingering kiss on lips that were still a little swollen from
earlier kisses. The boy’s eyes had been shut, now they drifted open to gaze at him solemnly. Then a
slow, sweet smile broke over his face, and he dipped his head to nuzzle at Draculea’s neck. "I fell
asleep."
"I know. So did I."
"I wanted to stay awake."
"Why, Nicu?"
"Just to be with you."
Draculea stroked the silky hair, sifting the dark strands through his fingers. "You will be with me
always, Nicu. You can sleep safely."
"Our time is so short on this earth, Vlad. I do not want to miss a single moment I can be with you."
Vlad sighed, and sat up, pulling the boy with him. This time he kissed his forehead gently. "So solemn,
my love. So serious. We have many years before us, Nicolae. Do not worry about them. Just enjoy
today." He made a tutting sound. "Listen to me. I counsel you to live in the moment, and now I must
look to the future. We have to go, boy. We should be in the castle before daybreak to avoid wagging
tongues."
Nicolae did not protest. He merely got up and began dressing. Before they had lain back down that
night, Draculea had kindled a small fire and warmed water, then washed them both. Nicolae had stood
naked before the fire, the flames casting a golden glow on his smooth skin, and allowed his lover to
clean away gently the marks of their shared passion.
Now he finished slipping on his boots and stood, crossing his arms over his bare chest with a small
frown. "Domn, I cannot go out like this." He picked up the rag that had been his shirt and eyed it.
"And this is good for naught but wiping pans now."
"You will have many more, my love. But for now..." There was a coarse shirt hanging on a peg,
probably the only change of clothing the peasant who lived there owned. Draculea took it and handed
it to the boy. "Wear this."
"Stealing, Domn?!" Nicolae’s voice was horrified.
Draculea chuckled. "No, boy, not stealing. Look, you." He searched his pocket, and found a single
small silver coin, showed it to Nicolae, then placed it in the center of the table. "Will this suffice?"
Nicolae whispered, "Oh, Domn, your generosity..."
"Nicu, please." He hugged the boy, then took the shirt and slipped it over his head. "You will learn
some day that money means very little to me. I have taught myself to live simply when I must. Paying
the owner of this cottage is the right thing to do, and I am happy to do it. I do not just take from those
who have so little. Now come. Lucifer will have his morning exercise today, but I expect he is hungry.
I did not see much fodder in the little shed."
Lucifer was not happy about having a second rider, but he stood still and allowed Draculea to lift Nicu
up onto his back, then climb up himself. Nicolae took hold of the steed’s coarse mane as Draculea
reached around him to take the reins. He leaned back against Draculea, resting against the solid
comfort of his body as the horse ambled down the road to the castle.
It was still dark when they arrived at the castle. The courtyard was deserted except for the two guards
at the gate. They, valuing their lives, had taken no spirits on their watch. They watched curiously as
the prince rode into the castle confines, the new young librarian perched before him, but they said
nothing. And they would say nothing later. Neither was a fool.
Draculea dismounted near the stables, helping Nicolae down, then slapped Lucifer on the rump. The
horse walked obediently into the stable, went to his own open stall, and began to munch grain.
Draculea led Nicolae to the castle.
Simion was waiting inside the great hall, pale and anxious. When the two men entered, his eyes
searched Nicolae quickly. He saw the soft, adoring look that the boy turned up to Draculea, and he
relaxed with a gusty sigh. He had been very afraid. Simion knew that Draculea’s desire for the boy had
been like a fever, burning in his blood, and when his master’s blood ran high, he was dangerous.
Simion put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and Nicolae gave him a shy smile. "Simion, you were
worried about me, weren’t you? I am sorry I behaved foolishly."
"Not foolish, boy. Just..." He grimaced, looking for words, "ignorant of the facts. Ignorance is cured by
knowledge."
"Nicolae, can you find my room?" When the boy nodded, Vlad kissed him on the cheek. "Go and get
into bed. You still need more sleep."
Nicolae laid his cheek for a moment against Draculea’s shoulder, then looked up at him. "You will
come soon?" He stroked Draculea’s chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt.
The older man smiled. "I mean you to SLEEP, boy. Go." His eyes followed Nicolae as he climbed the
stairs and turned down a corridor, then he looked to Simion.
"So..." Simion tipped his head inquiringly. "From the look of him, I would say all went well when you
met, and he understands now how things will be."
Draculea’s expression sobered. "I almost hurt him, Simion. I was so furious that he would leave me,
my grief was so great..."
"But you did NOT hurt him, Domn. You saw there was no malice in what he did."
"But I came so close. And I could have handled him more gently."
Simion snorted. "There are times for gentleness, lord, and you will have them with Nicolae. But the
emotions you both felt were too strong to be held back this night. What happened had to happen, and
the boy is happy. Look at that, and forgive yourself."
Draculea nodded, and his expression grew even more grim. "Now that the marriage is official, and I
have my Nicolae, there is but one more thing to be done."
Now Simion smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. "Yes, Domn. How will you do it?"
"He leaves today for his own castle. I fear that poor Ernestu will meet with bandits along the road.
Such a shame. You know, Simion, that I can usually control them here in my own lands, but, well..."
He shrugged. "Even I cannot be everywhere at once, and tragedies DO happen."
The two men started up the staircase. "And what are my prince’s plans for today?"
"A few more hours sleep with my love, then I will see my father-in-law off, and wish him pleasant
journey." Draculea’s smile was cruel. "Then, I think, I shall go hunting."
When Draculea entered his own room, it was dim. The only light came from the fire that barely
flickered on the hearth. He made his way to his bed and paused at its side, drinking in the sight of it.
Nicolae lay there, snuggled beneath the rich velvet coverlet, his hair very dark against the white case
of his pillow. Draculea had been right about his needing rest, because he was already deeply asleep,
his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep slumber.
Draculea stripped quietly, then slid between the sheets to lie beside his lover. Carefully, so as not to
awaken the boy, he moved closer to him. As if sensing his presence even in the depths of sleep,
Nicolae turned toward him, pressing against his side. Draculea felt the vibrant, living warmth along his
body and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving before giving himself up to slumber.
The second awakening with Nicolae was as sweet as the first. A servant had crept in some time before.
A good fire blazed on the hearth., and candles were lit. When Draculea opened his eyes it was to find
Nicolae sitting up beside him, watching him. With his hair tumbling before still sleepy eyes, he looked
all of fourteen. Draculea stretched. "Good morrow, Nicolae." He reached out and stroked the boy’s
arm. "You slept well? I think you are not used to sleeping with another."
"I am not, Domn, but I will greatly enjoy becoming accustomed to it. My sleep was most excellent."
"Good." Draculea pulled Nicolae down for a kiss, which became two kisses, which became three. At
last he moved the boy away with a sigh. "I am greedy for you, my love. The hunger seems to grow
with the feeding."
"May I always satisfy you, my lord."
"You do. You will. But..." He sat up. "the other fleshly hungers must be attended to." He got up. "I
will send Simion up with breakfast for you. I want you to stay here until I come for you, or send for
you."
Nicolae watched as Draculea dressed. "As you will. But..." His voice was doubtful. "I am not to stay
here always, am I?"
Draculea sat on the bed, pulling on his boots. "What, never leaving this room?" He smiled, ruffling
Nicolae’s hair. "It is a pleasing thought, but no. You are not a prisoner here, boy. You are not
confined. It is only that I would have you untroubled, and the festering sore that sired you has not yet
gone. He will soon, and then the run of the castle is yours." Draculea stood up. "I will see him on his
way, then I will show you your new workplace."
Nicolae’s eyes lit up. "The library?"
"You say that with the same voice that a zealot would use to say ’Jerusalem’. Yes, the library." He
bent for another kiss, and Nicolae threw his arms around his neck clinging to him. Vlad enjoyed the
embrace for a moment, then gently disengaged himself. He touched Nicolae’s face and murmured,
"Soon, my pet. Soon you will be rid of him. Do not let him trouble your heart for another moment."
His step was firm as he left the room.
Draculea found Simion near the entrance. "How many men will accompany Varga, and where are they
now?" "Only three, Domn. The rest returned yesterday. They are in the kitchen now."
"Good. Come with me to the treasury." They made their way to a small room hidden deep within the
castle, down among the crypts and dungeons in its bowel. The only thing to mark it as different from
any of the others was the two men guarding it. They went inside.
The walls were lined with chests and coffers. Draculea took three small leather sacks from a shelf and
opened a chest. It was filled with gleaming silver coins. He dipped his hands into the mass, then
hesitated, thoughtful. He shut the chest and opened another. This revealed an equally large mass of
gold coins. Draculea scooped up a handful and began to fill the bags. "Did you ever execute that
bandit that was captured last month?"
"You did not specifically order it, my lord, so he still lives."
"Good. I had forgotten about him, till now. He will be of greater use this day than he ever was in his
previous miserable life. He would have rotted in his cell, but now he will be granted a swift death
instead." Draculea finished filling the last bag, tied it shut, and shut the chest. He slipped the bags
inside his shirt. "When we get to the kitchen, take some food to Nicolae and sit with him for awhile.
He may wish to talk with someone, and I have business that needs attending before I return to him."
In the kitchen Ernestu’s men were finished with their meal and happily harassing the kitchen girls.
They bolted to their feet when the prince and his man entered the room. Simion directed the maids to
go find tasks elsewhere, then gathered food for Nicolae and left his prince to speak to the men.
Draculea regarded them. They were nothing special, about what he would have expected of Varga’s
household. If he was correct in his assessment of their character, or their lack thereof, there should be
no problem. If he wasn’t... Well, men died every day. It was the way of the world.
Draculea folded his arms. "Are you free men, or are you serf?"
They all straightened. The tallest, the leader of the trio spoke up proudly, "We are free men, Domn.
Varga is too proud, too niggardly to spend what he would need toward training his serfs. It is less
expensive for him to hire mercenaries, such as ourselves. But our contract with him is over soon, and
we will seek work elsewhere."
"Let me guess. He is not over-generous."
"As I have already said, Domn, he is niggardly. We would not have taken his offer had we not been
desperate at the time."
"Would you like to leave his employ early, and with enough money to live comfortably till you can
find another post?"
The men exchanged looks, wondering if the prince were offering them work. It did not seem likely.
They knew that he already had many men to serve him, all better equipped and better trained than
they. "That would be a most welcome opportunity, prince. But how could it be?"
Draculea pulled a leather bag from his shirt and tossed it to the leader. The man opened it, and his eyes
bulged at the sight of the coins. It was almost unimagined riches to a man who had never owned more
than a few silver coins at any time. He showed it to his companions, who were as amazed as he. At last
he looked back at Draculea. "What is it you wish us to do, lord?"
"Your master is not long for this world."
The man frowned. He looked longingly at the coins again, then tied the bag up, sighing, and offered it
to the prince. "I am sorry, Domn. I cannot commit murder, even for so rich a prize."
"I do not ask you to commit murder, fool." Instead of taking the bag, Draculea produced two more,
tossing one to each of the other men. "I ask you to do nothing. That is exactly the point. You will do
nothing, and then you will be free to go your own way, live your own life. All that you must do is
leave this country after what happens and never return, speaking nothing of what transpires." When
they looked doubtful Draculea said, "You know what manner of man Varga is?" They nodded grimly.
"He has hurt one I love. I will see him dead, with or without your help. I would prefer "with."" His
eyes glinted. "I will have enough blood on my hands."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Elizabeta’s room Lena was helping her mistress dress. Beta was less than happy. "I wanted to sleep,
Lena. I am a princess now, I can do as I please."
"Like most you have the wrong idea of how a princes lives. A prince, perhaps, may do as he pleases,
but a princess is like any other woman: bound to her duties. Your father is leaving, and you must see
him off."
"I don’t see WHY," Beta said grumpily. "It is not as if either of us did not wish this. I am glad to be
away from him, and he will shed no tears over my being gone."
"Still the illusion must be kept up for the world, Beta. What IS matters little to the world beside what
SEEMS to be. After this chore you will not need to have many dealings with him. A letter now and
again, and perhaps a duty visit when your first child is born."
Beta grimaced. "The thought of that gives me no pleasure, Lena."
"The visit? He could come here."
"No, the child. The idea of something growing inside me..."
"I know, I know. But it cannot be avoided. You must produce an heir to seal your position. Just one, if
it is male and healthy. Then... There are ways to stop the coming of a child, and I can find access to
them easily enough." She wound Beta’s hair into a smooth coil at the base of her neck, pinning it
securely and fitting a dainty net of silk cords over it. "There. You are so beautiful, my Beta. Draculea
may rule Wallachia, but you will rule HIM." *And I will rule YOU,* she thought.
The two women made their way down to the great hall, to find Ernestu sitting in a chair by the fire,
dressed for travel. He rose to greet his daughter, dropping a dry peck on a reluctantly offered cheek.
"So, Beta. You are a wife now. Soon to be a mother, I hope." His tone said that she had better devote
all her energies to producing an heir as quickly as possible.
"As the Lord wills, Father."
"No, as YOUR lord husband will, child. Remember that. Perhaps you think that you are free of
constraint and control now. I warn you, daughter, to watch yourself. Do not take too many liberties, or
you may find yourself slapped back into your place. The Draculea is not a man to be trifled with." He
rubbed his throat absently. "I know." Draculea entered the great hall and approached the group. He
made a short, formal bow, which Ernestu returned as the women curtsied. "Varga, your men are ready
to accompany you."
"I thank you for seeing to them, my lord."
"It is nothing, Varga. I was happy to do it."
They went outside to find the men waiting, each beside his horse, waiting for their master to mount.
Ernestu kissed Beta once again, and she murmured dutifully, "Safe journey, Father."
"Thank you, Beta. Be a good girl." He glanced back at the castle, an unhealthy light in his eyes, and
said, "Tell Nicolae that I will be thinking of him, and not to pine. I am sure we will see each other
again."
"Yes, Father," said the bewildered Beta. Since when did Ernestu worry about his bastard’s feelings?
Draculea had overheard his words, and his fists clenched at his sides, but he managed to give Ernestu a
faint, false smile. "Good journey, Varga. May you safely reach the end that destiny has prepared for
you."
Ernestu blinked at the odd choice of words, but accepted the good wishes gracefully. He mounted his
horse and tossed a last look at the castle, thinking of the boy hiding somewhere inside. As he turned
his horse and rode through the gate, he was considering how soon he would dare write Beta and
suggest that she send Nicolae home to comfort him, now that his other children were gone.
Elizabeta was trying to think of a good excuse that would allow her to avoid Draculea’s company
when he turned to her and said, "Well, Lady, you will be wanting to get acquainted with your new
domain. I will send Simion to you, and he can show you the castle and begin acquainting you with the
household. Will this be agreeable?" The last question was, Beta knew, a courtesy. This was what he
was expecting her to do, and it suited her well.
"I would be pleased, my lord. And how will you spend your day?"
Draculea smiled wolfishly. "I will hunt."
Elizabeta shivered as she watched him leave, muttering to Lena, "Men and their blood sports."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In his room, Draculea found Nicolae talking excitedly to Simion, who listened patiently as the boy
outlined his hopes and plans for the castle library. He was finishing with, "...of course I have not yet
seen it, so I have no idea of what I will be working with, but I am sure it is very fine."
"You will see for yourself now, boy." The smile that broke across Nicolae’s face when he saw
Draculea warmed the prince’s heart. "The traveling party is away, duty is done. Now I will show you
to your sanctum, then go to my hunt. Come." Nicolae hurried to him, and Draculea said, "Simion, the
princess and her maid await you in the great hall. I trust you to show her all she will need to know in
her new position." His eyes said, *And no more than that.*
As they walked through the halls Draculea told Nicolae, "You will have full charge here, Nicolae, and
there will be much for you to do. It has been sadly neglected since my father died, I fear. You will
make it live again. You said you wished to learn book binding?" The boy nodded eagerly. "Good. I
can have tutors brought in to teach you. Any supplies that you need, you have only to tell Simion or
myself and they will be provided. I have already ordered ink, quills, and parchment, but there should
be some in the library for you to start. Here we are."
Draculea opened the heavy door and urged the boy in before him. Nicolae stopped dead just inside the
door, gazing around in near stupefied wonder. Draculea watched indulgently as the boy’s eyes roamed
the great banks of shelves. His expression was the closest to greed, he thought, that it probably ever
approached.
Nicolae wandered to one case and reached out, touching the dusty volumes with hesitant reverence. He
said softly, "I... I think I should inventory it first, so that my lord will know exactly what he has, and
be best able to determine what else he wishes to acquire."
"Do as you wish, Nicolae. I already have everything I want, but if you think I should have anything in
particular, then I will have it." He took the boy’s hand and turned it, kissing his palm. "This is your
domain, Nicolae. I know you will take good care of it. Now I must go. I will be back this afternoon or
this evening, and you must stop then, else I shall become jealous of your work. You will have your
days to spend here as you wish, but your nights belong to me."
Before Draculea could release his hand, Nicolae drew it to his own lips. "My nights, my days, my life,
dearest Vlad. All yours." Draculea left quickly, feeling a suspicious sting in his eyes. He had never
been one to believe in tears of joy, but Nicolae could almost persuade him that they existed.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 24: Part 24: Rough Justice

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer: Major characters and concepts (besides Nicolae) belong to Bram
Stoker.
Summary: Ernestu pays the ultimate price for his villany.
Author’s Notes: Yes, I know you would have prefered something that took Vlad several days to mete
out, but this will have to do. Nicu is waiting for him back at the castle. ’Indulgence’: at one point in
time, the rich could make a donation to the Roman Catholic Church, and they would be officially
forgiven of their sins. Nippon is used to refer to Japan, and Cathay to China.
Rating: NC-17 for series overall
The Day After The Wedding
Vlad went to his room and changed into his hunting clothes: leather breeches, a simple, dark shirt with
the sleeves fastened up to leave his hands free, and sturdy boots. Then he opened a small chest that sat
against one wall and studied the contents.
It was a deadly array. There were several daggers of varying length and shape, a small mace with a
lethally studded head, and other, less easily recognizable instuments of pain and destruction. After
considering them for a moment he chose a large, heavy, single edged knife and hung it in its sheath on
his belt. Another moment’s thought, and he locked the chest. Nicolae might return to the room.
Despite the fact that he was not inclined to pry into the affairs of other, the boy’s natural curiosity
about his new home might get the better of him, and Vlad knew that this evidence of his lover’s cruel
side would distress him.
When he went down to the stable, two of his men were waiting to accompany him, standing beside
their mounts with their bows and quivers slung on their backs. A stable lad held Lucifer’s reins,
shifting occasionally to avoid the restive stallion’s hooves. Lucifer was as much a veteran as Draculea,
and he could sense when there was to be bloodshed.
Draculea took the reins and mounted, waiting for his men to follow suit before guiding his mount
through the gates. Once outside the castle confines, he turned away from the road, and they entered the
forest that surrounded the castle. They moved into the woods at a leisurely pace, weaving through the
thickening trees. Out of sight of the castle, they came to a small clearing. There another four men
waited. Three of them were Draculea’s men at arms, and they bore bows and quivers slung across their
backs. The fourth was a different story.
He was once a large, sturdy man, but he seemed wasted. Long months in Draculea’s dungeons had
leeched his skin of color and a scanty diet had made the once solid flesh fall away, leaving him almost
gaunt. He was filthy, his hair and ragged clothes crawling with vermin. In truth, his state of cleanliness
was not much different than it would have been had he been free the last few months.
The man was lashed securely to his mount, unable to grasp the reins to keep his seat. His hands were
bound behind him, and a none-too-clean rag was stuffed in his mouth and tied in place. The eyes
above it showed surprisingly little fear. He had come to terms long ago with his fate.
Draculea addressed the men. "I hunt today, but for very special prey. It is a beast that walks on two
legs, mocking God and man. You all know that when I brought back my new bride I brought others of
Varga’s household." They nodded. "Among this number was one who is very dear to me."
He did not need to speak Nicolae’s name. His household was well aware of their master’s enamorment
with the young librarian. Simion had been careful to inform everyone so that there would be no clumsy
mistakes that would provoke the prince by frightening or upsetting his lover.
"This vile creature, Varga, has been the author of much pain and sorrow for someone I care for deeply.
I would not count myself a man if I allowed him to continue to walk the earth. You may wonder why I
chose to enact this justice in such a secretive manner. I am a prince: I may boldly chastise or even
execute those I feel deserving. In this case I choose discretion. You see, my love is tender hearted. No
matter how this beast has abused him, still he will grieve his death, and I must not be seen as the one
who brings it about."
There were murmurs of agreement. "Thus I allowed the scum to breathe for a few more days, and set
his feet on the road to his home. He travels, I hunt the woods about my castle. Who will question me?"
The men were silent. It would take a bold, or stupid, man indeed to suggest any direct connection
between Prince Draculea and any mishap that occurred in his lands.
"I spoke with Varga’s men before they left. Unsurprisingly, they bear him no love. We will follow
their band. Before our approach becomes evident, we will leave the road and draw nigh them under
cover of the forest on either side. At my signal you," he smiled, "my bandits, will attack. Now this is
very important: you may wound one or two of the men, but only lightly. There must be nothing life
threatening, no serious hurt. Afterwards if anyone questions them they can show the mark to prove the
truth of the attack. But on no account will you kill any of them. I have given my word. Fail in this, and
your own life is forfeit." He spoke matter-of-factly, as if this hardly needed to be mentioned, and it
scarcely did. His men were aware of the penalties for disobeying a direct order.
"The men will flee, leaving Varga. I will," Draculea’s lips drew back from his teeth in a humorless
smile that made more than one of the men shudder, "deal with him myself. This," he gestured at the
prisoner, "will be left to prove the bandit attack." The prisoner closed his eyes, but briefly. Knowing
Draculea’s history of dealing with his enemies this could be counted a merciful death. Better an arrow
or a knife blow than twisting for hours, spitted on a wooden stake.
They started after the small group. There was no banter among the men: this was serious work, and
none of them felt inclined to frivolity. If they had been, one look at their grim faced leader would have
silenced them.
It was near two hours before they sighted the group, barely visible in the distance. At a gesture from
the prince the group split, entering the forest on either side of the road. They moved slowly enough so
that they would not be readily noticed from the road, and it took them almost another hour to draw
abreast of the group.
For a few moments they rode parallel to the men on the road. Draculea watched Varga, eyes narrowed.
At last he motioned to one of his men. The soldier drew his bow, notched an arrow, and sent it hissing
over the road.
The soldiers broke from the forest with bloodcurdling screams. It was over quickly. Varga’s men
milled in terror that was probably not entirely feigned. They knew how easy it would be for the prince
simply to dispose of them, eliminating any chance that his plan might come to light. But the prince’s
men had their orders, and obeyed as meticulously as ever. One of Varga’s guards took an arrow in the
thigh, another had a slash across his chest, so shallow that it would scarcely leave him a scar to show
the tavern wenches he wanted to impress. In moments they were fleeing, disappearing through the
forest.
Ernestu had attempted to flee also, but he was cut off. Every direction he turned was blocked by a hard
faced man with drawn bow, surely bandits. He called out, "Hold your fire! You want me alive, bandits.
I can bring you a rich ransom if I am delivered to my home unharmed."
As he spoke another horse came from the cover of the trees. Varga was so agitated that it had almost
reached him before he recognized the rider. "My prince! Flee, for your life!"
Draculea continued to approach, silent and unhurried. One look at his expression, and Varga knew. He
tried to bolt. In his desperation, he managed to swerve around the men who would have blocked his
way. They might have stopped him, but Draculea roared, "Don’t touch him! He’s mine!"
The chase was brief. His horse was no match for Lucifer, and the great stallion drew level with him
quickly. Draculea was so close that he was able to reach out and catch the noble by the scruff of his
neck. With one hard jerk he unseated the man, letting him tumble to the dusty road. The horse, happy
to be free of a disagreeably heavy and demanding rider, cantered away, tail high. Draculea turned,
circling back to where Varga was struggling to his feet.
When Varga stood, he found himself surrounded again by the soldiers. If he moved in any direction he
risked the stamping feet of their horses. He dodged from one side to the other, only to be driven back
into the center, but none of the men touched him.
Draculea entered the circle, then slid down from Lucifer, tossing the reins to one of the men. He
paused and took his time pulling on a pair of gloves. Varga was trembling. As Draculea came toward
him, he dropped to his knees. "My prince, mercy! Please!"
It was so quiet that the gathered men heard the creak of leather as Draculea’s hand curled into a fist at
his side. Vlad had slapped Varga in the private room before the wedding, but his purpose then had
been mainly to humiliate. Now he was bent on punishment. The backhanded blow knocked the older
man sprawling.
When he beat someone, Varga had always administered more blows when the victim attempted to rise
after having been put down, so he did not try to get up, but he quickly learned that this tactic would not
spare him when Draculea drove his boot into his side. "Get up, dog!" When Varga did not obey
immediately there was another kick. "Up, I said! I could easily kill you like this, but I have other
plans."
Frantically hoping that he might yet escape death, Varga struggled to his feet and faced the prince. A
purple blotch was already rising on his cheek, and he thought that perhaps a rib had been cracked by
that last blow, but he could easily survive those injuries. Indeed, he would be grateful if those were all
he had to deal with. "Please, Domn, whatever I have done to displease you, I truly repent."
"And even now you would profess ignorance?" Another blow to Ernestu’s face, not quite as strong as
the other, made him stagger back. He was nudged forward again by the large body of one of the
horses. "What makes you think I crave your repentance, Varga? That is the province of the church: I’m
sure they would be happy to sell you an indulgence for whatever sins you have committed. I am not so
easily satisfied. I am like the Lord rather than his earthly servants: I demand blood in atonement."
He threw another blow, driving his fist deep into Varga’s soft belly. When Ernestu bent double,
Draculea lifted his knee, smashing it into his face. Even through the thin leather of his breeches he felt
the cartilage crunch. When Varga stumbled back he left a bright smear of blood behind.
Varga clutched at his ruined nose, and stared in horror at the blood that slicked his hand. The blood of
others did not trouble him, but his own was a different matter. As he stood, stunned, Draculea wrapped
his hand in Ernestu’s shirt, holding him fast, and struck him again. The beating had begun in earnest.
And it WAS a beating: it never approached the level of a fight. Ernestu, while a bully, had never been
a warrior or even a brawler. He preferred to deal with those who were weaker than he, or those of a
lower class who did not dare raise a hand in return, lest they face execution. He was not used to facing
a man of equal, much less, superior strength, and he had never faced one who was determined to kill
him.
Again and again Draculea’s hard fists smashed his face and gut. Vlad took his time, choosing his
targets so that the maximum pain would be inflicted without risking fatal injury or unconsciousness.
He wanted Varga aware through every last moment of his suffering in this mortal realm.
Finally the only thing holding the older man upright was Draculea’s grip, and he let him go. Ernestu
slumped to the ground, whimpering in a manner that Draculea might have found pathetic, had he not
known the man. He kicked Varga over onto his back, and broke another rib for good measure.
Draculea stood looking down at the battered man for a moment. The prince’s breath had scarcely
increased from the exertions. He regarded his victim almost dispassionately. *If I left him as he is
now, perhaps having him dragged off into the brush, he would most likely die. It is doubtful that any
who chanced to pass this way would find him, and if they did it is by no means sure that they would
tend him. There are those who would claim that I was not truly guilty of his death, that I was leaving it
in the hands of God to decide.*
He spat on the ground. *But I am not one of those. Before heaven’s throne of judgement I will proudly
claim this deed. And since I will take the responsibility, I will do it in the manner that will best please
me.*
Draculea sank to his knees beside the man on the ground, moving to straddle and pin his legs, the
position almost a parody of one he had enacted with Nicolae during a tender interlude. But there was
no gentleness in Draculea at this moment, and this passion was far different than that which he had
shared with his young lover.
There was shifting and murmuring among the watching men as Draculea drew his great hunting knife.
Now it would be over quickly. The weapon was fearsome: honed to a razor sharpness that could split
tough hide with the lightest flick. Draculea held the knife, blade down, in his fist. But instead of
raising it high and plunging it into Varga’s heart or slashing it across his throat as they had anticipated,
he hesitated, the blade hovering.
Then his hand darted forward. Ernestu screamed as the point was buried two inches in the meaty part
of his right shoulder. Draculea held it there as Ernestu’s cry faded. Then he twisted the blade.
A few of the horses, those who had not seen battle, shied at the piercing scream, and their riders had to
fight them back under control. Lucifer gave them a jaundiced look, as if contemptuous of those who
would be upset by a little thing like a man being stabbed. He watched calmly as his master withdrew
the knife, its tip dripping gore, and plunged it into the other shoulder, giving him a matching wound.
The scream was just as loud this time when he turned the blade.
As he went on, though, the cries grew fainter. Arms, chest, belly, upper thighs... Draculea spared only
the areas where he could not be absolutely sure that a shallow stab would not prove fatal. He used the
gleaming blade to rip the tunic open and changed from stabs to slashes. There was less chance of
killing him outright that way. He remembered the state of Nicolae’s back, his legs and buttocks, and
worked determinedly.
As he drew the edge of the knife across Ernestu’s chest, he said, "Have you ever heard of the Death of
a Thousand Cuts, Varga? It originated in Nippon, or perhaps Cathay. The orientals are wonders when
it comes to cruelty, they quite put our humble efforts to shame. This method of execution can take
days if it is administered by a skilled torturer, a true artisan."
Draculea made the first cut on the mewling man’s throat, being careful to avoid any vital veins or
arteries. "The prisoner is slowly whittled away. They remove a fingertip here, an eyelid there, then
perhaps an earlobe or a bit of heel. Always the less vital parts of the body. Blood is staunched where
necessary lest the poor bastard die from loss. The torturer who allows that merciful death may find
himself on the other end of the blade."
The knife flicked, and the tip of Ernestu’s nose was removed. He had breath only for a whimper. His
hands clawed upward in a futile effort to defend himself. Draculea caught one wrist almost casually
and drove the knife through his palm, continuing to speak. "That is the sort of end you deserve, but it
simply isn’t possible. You can’t just disappear, and your death must appear to be thw work of bandits,
though particularly vicious ones."
He nodded to one of his men, and an arrow found its mark in the heart of the bandit prisoner. The man
was dead before his body fell sideways to dangle in its bonds. One of the men removed the gag and
bindings, then cut him loose. He tumbled into the road and lay, prepared to be a silent witness to an
attack that never happened.
"No Varga, I can’t do as I’d truly like. If I could, I’d slice bits off you and feed them to my hounds,
except that I would fear poisoning the beasts with your putrid flesh." The blade flashed again, and he
flipped a severed nipple into the dust. Varga’s eyes rolled upward, showing the whites, and he stopped
shuddering.
Draculea swore, and pressed his ear to the bloody chest. He came up with his face and hair gory. "He’s
only fainted. Damn it, he won’t get away that easily. Water!" One of the men brought Draculea a skin
of water. The prince took a deep drink. Then he tipped it to his lips once again and spat a mouthful in
Varga’s face. The man trembled and moaned. Draculea poured more water, casting aside the empty
skin, and slapped him briskly. "Waken, pig! I’m not through with you yet."
Some of the men looked away as Draculea went to work on Varga’s face. They were used to the heat
and clash of battle. This cruelty, cold and intense, was frightening to them. It served a purpose that
Draculea had not considered: it insured that each man who witnessed it would do his utmost to please
the prince. None of them wanted to risk arousing wrath in a man who was capable of what they were
seeing.
By the time Draculea began to feel that perhaps a little of Nicolae’s suffering had been paid back, his
gloves were soaked with gore, and it was streaked past his wrists. Splatters and splashes stained his
dark shirt. The blood on his face and in his hair from where he had listened for Varga’s heartbeat was
beginning to congeal, becoming sticky.
At last he reached back and wiped the blade carefully on Varga’s breeches and resheathed it. He
pushed at Varga’s chin, noting the white gleam of bone throught the ragged flesh. "Can you hear me,
vermin?" He was answered by a moan. "Good. You know, you still might live. If I were to leave you
now, and someone came along very soon to treat you, you might. Of course, you would live as a
horror that would make children scream, women faint, and strong men clutch their bellies in sickness.
You wouldn’t want that, would you, Varga? You prize beauty, don’t you? You would not like if it was
driven from you by your own hideous appearance."
"No, I won’t let you live. I could bring you a quick end now with the blade, but I won’t do that, either.
Your continued existence on this earth would be a betrayal of my love for Nicolae." He began to tug
off the gloves. The blood had seeped through even the leather, and his hands were stained red. He
tucked the gloves in his belt, saying, "I prefer this method. It is more personal."
He closed his big hands around Ernestu’s throat and began to apply slow, steady pressure. "And do
you know the ironic thing, Varga? Do you know what will happen when Nicolae learns of your
death?" His grip tightened. "He will pray for you. He will light candles for your soul, and urge Mircea
to say masses to shorten your stay in Purgatory. All in vain, Ernestu, all in vain. You are not bound for
Purgatory. No, that is for souls who can be redeemed. You will fly straight to your rightful place in
Hell."
There was still enough will to live left in Varga to let him lift his hands to scrabble weakly at
Draculea’s arms, then his face. He even managed to gouge a shallow scratch on the prince’s cheek.
Draculea did not flinch or pause in strangling the man. "I hope it scars. That way each time I look in a
mirror I can remember this day. Do you wonder, Varga, why I left your eyes untouched? I want my
face to be your last sight on this Earth. I want you to carry it with you into an eternity of suffering."
Ernestu tried to gasp, but could not draw even a sip of air. On his face, what little skin that was left
unmarked flushed red beneath its skim of blood, then began to turn purple. His eyes bulged, and his
tongue protruded. If not for his wounds, he would have resembled a fat, petulant child, making a rude
gesture in his anger. His hands fell to pluck weakly at Draculea’s fingers, sunk deep in the puffy flesh
of his throat.
"Why do you struggle? Don’t you know that you are dead, Varga? You died the moment you laid
rough hands on my Nicolae, the moment you turned your rutting thoughts toward him. The innocent
told Simion that God protected him from your lust by causing you to spill your seed at a timely
moment, before you could slake your foul desires. I will protect him in a more direct manner."
He leaned forward, throwing his weight behind his grip. "You shouldn’t have hurt him!" There was a
crackling sound, and something collapsed in Ernestu’s throat. Even the faint wheeze he had been
making stilled, and his body was racked by a fierce shudder. There was a sudden, foul stench as his
bowels and bladder loosened and he soiled himself like a month old babe. His eyes rolled up once
again, showing the whites.
Still Draculea did not release his hold. He tightened it even more, nails gouging out flecks of skin,
causing wounds that no longer bled because the heart had ceased to pump. He held on for another full
minute. Finally, reluctantly, he eased his grip and put his ear once again to Varga’s mutilated chest.
The men were silent. Even the horses were still. Draculea listened with an intent look on his face, as if
he were hearing the secrets of the unvierse whispered in his ear.
Finally he pulled himself upright, and spat in the corpse’s face. "Done, Nicu," he whispered. "For you,
but you will never know, my angel. You will never know, because it would break your gentle heart to
learn I could do this, even for love. Especially for love."
Once again Draculea drew his knife. He spread Ernestu’s limp, cooling hand flat on the ground and
chopped off two of the fingers. When he picked them up, the men saw that there were rich golden
rings sunk deep in the swollen flesh. Varga had probably been unable to remove them for years, and
no self-respecting bandit would have left them.
A quick search of Ernestu’s body revealed a small bag of coins. These were shared out amongst the
men, the bag left in the road beside the body. The rings, still on the bloodless digits, were flung deep
into the trees. A fox or weasel would find them soon enough. Perhaps a magpie would steal the rings
to decorate her nest. In any case, they might be recognized, and so were to be left behind.
Draculea mounted his stallion, and walked Lucifer over to Varga’s body. Many horses were spooked
by death: Lucifer hardly noticed. Draculea leaned down from his saddle. His men exchanged quick
glances as he spoke to the corpse. Perhaps their master was mad? What they had just witnessed
seemed to give creedence to that thought. But then, if he WAS mad, who would then be mad enough
to point it out?
"I have been called the Son of the Devil, Varga. If that is true, I charge my infernal sire to prepare a
special pit for you and there let you spend eternity as the plaything of his foulest, most vicious
demons. May what you experienced today seem like a brief moment of joyous serenity."
He suddenly hauled back on his reins, setting his heels in Lucifer’s sides. The great beast reared and
stamped in protest, his hooves crashing down on the body. If Varga had any spark of life left, it was
snuffed out then. Draculea fought Lucifer into submission once again and started back to his castle,
sparing no further thought to the lump of torn and crushed flesh in the roadway.
They rode at a leisurely pace, and the light was deepening into the gold of evening when they returned
to the castle. Nothing was said as Draculea dismounted and strode into the castle. The men who had
accompanied him would not speak of this day, not even amongst themselves, not after what they had
seen befall a man who angered Draculea.
Vlad went directly to his room. Simion was waiting for him there. When he saw Draculea’s dusty,
bloody appearance he said quietly, "So. It is done."
"It is done."
"Good." Simion did not ask if Ernestu had suffered. He could not look at his lord and doubt it.
Draculea sat and held out his foot. Simion knelt quickly to pull off his boot as Draculea said, "How is
Nicu?"
"As happy as a spring lamb in a meadow of clover. He is probably more dusty than you, Domn, with
shifting the library contents."
Draculea smiled as Simion pulled off the other boot. "I want to see him, but not just yet. He has not
seen me like this and I do not want to frighten or distress him." Draculea got up and went once again
to the small chest against the wall. He unlocked it and laid the knife inside. Then he pulled the gloves
from his belt and dropped them in on top of the weapons. When his servant raised his eyebrows, he
shrugged. "A reminder, Simion. A memento. They served me well." He examined his red stained
hands. "I did not bruise. That might have been hard to explain to the boy." He closed the chest and
locked it once again. "I must wash before I see Nicu."
Simion had one of the castle’s tubs brought to the prince’s room. There was already water heating in
the kitchen, as he had guessed that his lord would wish to refresh himself after his exertions. Simion
supervised the pouring of steaming buckets of water while Draculea relaxed with a glass of wine.
When the tub was filled and the other servants gone Draculea drained the last of the wine and stood,
going to dip a testing finger in the water. "Good. This heat will be welcome. I ache, Simion. I fear I am
getting old."
"Nicolae will keep you young, my lord," his friend assured him.
As if in answer, the door burst open and Nicolae swept in. The moment he laid eyes on Draculea he
began to chatter brightly about his day. But he broke off abruptly, his eyes growing wide with horror.
"Vlad!" he cried, rushing to the prince. He touched the blood crusted scratch on the prince’s cheek,
then began to frantically tug at Draculea’s clothing. "Where? Where is it?!"
Surprised, Draculea took hold of his arms, trying to calm him. "Where is WHAT, Nicu?"
But Simion understood. He put a hand on Nicolae’s shoulder and said firmly, "BOY! It’s all right, the
blood is not his. There is no wound."
Nicolae looked at him, some of the panic seeping out. "No wound? Truly?"
"Truly," Draculae assured him. He kissed the boy’s forehead. "I am safe, Nicu. As are you."
Nicolae ignored the last words. His fingers plucked at the gore-damp shirt, them moved to touch his
ruddy hands and his smeared face. "But the blood..."
"Not mine."
"No?" He wilted against Draculea. "There’s so much of it. I was afraid."
"I know, pet. That’s why I didn’t want you to see me like this. I planned to bathe, then come to you in
the library."
"And I just broke in." His voice was sheepish. "I am sorry, Domn. It’s just that I wanted to share what
I am doing."
"Of course you did, and I wish to hear it. But first I must cleanse myself. And these are your rooms as
well, Nicolae. You need not apologize for entering your own home."
He had released Nicolae’s arms, and now the boy embraced him. "Home is a beautiful word, isn’t it,
Domn?"
Draculea gave him a squeeze, then let go. "Back to your library, Nicu, for another hour or so. I know
that you are loath to leave it"
"I will admit, Domn, that I leave it happily only for you or to perform my devotions, and..." he looked
abashed, "I am afraid that I am not quite as enthusiastic for my devotions." Draculea laughed, and
NIcolae touched one large stain on the prince’s shirt, and frowned. "Was your hunt fruitful, Maria
Ta?"
"In a way, but I brought home no meat. The beast I killed was most likely diseased."
Now Nicolae looked alarmed again. "Sickness? Simion!" He looked to the older man in appeal. "You
will watch him, won’t you? You are clever with medicines. He must not sicken, or take blood
poisoning from the creature."
"Never fear," Simion assured him. "I believe that the sickness this particular beast carried could not be
spread."
"What was this animal?"
Draculea looked down into Nicolae’s eyes: so soft and warm with love and concern. He found himself
saying, "It was an old, dangerous creature, Nicolae. One that had lived far past its appointed time and
done much damage. It was grizzled, and vicious."
"But what was it?"
He smiled gently, strokeing the boy’s hair. "It was a wild boar, Nicolae. It was a pig."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 25: Part 25

Disclaimer: All previously established characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker
Summary: Nicolae settles into his new life, Lena begins to see she may not hold as much influence as
she anticipated, and Draculea makes a promise to Nicolae.
Child of the Night, Part 25
Nicolae went down to the library to wait for his lover to finish with his bath. He surveyed the mess
that he had made of the room that day, shaking his head. It always seemed that you had to create
greater disorder to finally achieve order. Several of the shelves were empty, their contents piled on the
large tables scattered through the room, and the great desk in the corner was adrift in loose documents.
All would need to be sorted, cleaned, catalogued, and replaced in a logical arrangement.
He let his eyes travel over the dozens and dozens of packed shelves. He had barely begun on one tiny
section, and to do this properly would take months, if not years. Instead of being daunted by the
thought, he was elated. He finally had something that would make him feel useful, as if he were truly
using the talents with which he had been gifted.
There was not much he could do in a few minutes about the piles of books and papers, he decided, but
he wanted to make the room a little tidier for his lover’s first visit to his new domain. The maids in the
kitchen were a little surprised when the prince’s new favorite showed up asking for hot water and
cloths.
They were even more surprised when he turned down their offer to have a servant tend to whatever it
was he wanted cleaned. "No, no," he had said cheerfully, hoisting the bucket of steaming water, the
rough cloths slung over his arm. "You have quite enough to do. This is my business." The staff had
exchanged bewildered looks. None could remember the last time any of the people they served had
indicated that they thought the servants were amply supplied with tasks. Most seemed to believe the
staff sat idle, and thus should be assigned more tasks each day. Nicolae had begun unconsciously to
endear himself to Draculea’s household.
In the library Nicolae carefully scrubbed the emptied shelves, then wiped them dry. Finally he sat at
one of the tables and began to wipe clean each volume, inspecting them for any sign of wear that
should be repaired and setting them aside if it was needed. He did not hear the soft footsteps that came
up behind him, and was startled when a hand touched his arm.
"Brother." Beta said, laughing. "Oh, Nicu! Your dress may be richer, but you havel not changed very
much, have you? Still so absorbed in your work." Nicolae stood up quickly, a glad smile lighting his
face. He started to take his sister in his arms, but paused, hands falling to his side. "What is it, Nicu?
No embrace? No welcoming kiss? You love me still, do you not?"
"Beta!" he chided. "You know that the sun will cease to rise before my love for you fails. But before
your vows I was bold enough in my familiarities, considering the breadth of the gap between our
stations. But now? Now you are a princess."
"And I am still your sister." She put her arms around the tall young man, standing on her toes to kiss
his cheek. "There. I hardly think Draculea will scold me for that. And if he does--feh!"
Nicolae laughed, but said, "You must not say such things, Beta. He is your lord husband, and you must
obey him and seek to please him as best you may." He gently unwound his sister’s arms, continuing,
"I, too. He is my master now. All my obedience and respect is due to him, and I must do naught that
would displease him."
"It would be very difficult for you to displease me, Nicolae." They both turned as Draculea entered the
library, coming to the table where they stood. He gave a short, formal bow to his wife, who answered
it with an equally correct curtsey. "Elizabeta. Simion showed you all?" The question was for
politeness’ sake: Draculea knew that Simion had shown Beta everything... that she was MEANT to
see.
"Yes. Your castle is very grand, lord husband. There are parts of it that are..." she hesitated, pretending
to seek words to express herself in a tactful manner, "less cheerful than they might be."
Draculea shrugged. "My mother died more than two decades ago, and the place has not known the
presence of a lady during all that time. It has become a bit grim. You may, of course, do what you feel
fit to make it more to your taste, lady. Within reason."
Beta smiled, but inwardly she winced at those last two words. She had a feeling that Draculea and
Simion’s idea of reason would be a great deal different from Lena’s and her own. Still, there was no
need to worry so soon. Thus far things had gone well enough. The wedding night had been distasteful,
but not as bad as it might have been. At least he had not been difficult to get rid of. Once he was gone
Lena had come to her. Lena had cleaned Beta, held her while she complained and wept a little, then
made her forget him with judicious use of her talented tongue.
"That reminds me, Nicolae. Have you found that you need anything for the library?"
Beta smiled at the glow on Nicolae’s face. He was so dedicated to his work, it was really quite sweet.
It was too bad that he had not been of higher birth and able to indulge his interests, or that he had not
turned his devotions to other more profitable pursuits. He was so charming that he might have made a
life as a courtier, if only he hadn’t been born a bastard. He is handsome enough to be the favorite of
some great queen,*she thought. Watching his animation as he described the materials he was
discovering in his work, she added wryly, *or perhaps a king. But no, he gave himself to the church,
and the church would not have him. Poor Nicolae. Well, he will always have a home with me. I will
insist.*
Beta was not an observant woman. She had since childhood been so wrapped in her own concerns that
she noticed very little of what went on around her if it did not directly impact her own comfort. She
had known that her father disliked Nicolae and was occasionally harsh with him, but had no idea of the
depths his abuse had reached. And now, seeing the gentle interest Draculea turned on her half-brother,
all she thought was that he was being charitable, for her sake.
Nicolae was saying, "Some of the shelves are cracked, Domn, and others have been attacked by
woodworm. They should be replaced before they can break, or before the creatures can transfer their
attention to the volumes. Some of the things eat paper and glue, and..."
"Yes, Nicolae, the shelves will be replaced. I will send men to take the measurements soon. Also I will
have samples of wood brought, so that you may choose the most pleasing material."
"You are too generous, Domn. There is no need to replace all. I can just find the ones that are
damaged."
"Nonsense. After all, Nicolae, it isn’t as if this is a simple whimsy you’ve dreamed up. This library
will be a legacy to my descendants."
Beta watched as Nicolae showed Draculea the list he had begun of the library’s contents, one long
finger running down the items as he explained each one. She marveled at her husband’s patience. He
even managed to seem to enjoy Nicolae’s prattling.
Well, Beta had made her duty appearance, and now she wanted to get back to Lena. She said, "My
husband..."
Draculea looked back to her and, for a moment, it was almost as if he had forgotten she was there.
"Yes, Beta?"
"I hope you will excuse me from joining you for the evening meal. I am a bit tired with the castle tour
this morning, and would like to sup in my room."
"Yes, yes, of course. As you wish. Simply direct the servants to bring you what you require. Sleep
well." He turned back to Nicolae. "And this is a rare volume, you say?"
Beta hesitated a moment, scarcely believing that it had been that simple to gain her freedom for the
night. Though Draculea had said that he would allow her time to recover, she had half expected him to
demand his nuptial rights again immediately.
Draculea did not speak to her again, but Nicolae gave her a soft smile. "Rest well, dear sister. Do not
neglect your prayers. We must both offer thanks for our new lives."
"Yes, Nicolae. Good night." As she went to find a servant and order a meal for herself and Lena, she
wondered when the last time had been that she had prayed. Oh, yes. Just before Draculea had arrived
at Castle Varga. She had prayed that he would find her pleasing, and would make her his princess.
Well, that had come to pass. Perhaps she should pray more often.
When Beta left the room Draculea pulled the chattering Nicolae into his arms and stilled his lips with a
kiss. The boy immediately clung to him, opening his mouth to receive the gentle invasion of his
lover’s tongue. His hands crept up to card through Draculea’s dark hair, then cradle the back of his
head as the kiss deepened.
At last Nicolae pulled back a little, laughing breathlessly. "My lord! You act as if we had been parted
for weeks."
"And so it seemed, Nicu." He kissed him again, nipping lightly at the soft lips, making Nicolae moan
and sigh. "Any parting is far too long."
Nicolae rested his head on Draculea’s shoulder, his hand stroking his lover’s throat. "I would have
gone with you. I am not a hunter, but I could have ridden beside you."
"No, love. It was far too dangerous. The beast I hunted was vicious, and it might have turned on you.
What would I have done had you been injured, NIcu? Besides..." He tilted Nicolae’s face up so he
could meet his gaze, running his thumb over one high cheekbone. "It would have grieved you to see
even such an evil natured creature killed."
"That is true, Domn. Though I can see the necessity at times, it does not stop the regret. Every creature
that walks the earth belongs to God, and some of them he made violent."
"Yes, Nicu. But some of them give themselves over to the Dark One willingly." He jounced the young
man in his arms. "Enough of that! Come back to the room. Simion will have food there for us, and I
am hungry." He kissed Nicolae again, drawing the boy’s tongue into his mouth and suckling it for a
moment before releasing him. "Hungry for many things, Nicu." He took the now blushing librarian by
the hand and led him away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In her room Lena asked Beta, "So? He has agreed to let you do as you wish with the castle?"
"Yes, Lena. There was no trouble at all." Beta picked daintily at the platters of food that had been
brought by the servants.
"He gave you free reign? Anything?"
"Yes, he said anything within reason."
Lena groaned, shaking her head. "Beta!"
"What is it?"
"Those two words, Beta--’within reason’. Those two words may be used to block us."
"Lena, he has set no limits."
"Not to your face. It will be easier for him to simply deny you when you ask."
"But surely it is only fitting that he set some boundaries?"
"Not if he loves you!"
Beta regarded her, puzzled. "He DOESN’T love me. You know that."
"He should. He COULD. You could MAKE him love you, Beta." "But Lena," she regarded her lover
with dismay. "If he loves me, then I will never have peace. He will want to be with me all the time. He
will come to my bed often. I shudder at the thought."
Lena sighed. "I know, but sometimes sacrifices must be made. Perhaps all it will take is giving him a
son. Men are absurdly grateful for such things." She thought. "It is a bit late tonight. You will make
sure that he comes to you tomorrow."
"Ugh! Must I, Lena?" She pouted. "I still ache. He is so rough."
Lena regarded her with bitter tinged amusement. *La, child, how selective your memory is. I’m sure
I’ve done worse to you, and will again in the future. But since I’ve instructed you in what beasts men
are, you cannot help but view them as such, can you? Such a willing pupil.* "You must, pet.
Afterwards I will send for a bath to soothe your pains. I’ll give you a massage. You like that."
Beta smiled. Yes, she liked that. It always led to sex, and she would want something to wipe the
memory of Draculea’s touch from her. "All right, Lena. It shouldn’t be too difficult. After all, the
serving wenches here are uncommonly ugly. There will be little to distract him."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Draculea had pulled a chair away from the table and now sat in front of the fire. Nicolae sat before
him, leaning back against his knees, staring into the flames. They were quiet. Nicolae finally seemed
to be talked out.
Draculea played with Nicolae’s hair, combing his fingers through the dark silk, gently following the
outline of his skull. Occasionally the boy would sigh, tipping his head back just a little farther. He
thought Nicolae had gone to sleep, and was considering carrying him to bed, when he spoke. "Vlad?"
Again Draculea felt the small, secret squeeze to his heart as Nicolae called him by his Christian name.
"Yes, Nicu?"
"You said that this is my room also. What of the one I was given when I arrived?"
Draculea considered how to best explain the situation. "For show’s sake, Nicolae. If anyone not of the
household inquires after where you lodge, they will be told that you stay there."
"Must we lie?" He sounded very young, and very sad.
"Nicolae, sweet," Draculea bent over him, and the boy turned his head to gaze up at him. "I’m sorry. I
know it hurts you, but yes, we must. Certain things must be done for show. Even the greatest king does
not officially lodge his paramour in his own chambers. It is a matter of respect for Beta. To the world
you will have your own little room." He caressed Nicolae’s face, then his throat. "But you will stay
here, with me. It will not be too hard for you?"
Nicolae got on his knees, turning to face Draculea and put his arms around his neck. "I can endure. I
can endure much, as long as you love me."
Draculea stroked his back. "Never doubt that, Nicu. Heaven may fall and Hell may rise, but I will
always love you."
"You must not make such vows." Nicolae’s voice was soft, but concerned. "Please, Vlad. You tempt
fate."
"The only thing I want to tempt is you, sweet love." He moved his hand into the open front of
Nicolae’s shirt, his fingers finding one small, soft nipple and squeezing. Nicolae gasped, arching
toward his touch, and Draculea smiled as he felt the bit of flesh swell and stiffen. "Do I?" His hand
moved to the other side, bringing the other bud to attention. "Do I tempt you, Nicu?"
"Most sorely, master."
"Would you please me, Nicu?"
"With all my heart." Draculea released Nicolae and spread his legs, beginning to unlace his breeches
with one hand. With the other he reached out and touched Nicolae’s mouth, running a fingertip lightly
over his lips. Nicolae opened his mouth, and the finger slipped inside, stroking his tongue. Nicolae
licked it, gave it a brief suck, them pulled back. His head down, he peered up at his lover through a
fringe of dark hair and said shyly, "With my mouth, Domn?"
"Please, Nicu. If you will."
"I will try, but you know my ignorance. You must guide me." Draculea had opened his garments. As
Nicolae stroked the strong muscles of his thighs, he reached into the gap and lifted out his prick. The
boy gave a shuddering sigh that started Draculea’s blood pounding.
Nicolae moved forward into the open vee of his lover’s legs, and nuzzled his face against the still soft
mound of Draculea’s sex. The older man felt the smooth slide of high cheekbones and the faint rasp of
stubble that was still too new to be harsh. Then Nicolae turned his head and dropped a kiss at the base
of the shaft, just at the point where it joined his pelvis. Cradling the member in his palm, he began to
kiss his way down its increasing length till he came to the tip. There he stopped and, with the very tip
of his tongue, teased the first clear drop of pre-ejaculate from the sensitive slit. He lingered there for a
long moment, lapping softly.
Lifting the stiffening prick, he began to work his way down its underside. Now he brought his lips into
play as well as his tongue, licking, then mouthing. By the time he had reached the root, Draculea was
achingly hard, and pre-seminal fluid flowed copiously. He gripped the chair’s arms as Nicolae paused
at the base and worked on the small spot between his staff and balls. As he licked, Nicolae dipped into
Draculea’s pants, pulling aside the cloth, and eased his testicles out, rolling and squeezing gently.
Draculea’s breathing had deepened, and it came more quickly. "Ah, Nicu, if this is ignorance, then
may you be preserved from wisdom."
Draculea’s hips gave tiny jerks as the boy placed soft, sucking kisses on first one testicle, then the
other. "I do well, master?" His breath was warm against the moist skin.
Draculea’s laugh was a little rough. "The flesh doesn’t lie, boy. You can see what you do to me. But as
sweet as this is, it is still torture. Take me in your mouth, Nicolae."
Nicolae pulled back a little, and ran his fingers over Draculea’s shaft, biting his lip thoughtfully.
"There is so much of you, my lord. I wonder that I was able to hold it all. I do not think I will be able
to swallow such a great staff."
"Take what you can, Nicu. It will be enough. Wrap your hands below your mouth."
The young man gripped Draculea’s staff gently, but firmly, bent, and fitted his mouth over the dark,
engorged head. Vlad moaned, closing his eyes as the wet heat enfolded him. Nicolae sucked a little,
then tentatively dropped lower, taking in another inch. He pulled back up, still sucking, then slowly
lowered again, taking in another inch. He repeated the actions again and again, till gradually he
managed to bury half of the straining staff in his mouth. Pulling free he said regretfully, "That is all I
can manage, master. I’m sorry."
"Oh, God, boy! Do not apologize. That will do magnificently, but continue before I go mad." With a
small smile, Nicolae obeyed. This time he immediately took as much of Draculea into his mouth as he
could and began sucking. Draculea tugged his hair gently, to get him to rise. Nicolae pulled off,
looking up at him inquiringly, and Vlad fought down a chuckle. He mustn’t laugh now, not when the
boy was trying so hard to please him. "No, Nicolae. Up and down, and stroke the bottom."
"Oh. Yes, of course," he murmured, returning to his task. Draculea put his hands in Nicolae’s hair and
urged him along with soft pushes and tugs till he had found a pleasing rhythm.
Finally unable to remain still, Draculea gripped Nicolae’s head firmly, whispering, "Be still a little,
sweet boy. Let me..." Nicolae held onto Vlad’s thighs as his lover began to thrust, fucking his mouth
with short, careful strokes. Vlad resisted the urge to ram deeper. Nicolae was willing, and he was
talented. Vlad had no doubt that soon the boy would learn to take his entire staff down his throat, and
would do so joyfully.
When he climaxed, Vlad tried to pull free, not wanting to choke his lover. But the boy was not willing
to relinquish his prize, and clung to him. His glans was barely captured between Nicolae’s lips when
his seed spurted. As he had anticipated, it startled the boy. He gave a muffled gasp, sperm spilling
down his chin, eyes astonished. But then he gulped, trying to swallow the liquid gift.
Laughing now, Draculea pulled him up onto his lap. He used the hem of his shirt to wipe Nicolae’s
face, saying, "You look like a kitten who has had his face pushed into a dish of milk."
Nicolae hugged him, saying, "I will do better next time."
"You will kill me with pleasure, Nicu. Now," He rubbed the boyÃÂ¢Ã¢âÂ¬Ã¢âÂ¢s crotch, finding
him hard, "I must take care of you."
"Please," he said simply, resting his cheek against Draculea’s hair.
"Yes, Nicu." The laces were opened, and he found the hot length of Nicolae’s sex, and began to stroke.
"I will always take care of you."
"For as long as I live?" There was a haunting need in the boy’s tone.
Vlad kissed him, stroking him firmly till the boy shuddered and cried out his release, spilling liquid
heat over his hands. As Nicolae trembled in his arms, Vlad kissed him again, and his whispered words
were a vow. "Beyond that, Nicolae. Forever."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 26: Part 26: Thwarted

Disclaimer: Most main characters belong originally to Bram Stoker.
Summary: Lena and Beta are finding that Draculea isn’t as easily led as they had hoped.
Child of the Night, Part 26: Thwarted

The Next Day
"The gold gown, Lena?"
"No, Beta."
Beta pouted. "But it goes so well with my hair and eyes."
"And it makes your skin sallow. What we want is a rich, jewel-like color. The burgundy, I think. Yes.
This will compliment your hair and eyes also, and it will make your skin seem as white as the first
snow of winter."
Lena helped Beta into the chosen dress, then arranged her hair careful, knotting it just at the nape so
that the long curve of her neck would be accentuated. The long sleeves were tied at her wrists with
white ribbons, and a swatch of matching lace was tucked in her bosom, discreetly masking her
cleavage. She was the image of a well-bred, well-born, attractive young lady.
Lena fluffed the lace carefully. "He is in the library with Nicolae, consulting with a craftsman about
those damn shelves, I think. Go, and let him know that you would welcome him to your bed tonight."
"But what will I say?" Beta whined. "Lena, give me one more day of peace before I have to give
myself to that rutting beast again."
"The sooner you are with child, the sooner you can turn away ALL his advances, Beta. As to what you
should say, be subtle. The upper classes do not expect their women to enjoy the physical side of their
unions, the fools. Act accepting, but not eager. He is sure to be looking eagerly for signs, so it
shouldn’t take much."
Grumbling to herself, Elizabeta made her way to the library. She found Draculea and Nicolae standing
together behind a squat, powerfully built man who sat at the library’s desk, sketching something on a
sheet of parchment. The man was dressed in the neat, sober clothes of a guild craftsman, but his hands
were rough from physical labor. Whatever his trade, he had learned it through experience.
As she entered, he was saying, "You see, my prince? If these tables are moved away from the wall,
and the vertical distance between the shelves is decreased only a little, you can increase the library’s
capacity by more than a third."
Draculea peered over the man’s shoulder, then shrugged. "What do you think, librarian?"
Nicolae was clasping his hands like a child being offered a treat. "Oh, yes, Maria Ta! The books are so
crowded as it is, and there is no room for expansion. This would be ideal."
"Then it’s done."
*How easily you give in, my husband. And if you do this for my brother, what wonders will you grant
your wife?* Beta fixed a smile on her face as she walked toward the men. She meant it to be indulgent,
but instead it was condescending. "Husband." The word was uncomfortable, even distasteful on Beta’s
lips, but Lena had said to remind him of his role and his duty at every turn.
Draculea and Nicolae turned to her, and the craftsman sprang to his feet, bowing low. She nodded to
him graciously, indicating that he could stand at his ease, then turned her attention to the others.
Nicolae beamed at her, his pleasure in her company shining like a beacon in his smile, his eyes full of
admiration.
Draculea favored her with a small, formal smile. "Beta, good morning. You are lovely today." There
was no extra warmth in his words. He might have been remarking that yes indeed, the sun HAD risen
that morning. It was as if he assessed her, catalogued her points, and decided that she deserved the
description, but it still meant little to him.
She curtsied. "I thank you."
"Was there something you wished?"
"I..." Beta fumbled for words, feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks. *What am I supposed to say to
that? Yes, I want you to come to me tonight and give me a baby so that I may never have to withstand
your touch again? In any case I cannot say anything with Nicolae here, staring at me.* "I only wanted
to enjoy your company."
Draculea raised his eyebrows. This was something new. Beta had not sought his presence at any other
time during their short acquaintance. *Damn. I hope she isn’t going to try to be my boon companion.
Still, I can’t very well run her off, especially not so soon after the wedding.*
"I am afraid you may find it tedious, my dear, but you are of course welcome to stay. Nicolae, would
you find a suitable seat for your sister?"
Nicolae hurriedly looked about, chose a chair, and brought it nearer. He wiped the seat and back
carefully with a cloth that had lain over a stack of dusty shelves that were waiting to be cleaned. "I’m
sorry, Beta. You should have a cushion, but the only ones here are so full of dust I fear they would ruin
your fine dress. I will find fresh ones soon, so that you may be comfortable when you visit me here."
She sank into the chair. "How kind of you, Nicolae. But I hardly think I’ll be spending much time
here. There is so much to do with renovating and redecorating, and then there is the running of the
household."
*Which we all know you will leave mostly to Simion, unless you have some delicacy or luxury you
wish provided,* Draculea thought cynically. He saw the slight hurt in Nicolae’s eyes at her casual
dismissal, and was torn. On the one hand he wanted the boy to have everything his heart desired. But
on the other, he could not help but feel that Beta was perhaps not the ideal companion for his lover.
Nicolae was devoted to her, but Beta had shown time and again how little she appreciated that
devotion. He hoped Nicolae would find friends among his household. It might mute the hurt that was
sure to grow when he realized that Beta needed him only as another admirer. "Nicolae."
At his soft call the sadness melted from the boy’s face, and he turned to Draculea with a smile that
showed the falseness of Beta’s expression. "You must oversee this alone for awhile. I need to go train
with some of my men."
"Train, Domn?"
Draculea resisted the urge to stroke Nicolae’s cheek. It wouldn’t do to caress his lover in front of his
wife. "I am a warrior, Nicolae. Skills grow rusty if they are not honed."
"Oh." The boy’s clear expression clouded at the reminder of the violence that always hovered near.
Then he said shyly, "Barnabas knows what I want. I could come watch you?" He spoke the last as a
question.
"Not today, not this training. I must practice with my hand weapons. It gets rough, Nicolae. You
would be distressed. Perhaps you can come when I put Lucifer through his paces, or practice with the
spear or bow and arrow, but not today. Stay with the carpenter." Nicolae sighed, but he nodded,
acquiescing to his lord’s order. He turned back to watch the carpenter as he made tiny corrections to
the sketch.
Draculea gave Beta a small bow. "My lady."
He was surprised when, as he passed her, she caught his sleeve, murmuring, "Husband, a word with
you?"
He paused. "Of course, Beta."
She tossed a glance at the other two men, then looked back to Draculea. "Privately?"
It took him a moment to realize that she expected him to dismiss the others. Draculea managed to
control the frown that rose to his lips. If she wanted to hold audiences in solitary splendor, she had her
own rooms. This place belonged to Nicolae, and Vlad was not going to chase the boy out at Beta’s
whim. "Certainly." He offered her his arm.
Beta hesitated, obviously wanting to explain to him that he had misunderstood her wishes. Then she
looked at his eyes and realized that he understood her very well. She stood, placing her hand on his
arm, and allowed him to lead her from the room.
Neither noticed Nicolae watching them wistfully. Then he shook his head briskly, turning back to his
work. He must not envy his sister’s place at Draculea’s side in the eyes of the world. Vlad loved him.
He had said so, he had shown him.
Draculea did not want to bother with the walk to Beta’s room, so he stopped in the entry hall, near the
door. When Beta looked around he said, "We are alone here. My men are waiting, Beta. What did you
wish to say?"
She took a breath and said softly, "I am feeling well rested and refreshed, my lord."
"I am most pleased to hear it." He waited for her to continue.
Beta fidgeted. Lena had said he would need only a hint. "The rigors of the wedding were not as great
as I had feared."
"Again I am happy."
"I thought... perhaps..." She floundered.
*Good God,* Draculea thought wryly. *The chit is inviting me to her bed.* "I see, Beta." She sighed,
obviously relieved. "The resiliency of youth is remarkable." He kissed her hand. "Perhaps in a day or
two we can again try to fulfill the order that the blessed Lord gave us to be fruitful. But not tonight."
With that he went into the front courtyard, leaving Beta gaping in a most unladylike manner.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I must wait."
"What? Beta, I told you, you HAVE to do this, no matter how distasteful."
"You don’t understand, Lena. I tried. I told him I was feeling well, that the distress of the wedding
night was past."
"Perhaps you were too subtle. I would hardly credit, though, that a man like Draculea would mistake
an invitation."
"He didn’t. He understood well enough, but he said not tonight. Perhaps in a day or so."
"Perhaps?" Lena’s eyes, already small, narrowed even more. "Perhaps. That is not good enough, Beta.
Not good enough at all. We shall simply have to change his mind." Lena plucked the froth of lace out
of Beta’s neckline, took hold of it, and pulled the fabric down, exposing the upper curves of her
breasts.
"Lena..." Beta smiled and leaned toward the older woman for a kiss, only to be pushed back. Puzzled
she said, "But I thought you wanted..."
"If he is not interested in subtlety, there are other tactics." She pulled the pins from Beta’s hair, letting
it tumble free.
Beta saw Lena’s intention, and shook her head. "No, Lena! I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make myself...
common for him."
Lena gripped her shoulders, squeezing hard. Still she was careful not to bruise the delicate flesh, not
when it had to be on display for its legal owner. "Listen to me, girl! Marriages have been annulled
because of the wife’s infertility. I will not risk that happening to you. You WILL do this, Beta. For
both our sakes."
As always, Beta submitted. "Yes, Lena," she said meekly. She comforted herself with thoughts of how
Lena would try to soothe her after the ordeal was over, and decided that it would almost be worth it.
Almost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Barnabas had finished the sketch and gone to begin searching for the proper sort of materials to build
the shelves. Nicolae spent a few moments cataloguing, but for some reason was feeling restless.
It was the fact that Vlad was training, he decided. Nicolae had known, of course, that his lover was a
warrior. Prince Draculea had led his forces many times against the heathens, fighting at the behest of
the Church. He had repelled attacks on Wallachia and, even during this time of relative peace,
occasionally led his men in efforts to control the bandits that preyed on his people.
With his sheltered life in the abbey, Nicolae had not seen much violence. There had been a few brawls
among the lay workers that had resulted in bloody noses and split lips. There had been travelers,
attacked by bandits, who had been brought to the brothers for their healing skills. Some of these
unfortunates had even died. But for such a raw and violent age, Nicolae had witnessed very little
actual mayhem. The thought of men deliberately inflicting pain on each other made him feel cold and
sick, but there was still a certain fascination. After all, it was what Vlad DID. It was a part of him.
Surely Nicolae should be acquainted with every aspect of the man he loved?
He had found a window that looked out over the courtyard where the prince was training with a few of
his select men. Nicolae crouched, peeping over the sill to watch the activity below. He didn’t want
Vlad to see that he was disobeying. Nicolae knew that someone with an easy conscience and a smooth
tongue might argue that he was NOT disobeying, since he had not tried to join the men below. But
Nicolae was scrupulously honest with himself. He knew very well that Vlad did not wish him to
witness the rough swordplay. He silently hoped that Draculea would be too preoccupied to notice his
spying, and that if he did, he would be forgiving.
The combatants wore light leather armor, and their weapons were wooden swords. While the blades
were too blunted to cut or cause death, they left impressive bruises when wielded with the force of a
powerful man like the prince.
As Nicolae watched, Draculea and Simion fought. The older man did not have the prince’s size and
reach, but he was quick, nimble, and cunning. And he did not hold back, that was important. There
was always the chance that a training partner, fearful of inciting Draculea’s famous temper, would
check his attack, not putting forth his best effort. That enraged Draculea. "How can I expect to gain the
skills I need to survive when they do not TRY? Do they think my enemies will be so considerate?"
The wooden blades clattered and clashed as the men fought. Nicolae watched a heavy blow strike
Draculea’s thigh, and he winced. That would leave a bruise, even through the leather armor. He saw
Draculea patting Simion on the back, congratulating him on a strike that would have effectively
crippled the prince if they had been using standard weapons.
Then the group of men turned almost as one to look toward the front of the castle. Nicolae flinched
back, at first thinking he had been discovered, but then realized that they were watching someone who
had come from the front hall. Nicolae wondered who could have garnered such undivided attention?
Surely not a servant.
He had his answer when the slender figure walked into view, approaching the men. Though her back
was to him, he recognized her as Beta from her dress. But something was different... Then he realized
what it was. Instead of being caught up in a neat, modest bun or snood, her long, dark hair was
tumbling over her shoulders and down her back.
Nicolae blinked in disbelief. A respectable, well born woman, past the freeness of childhood, did NOT
appear in public with her hair loose. Even the household servants and peasant women, the ones with
some pretention to respectability, only loosened their hair in their bedchambers. What was Beta
thinking of, going out like this before men?
Draculea, on the other hand, knew EXACTLY what Beta was thinking. The gown that had been so
proper and fashionable earlier now looked decadent, the neckline exposing the rounded tops of her
small, but well-formed breasts. Her dark hair flowed over pale shoulders in waves, and he thought
briefly that he must ask Nicolae to let his own hair, so like Beta’s, grow out of its monkish crop. The
idea of burying his hands in such a thick, silky mass as they made love was incredibly erotic. Even as
annoyed as he was, he had to fight down a smile as she drew near. *She arrays herself like a whore to
entice me and only succeeds in turning my thoughts to her brother.*
But as she drew nearer the amusement faded to be replaced by anger. Her lips and cheeks were
unnaturally red against skin that was even paler than it should be. The girl was wearing cosmetics.
While it might be fashionable for the more daring court ladies, it was not something suitable for a
princess, and most especially not for the eyes of anyone but her husband.
Draculea went to meet her, not wanting her to come any closer to the small group of staring men than
necessary. "Beta," he growled. "What in God’s name possesses you?"
She flinched, then straightened her shoulders. Perhaps she could get this over with quickly. She made
her tone silky and suggestive. "You tax yourself, husband. I only wish to offer you a bit of respite, and
comfort." She steeled herself and reached out to gently wipe a bead of sweat off his brow. "Why not
come stay with me for a while? My room is cool and quiet."
"Then I suggest you go there. Perhaps you could have your Lena order a bath so that you might
remove that paint." He took hold of her wrist, his grip firm almost to the point of pain, and said
quietly, "You will not appear like this again. Do you think I want my men to see my wife tricked out
like a tavern wench?"
"I only wanted..."
"I KNOW what you want, Beta, believe me. I will visit you when I feel it is fitting, not before. Do not
worry, I fully intend to have a child with you, if God is willing. But neither you, nor..." his lips pulled
back from his teeth, "any other will dictate my schedule."
There was a call from the man on watch at the gate. "My lord! Travelers approach."
Draculea, still holding Beta, looked to the gate. "And why do you tell me this?"
"Lord, I fear there has been another bandit attack. They bring a body across one of the horses."
Draculea released Elizabeta and said shortly, "Beta, go inside." Beta moved as if to obey, and Draculea
turned to go to the gate. But as the three horses entered the courtyard, she turned back and stealthily
came after him, her velvet slippers making her steps silent.
In the castle Nicolae hurried away from the window. He headed first for the chapel. There had been a
body slung across one of the horses, covered with a cloak. Father Mircea must attend. If there was any
spark of life left at all, the last rites must be performed. If there was not then prayers for the soul of the
unfortunate should begin immediately.
The two men who had brought the corpse dismounted and bowed to the prince. "Prince Draculea," said
one. "We were returning to the village, and we found this poor soul in the road some miles from here.
We came immediately, knowing that you would wish to know."
"You did well. It looks as if it is the work of bandits?"
"It would seem so," the man agreed, "though it is the most vicious attack I have heard of." He
shuddered. "The man was not just killed: he was destroyed. In any case, there was an empty money
bag beside him, and two fingers are missing, no doubt taken for their rings."
Draculea nodded. *Well, Ernestu, I knew this would come, but I had hoped for another day or two.*
"Do you know who he is?"
"No, Domn, but he is either a noble, or a wealthy man. His clothing is rich."
"I fear that one of the guests did not make his way home." He gestured for the man to remove the
covering.
Ernestu had not fared well during his time in the open. The ravens had taken his eyes, of course, and
local dogs had found him. There was very little flesh left on his face. His teeth gleamed, naked, his lips
haveing been stripped away by a fox who had been delighted to find such an easy meal. "Well,"
Draculea drawled, "We may have to wait until his people miss him, and begin searching..."
There was a scream behind him, and he whirled to find a white faced Beta staring at the corpse. The
rouge on her cheeks stood out starkly as the color drained from her face, and her dark eyes were
enormous. "Father!"
"What? Beta, no. Your father left here with three armed men, surely he would have been safe. You are
distressed. I told you to go inside."
"No, it IS Father."
"Only God himself could recognize this poor wretch. If it will ease your mind I will send men to
Castle Varga for news, but you must..."
"NO!" She pointed a shaking finger, and Draculea looked.
A necklace hung from the dead man’s neck, swinging lazily as the horse shifted. Dangling at the end
was a thick signet ring. "That is his sealing ring. He could no longer wear it, so he kept it on that chain.
It must have been inside his shirt, and the bandits missed it."
"Yes, that must be so." *And I should have thought to check,* Draculae thought sourly. *You would
have thought that some beast or thief would have made off with it by now. Honest men can sometimes
be a curse.* "Are you sure, Beta?"
She held out her hand. Reluctantly he removed the necklace and dropped it into her palm. Draculea
saw Nicolae hurrying from the castle with Father Mircea at his side. He gestured for the young man to
stay back, but it was useless. As strong as his will to obey his lord was, it was outweighed by his
instinct to offer aid and comfort.
The girl examined the heavy seal as Nicolae approached, then looked up at Draculea with eyes
brimming with tears. "Yes. It is his." She turned another horrified glance, one that contained more than
a little disgust, on the corpse.
The two men reached the little tableau. Mircea went directly to the horse. Wetting his finger with holy
oil from a small bottle, he drew a cross on the mutilated forehead of the dead man and began to
implore God for mercy on his soul and forgiveness of his sins. Nicolae touched Beta’s shoulder. "Beta,
you should not be here."
"Take her inside, Nicolae," Draculea ordered, hoping to get him away before he had too close a look at
the body.
When Nicolae gently took her shoulder, Beta slapped at him, crying out, "Don’t! I won’t leave, he
needs me."
"Beta, please, you cannot help this pour soul, and you will make yourself ill," Nicolae chided.
"Poor soul?! Fool! Can’t you see?" She thrust the ring at his face. "It is Father, Nicolae. Father is
dead." Draculea cursed silently. He had hoped that he would be able to break the news to his lover
gently.
Nicolae blanched, his eyes flying to the flayed face of the body. Bright tears pooled in his eyes, and
the wide, soft mouth that Draculea loved so well trembled. But his voice was quiet and steady as he
said, "Then we must go pray for his soul, Beta. Come." He tugged at her gently. "We must not think of
ourselves now."
The girl crumpled against his side, and he put his arms around her, supporting her. She sobbed. "I’m
sorry, Nicu. But Father..."
"Sh, it’s all right, Beta. Come." He lead her back toward the castle, his strong young body supporting
her. As they went he stroked her hair, murmuring words of comfort.
Watching them go Draculea thought, *She does not deserve him. I do not deserve him.* He sighed.
*The world does not deserve him.* Then he turned back to instruct his men on what to do with the
corpse. "Take it to... I’d say the stables, but it has begun to stink, and it might frighten the horses.
There is a small room off the great hall. Put it there till we can arrange for him to lie in the chapel."
As the body was lifted down and carried inside he thought, *Why not, Ernestu? Let one of your last
habitations on earth be the room where your punishment began."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 27: Part 27: Mourning

Disclaimer: All but original characters belong to Bram Stoker
Summary: Beta’s and Nicolae’s reactions to Ernestu’s death are different.
Author’s Notes: Okay, this will be a bit grotty. Ernestu’s body must be prepared for burial, and he IS
in a bit of a state. ’Unshriven’ means that the person in question died with their sins on their soul,
unable to make a final confession. The term ’scully’ (pl. scullies) comes from ’scullery’, a small room
off a kitchen (esp. in Britain) used specifically for
cleaning kitchen utensils, and other rough work. Thus the ones did the lowest, dirtiest kitchen work
were ’scullies’.
Child of the Night, Part 27: Mourning

Castle Dracula, Romania
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."
TBC
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Chapter 28: Part 28: Balances

Disclaimer: Recognizable characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker.
Summary: Draculea and Nicolae come to something of an understanding about their relationship.
Child of the Night, Part 28: Balances

Ernestu’s body was placed on a bier before the altar 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 think 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 to be 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 Nicolae 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 so much 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 no 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, who 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."
tbc
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Chapter 29: Part 29: Frustration

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer: All well known characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker.
Summary: A year into the marriage, Beta is still not pregnant, and Lena is becoming impatient.
Notes: catamite: a boy who has a sexual relationship ith a man.

"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?" I would say "Whom does he coddle?"
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.*
end this part
Back to index
Chapter 30: Part 30: Confrontation

Pairing: Very briefly, Lena/Beta
Disclaimer: All but original characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker.
Summary: Lena tries to blackmail Vlad into doing as she wants, but has the tables turned.
Author’s Notes: Sex toys are nothing new. There are records of them many centuries in the past.
Child of the Night, Part 30: 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."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 31: Part 31: Poison, and Passing

Pairing: Nicolae/Vlad
Summary: Lena continues to try to poison Beta against Nicu, and Vlad gives Nicu that gift he
discussed with Simion. :).
Author’s Notes: A poppet is a doll. There were jointed wooden dolls in the middle ages.
Warning: If sex with props squicks you, steer clear.
Rating: NC-17
Child of the Night, Part 31: 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."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 32: Part 32: Reunion

Fandom: Dracula
Disclaimer: Only Nicu and Lena are my originals I make no money.
Child of the Night, Part 32: 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, swalled 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 don 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." Comma between "there" and "you".
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 33: Part 33: Preparations
Summary: Draculea reluctantly decides he must enter into diplomatic relations with the Turks.
Notes: Please do not rail at me about the archaic concept of ’hospitality’. You can’t tell me that they
don’t still make compliant companions available to visiting dignitaries in some countries.
Child of the Night, Part 33: 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, 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. "No, 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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 34: Part 34: Forbidden Fruit

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker.
Summary: The Turkish envoys arrive, and one of them makes a grave mistake.

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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 35: Part 35: Bad Judgement

Summary: Rahazad makes a huge mistake, setting in motion events that will lead to tragedy.
Notes: I was going to go straight through to the event that leads up to the tragedy, but the chapter was
already long, and I found what looked like a good stopping place. Forgive me. I promise the next
chapter soon.
Warning: Vlad has a nasty way of dealing with insubbordination.
Special and long overdue thanks to my marvelous and patient beta, Janet. The story is most definitely
better, due to her patient, thorough, gentle, and sometimes humorous correction.
Child of the Night, Part 35: 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 his 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.*
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 36: Part 36: Calamity

Summary: Rahazad pays dearly for his molestation of Nicolae.
Warning: Gruesomeness
Notes: Lutfen, Prens, merhamet--Please, Prince, mercy. ’Stoneless’--Draculea is telling him that he
acts like he has no balls.
Part 36: 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."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 37: Part 37: Foreboding

Author’s Notes: Pairing: Nicolae/Draculea
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, neither do I make any profit from this venture.
Summary: War is coming, and Lean works on Nicolae.
Notes: commode (plural commodes) noun 1. chair with chamber pot: a chair or box-shaped piece of
furniture holding a chamber pot covered by a lid 2. portable washstand: a movable washstand with a
cupboard underneath containing a chamber pot or washbasin 3. decorated cabinet: a low cabinet or
chest of drawers, usually elaborately decorated.

A week later
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.
TBC
Don’t worry. I have the next chapter beta-ed, and will post it as soon as I have the corrections made. It
may be less than an hour.
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Chapter 38: Part 38: Tragedy

Author’s Notes: WARNINGS, PAY ATTENTION TO THIS!: I am putting this at the very beginning
because I feel it is important, so please heed it. Major character death, and I think you know who I
mean. He’ll be reincarnated later, but he dies now. Please do not send me bills for keyboards ruined
by tears, because you’ve been warned.
This is the end of the first of three sections. The next section will begin Draculea’s unlife. LENA WILL
GET HERS, I PROMISE YOU, but you have to wait till the next chapter. I’ll try to make it worthwhile.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, neither do I make any profit from this venture. Summary:
Tragedy. The final chapter of the first section. The next chapter will begin Draculea’s life as one of the
undead, and his revenge on Lena.
Warnings: Character death, death, destruction, and religious statements that may upset some. These
do not reflect personal beliefs, but are for the sake of the story.

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?”
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 39: Chapter 39: Reawakening

Author’s Notes: Pairing: Draculea/Simion
Summary: Draculea awakens into his new unlife.
Notes: Promise, Lena buys it in the next chapter.
Warnings: vampirism

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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 40: Chapter 40: Revenge Begins

Summary: Vlad begins his revenge on Lena.
Warnings: Het. Rape as punishment. This, though sick, is accurate, both historically and (sadly) in
some misguided areas of the modern world. I in no way endorse this, and you really shouldn’t have to
be told that. It’s included because Vlad is a cruel man when it comes to someone hurting his love, and
he knows just how effective this will be with Lena.
Child of the Night, Part 40: Revenge Begins

The Dungeon, Castle Draculea, Romania
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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 41: Chapter 41: Torture
WARNING: PAY ATTENTION, PEOPLE! When I put the WARNING at the head of the story, you can
know that I mean business. This is a very dark, very violent, very NASTY chapter. Vlad has reverted to
WORSE than he was before Nicolae, and he takes his revenge on Lena VERY thoroughly. This chapter
will include graphic scenes of torture--mental, physical, and sexual, also death and blood drinking. If
you are at all squeamish, PLEASE be cautious in reading this. You might want to be careful about
eating this near or just after mealtime. You may want to skip it. If you decide to go on, you have been
warned. Consider having something funny or light and sweet to read or watch just after this. It has
images that would be very heavy to carry in your mind the rest of the day.
Pairing: Draculea/other
Notes: You can see examples of the heretic’s fork and inquisitional chair at this url
http://www.torturamuseum.com/instruments.html Other instruments mentioned can be viewed at
http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Basement/9560/tdevices.html
To anyone who thinks I was too vicious and graphic: I didn’t use The Pear *shudder*
Summary: Dracula accomplishes his revenge against Lena.
Child of the Night, Chapter 41: 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
beyound 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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 42: Chapter 42: Looking Forward
Summary: Draculea begins to settle into his new ’life’, and discovers a way to keep a friend with him
through the ages.
Child of the Night, Part 42: Looking Forward

A week later
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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 43: Chapter 43: Routine

Pairing: Draculea/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Draculea is adjusting to his unlife, learning more about his state.
Warnings: m/m rape
Child of the Night, Part 43: 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 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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 44: Chapter 44: Horizons

Summary: Simion coaxes Draculea to get out of his rut.
Child of the Night, Part 44: 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
Vitelli almost forty years before, was hung in the center of one wall, and Draculea had taken up his
accustomed place before it. As Simion entered, Draculea was pulling a chair up before it and sitting
down.
*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 lus-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 holdong 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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 45: Chapter 45: Trysting

Pairing: Vlad/Simion/OMC
Summary: Vlad and Simion spend time at a villa in Florence.
Warnings: Multiple partner sex, no protection used, but this was the middle ages, people.
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.
Definations: Orti Oricellari--’Garden of Oricellari’, Immediatamente--immediately,
perdonillo--forgive me, poco un dolce--a little sweet
Child of the Night, Part 45: Trysting

The Villa Rucellai, Outside of Florence, Italy
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 he was still
perfectly capable of finding bed partners himself, 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 Romanian 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 drunks 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, Adamo, 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."
TBC
Back to index

Fandom: Dracula
Pairing: None
Summary: Vlad encounters two men who will become part of his life.
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.
Child of the Night, Part 46: Meeting

Budapest, Hungary
"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 Romanian
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."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 47: Chapter 47: Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought

Fandom: Dracula
Pairing: Draculea/Rill
Summary: Draculea and Rill spend some time together.
Warnings: vampirism
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: Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought

Budapest, Hungary
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," he 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, too 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.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 48: Chapter 48: Connecting

Fandom: Dracula
Pairing: None
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are courtesy of Bram Stoker.
Summary: Simion spends time with Rill and finds himself not only attracted, but growing fond.
Child of the Night, Part 48: Connecting
Budapest, Hungary
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 Romanian 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."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 49: Chapter 49: Intervention
Fandom: Dracula
Pairing: Rock/Rill
Archive: If I sent it to you.
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters courtesy of Bram Stoker.
Summary: Rock makes Rill suffer after his interlude with Draculea.
Notes: I had fully intended to have Rock and Rill vampirized by the end of this chapter, but my muses
ambushed me and knocked me over the head wiht Rock’s assholeness. By the time I regained
consciousness the episode was 4/5 finished, and it would have been WAAAY too long if I’d gone on.
Next time, promise. Vlad sires!
Child of the Night, Part 49: Intervention

Budapest, Hungary
Rock awoke with a foul taste in his mouth and an even fouler disposition. He sat up, peeling dank
sheets from his body and pulled the chamberpot out from under the bed. He scowled when he found it
half full of a noxious mess, including his latest companion’s vomit. He got up and went, naked, to the
window. Throwing it open, he dumped the contents without bothering to look. An obscene shout from
the street told him that some unwary passerby had timed his morning walk very badly. Rock ignored
the clamour, shutting the window and relieving himself in the empty, but still odorous, pot.
He began to get dressed as quietly as possible, shooting glances at the young man who was snoring on
the other side of the bed. What was his name again? Gregory? Emory? He’d been pouting because his
pimp had turned him out, and Rock had started buying him drinks, listening to him whine. It had
occured to Rock that Rill had almost reached the point where he could no longer market him as a
youth. Profits were bound to fall. With what he was earning from Prince Draculea he thought he might
be able to afford taking on one or two younger whores. This one had seemed a likely prospect, but
now he wasn’t sure.
The boy was about sixteen, and his cheeks and brow were marred by angry red eruptions, topped with
yellow pustules. They were even sprinkled down his neck and across his shoulders and upper back.
They were aggravated by the boy’s tendency to scratch and pick, and this was why the pimp had
decided that the boy couldn’t earn enough to be worth his while. Rock had to agree, given his present
state, but he had checked the boy’s sex carefully before he fucked him, and was satisfied that the
eruptions were not due to a disease. It was merely the normal skin trouble that attacked so many boys
in their teens. Rock felt that if the boy was forced to clean his skin properly, and if he was kept from
eating sweets and greasy meats, it would probably clear up. Given the petulance and self-indulgence
the boy had shown last night, it would be a struggle to force him to behave. Rock smiled cruelly. He
rather liked the idea of forcing the boy to live according to his rules. Rill had always been docile--not
much of a challenge.
Rock pulled on his boots, still contemplating the boy. *If it wasn’t for the rash, he’d be a fine looking
boy. His hair is gold, and his ass is round and tight. He could be good, if I handle him right. What IS
his name?* Rock shrugged. *If I take him on, it will be what I say it is.*
Rock poked the boy, none too gently. The lad yawned, (good teeth) and opened murky blue eyes.
Rock fished a copper coin out of his purse and offered it. "Here."
The boy frowned. "I usually get silver."
Rock scowled. "This is for your breakfast--I told you last night I wasn’t paying for a tumble. You can
consider last night as an audition."
The boy pouted, but he took the coin, bouncing it in his palm. "How did I do?"
"Fair. I’ll need another demonstration, perhaps tonight. Wash your face before I see you again." Rock
was turning away, when he heard the boy sniff and mumble something sarcastic. He turned back
swiftly and caught the young man by his hair, shaking him. His victim squealed in pain. "None of your
sauce, boy! Some of the customers may find that amusing, but I do NOT!"
"Yes, yes, all right! I’m sorry." Rock shook him again. "Truly, sir, I’m sorry. I’ll wash. I... I’ll wash all
over."
Pleased, Rock loosened his hold, smoothing the thick hair back. "Don’t forget your hair. Soft, clean
hair is a good selling point." The boy’s blue eyes were now bright pain and alarm. A tear trickled
down his cheek, and Rock caught it on his thumb, then sucked it off. "You look good like this. What is
your name, boy?"
"Emory."
Rock raised one finger, as if in instruction. His voice was warning. "If it please you, sir."
"Emory, if it please you, sir."
"We’ll see. Be here tonight. Don’t make me search for you." He left, and a trembling Emory wondered
if his former pimp would take him back if he were properly humble.
*****
It was just past dawn when Rock went back to his house. Clothilde grumbled when she let him in.
"Not a moment’s peace for an honest woman."
Rock snorted contemptuously. "And who would this honest woman be?"
The landlady ignored the insult. Rock paid steadily, so she was willing to take a certain amount of
rudeness. "It ain’t been an hour since I had to let your brother’s high-and-mighty sweetheart out--now
you."
Rock frowned. "He’s gone already? I don’t understand. He pays for the full night, and he seems to like
Rill well enough. Why doesn’t he stay?"
Clothilde shrugged, but just before she slammed and locked her door she cooed, "Maybe he don’t want
to meet with you."
Rock was in just the mood to raise a welt on her cheek, but she was too quick for him. He rapped
sharply on his own door. When there wasn’t an immediate answer he pounded on the slats with the
heel of his hand. "Rill! Stir your lazy ass!" He waited a moment, then used his boots, kicking his door.
"RILL!"
"I come, brother." The voice was faint and clogged.
Rock heard the key turn in the door. He didn’t wait for Rill to open the door. Instead he twisted the
knob and shoved it open. If Rill hadn’t been turned he might have gotten a broken nose. As it was the
door slammed into his shoulder, and he stumbled back. His feet slipped, and he fell sprawling.
Rock shut and locked the door. "Get up, you clumsy fool." Rill climbed to his feet, rubbing his
shoulder. He moved slowly, using a chair to brace himself. "What’s the matter with you? You move
like an old man."
Rill blinked at him mildly. "I am sorry, Rock. It’s just that I’m so tired." He went to sit on the rumpled
bed.
Rock gave him a tight, nasty smile. "So, even if he leaves early, the prince takes full value." Rill
nodded, smiling dreamily. Something about his brother’s contented, sated expression irritated Rock.
He went closer, examining Rill.
Rill was naked, and his skin was so white that it seemed to glow in the room’s dim light. Even his
normally pink lips and cockhead seemed pale. He thought that there were faint lavender shadows
under Rill’s eyes. That was his only color, save his dark hair and eyes... and the bruise on his neck.
Rock took hold of Rill’s jaw, turning his head for a closer look.
It might be a passion mark--it was about the right size. It was oddly colored. The center was a deep
purple, but it faded out to wine-red, and the edges were the faint yellow-green of a healing bruise. And
in the center... he squinted. There were two ragged, raw patches--like two healing punctures where
someone had picked away the scabs. "Boy, what did he do to you?"
Rill touched the mark with a wistful smile. "Nothing."
"Nothing? You’re marked. That’s going to cost him extra." He scowled. "If we see him again."
"I will." Rill pointed to the table. There was another gold coin on the table. "He left money."
"That’s a good start, but he’ll have to pay more for damages, and more still for monopolizing your
time."
Rill frowned. "But Rock, I don’t mind."
"What does your opinion matter, idiot?" He took another look at the table, noticing the glittering aray
of in soldiers, and pointed. "What is this?"
Rill smiled. "It is supposed to be the Battle of Sovegny, in 1551, but I do not have any Turkish
soldiers. The prince said that Simion could buy me some today, and we would do it properly tonight."
He yawned. "I’m very sleepy. I don’t know if I want to go out, but I really want those soldiers. I saw
some tiny horses, painted all different colors, and..."
"Boy, have you lost what little mind you have?" Rock angrily swept the toys off the table. "If he wants
to spend money on you, have him buy you jewelry. We can sell that."
Rill sadly looked at his treasured toys, scattered over the floor. "I don’t want jewelry. I like toys."
"You..." Rock took a step toward Rill. His foot came down on a soldier. It rolled, and his foot slipped.
He fell. He heard a faint titter from Rill and his control, never strong, snapped.
He leaped up and fell upon his brother. He slapped Rill several times, hard and fast. Rill instinctively
rolled into a ball to escape the stinging assault, but then Rock doubled up his fist and rained blows on
his sides and back. Rill knew better than to scream--it made Rock angrier. He whimpered. "What did I
do, Rock? What did I do?" Finally he sobbed. "I’m sorry! I’m sorry!"
The blows stopped, but Rill shook as he heard the faint rasp of cloth on cloth that told him that Rock
was unlacing his breeches. He tried to stop crying. Crying usually made Rock stop beating him, but his
brother didn’t want him to cry when he fucked him, and that was what was coming next. It almost
always did.
Rock smacked his ass, and Rill quickly got up on his hands and knees. The bed dipped behind him as
Rock crawled up between his spread knees. *He didn’t take off his boots. I hope he didn’t walk in the
gutter, or I’ll need to get fresh sheets from Clothilde for the prince tonight.*
Rock roughly parted Rill’s cheeks and examined him. His back entrance was still a little loose and
pink, but clean. "I’m glad to see that you remembered to clean yourself."
"Draculea does it."
"You mean he washes you when he’s done with you?" Rock snorted. "He pays premium rates and then
what does he do? He plays body slave to a whore." Rock was fully erect--disciplining Rill often made
him hard. It was lucky that the same one who had made him burn could be used to quench the fire. He
gripped Rill’s hips and entered him fully with one brutal lunge.
Rill cried out softly, muffling it against the pillow lest Rock be angered even more. Draculea had again
been gentle, but their coupling had been long, and he was still tender. Rock knew this, but it made no
difference in the way he took his pleasure. He pounded into his brother’s ass with all his strength. The
prince and his man were coddling Rill, and Rock was determined to remind his brother exactly who he
belonged to.
Luckily Rock was the worse for his previous night’s drinking and debauchery, and he did not last long.
After a few dozen stabbing thrusts he spewed his seed into Rill’s core, grunting his satisfaction. When
he pulled out there was a trace of blood on his cock, but he wiped it away, saying, "You’re becoming
sloppy-loose, Rill. Perhaps I should get old Dervil to take a stitch or two in your ass to tighten you up."
As Rock stepped off the bed Rill collapsed, his trembling arms and legs giving out. If Rock had
bothered to pay attention, he would have noticed that his brother’s breathing was far too rapid and
shallow, but he was more concerned with the gold coin lying on the table. He picked it up and admired
it before slipping it into his purse. "That ugly bastard who came for you yesterday, will he be back
again today?" When there was no answer, Rock cuffed Rill on the back of the head. "Well?"
"Yes. Simion will come to take me to eat." His voice was a whisper. "He said I could see the puppet
show in the marketplace, if I wanted."
"A waste of time, but the prince is paying for it. I may be hungry when I come back tomorrow, so have
him buy some food--bread and cheese, sausages. Tell him you want another bottle of wine--a good
one."
"There is still some wine."
Rock cuffed him again. "You might think of ME occasionally, you self-centered slut. Tell him that he
has to leave more this time, understand? Half again... No, twice as much. Yes, double the fee if he
wants you again after tonight."
Rock left without another word or backward glance. Rill curled into a ball, pulling both thin blankets
up to his chin, and still he shivered. He was so cold since the prince had left. His poor mind, usually a
bit confused, was whirling now, but his jumbled thoughts didn’t keep him awake. He dropped quickly
into a deep, exhausted sleep that was almost unconsciousness.
*****
Clothilde grumbled as she admitted Simion. "You lot will fair work me to death. This used to be a
nice, quiet house, and now I’m up and down at all hours of the day and night."
Simion ignored her and knocked on Rill’s door. There was no answer at first, and he felt a tug of
impatience. He found that he was looking forward to seeing the boy, and he didn’t like the delay.
When another round of knocking did not bring him, either, he turned to Clothilde, who had lingered.
"Has he gone out?"
She shook her head. "I let them in and out. His brother left, but Rill wasn’t with him. He’s in there all
right. Mayhap he’s drunk." She giggled meanly. "Mayhap he lost what little wits he had an’..." She
trailed off at the cold look in Simion’s eyes. "I can fetch a key, in case the lad is doing poorly."
Simion tried the door, and found it unlocked. "That won’t be necessary. Go about your business." He
waited for her to shut her door before he went in.
The little room was warm and dim, but Simion could make out a figure huddled on the bed. "Rill?" It
shifted slightly. Simion lit the table lamp and went to the bed. "Time to get up, boy, if you want to eat
before you see that show." All that was visible above the blanket *no, blankets. He must be
sweltering* was a tumble of dark curls. Simion put his hand on Rill’s shoulder to shake him, and felt
the shaking. "Rill!"
The face that peered up at him was nearly as white as the pillow behind it, the eyes huge. Simion could
see the sticky tracks of tears on his cheek. "Simion..." Rill’s voice was a whisper. "I’m sorry. I think
I’m sick. I don’t think I can go out today."
He sat up, slowly and painfully. Simion’s face pinched in anguish when he saw the bruises mottling
the boy’s slender shoulders and back. *Draculea did not do this, and that leaves only one other.*
Simion touched one purple patch and Rill’s head drooped. He said quietly. "I fell down. I’m clumsy."
Simion cradled his chin, tipping it up so that he could look down into Rill’s face, and said, "Why did
Rock beat you?"
Rill gave up pretense. "I shouldn’t have laughed when he slipped. I know he doesn’t like that. If I
hadn’t laughed, he wouldn’t have had to correct me."
Simion bent over him, slipping his arms around the boy’s neck. Rill threw his arms around Simion’s
waist, pressing his face to the older man’s body, burrowing against him. "I feel so cold, Simion."
Simion stroked the boy’s hair. "I have to leave you for a few minutes, Rill." When he tried to pull
away the young man clung to him, and he reluctantly peeled the arms away. "I’ll be right back, I
promise."
Rill wiped his face with the back of his hand. His voice hopeless he said dully, "Rock promised me I
could have two nights off."
"This time, boy, the promise will be kept." He pressed a kiss to Rill’s forehead. "On my blood."
In the next block he found a street urchin who was willing to take a message to Draculea’s house for
the promise of a copper coin upon his return. He went back to sit with Rill, and Clothilde had the good
sense not to make any comments when the gypsy arrived not much later.
Simion met him at the front door. Tossing a coin to the boy, who promptly disappeared to spend his
booty, Simion spoke with the swarthy man, using the Rom dialect, then they both went inside.
Simion wrapped Rill in the bed covers. "You are going for a ride, Rill. I’m sorry that it isn’t a carriage,
but I’ll sit with you in the back of the wagon." When Rill looked reluctant he said, "I’m taking you to
the prince’s house."
Rill’s expression crumpled. "Oh, Simion, I can’t! I’m ugly now. Maybe by tonight the bruises will go
away, but I can’t let him see me like this."
"He will not return till sunset," Simion assured him. As he and the gypsy helped Rill to his feet he said
grimly, "And he MUST see you like this."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 50: Chapter 50: Siring

Fandom: Dracula
Archive: If I sent it to you.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters courtesy of Bram Stoker. No profit made.
Summary: Draculea must make a decision when he goes too far with Rill, and then he must deal with
Rock.
Warnings: vampirism.
Child of the Night, Part 50: Siring

Budapest, Hungary
The first thing that Draculea saw when he opened the lid of his box that night was Simion. His friend
had pulled a chair up before Draculea’s resting place and was waiting patiently, arms crossed,
expression grim. "What has happened?"
"My lord, if you think back, you will remember a time when I asked you to promise me that you
would not act rashly. I must make the same request."
Draculea frowned, getting to his feet and stepping out of the box. "Simion, the last time I can
remember you extracting that promise was..." His mind went back to a small stone room, to Nicolae
lying in a drugged stupor, his back and buttocks ripped and bruised. Simion watched as a red tinge
suffused his master’s eyes, and the planes of his face seemed to shift subtly. "What has he done to the
boy?"
"Will you promise me, lord?"
Draculea flexed his hands, and Simion saw that his nails were like talons. "Simion, I listened to you
before you left us last night. You harbor no love for that dog."
"No, but I care about the boy, and if you kill his brother out of hand, he will suffer. He will see it as his
own fault, no matter how richly the piece of filth deserves to die. Besides, now is not the time. You
need to see Rill."
Draculea scowled, but kept control of himself. The red faded, and in a moment he looked no different
than he usually did, except perhaps more deadly. "Very well. Show me."
"He is in my room." Simion led Draculea down the hall to his chamber. There was a strong fire roaring
on the hearth, and the room was very warm, but Draculea could see that the covered figure on the bed
was still shivering. He went to sit beside the boy on the bed, touching his shoulder. The boy moaned
softly, but did not open his eyes. Rill’s lashes were impossibly dark against his pale cheeks.
Draculea shook him gently. "Rill. Open your eyes, boy."
Rill opened his eyes. They were vague, but when he looked at Draculea they became a bit more
focused. "My prince," he whispered. He moved, curling his body so that his head rested on Draculea’s
thigh, and he gazed up. "Is it night time already?"
"Yes, boy."
"Oh." He frowned. "I have slept all day. What a lazy slut I am."
"Don’t say that, Rill," Simion’s voice was rough.
Rill smiled and said, "Simion will hear nothing bad about me." He lowered his voice confidingly. "I
think he likes me."
Simion cleared his throat. "I will go prepare some food." He left, going back to the kitchen.
"Simion told me that you’ve been hurt," said Draculea.
Rill pressed his face against Draculea’s thigh. "It need not matter. Blow out the lamp, my lord. The
bruises will not trouble you in the dark."
"They cannot help but trouble me, but not as you fear, little one. Let me see." He pulled the sheet
down. He said nothing, but his eyes grew hard when he saw the marks on the boy.
"They are ugly," Rill murmured.
"Yes," Draculea stroked his bruised back gently. "But you are as beautiful as ever."
Rill gripped the front of Draculea’s shirt and pulled himself up. "Show me."
Draculea closed his eyes for a moment. "Rill, you need to rest."
"Please, lord?" He buried his hands in Draculea’s hair, pulling him down and craning up, kissing him
softly. Draculea was beginning to pull away when Rill’s tongue slid over his lips. He thought to chide
him gently, to explain that he must refuse intimacy not through distaste, but from concern. But as his
lips parted, Rill slid his tongue in, and the boy was both sweet, and skilled.
Rill put all his gratitude and longing into the kiss. It was the last that began to seduce Draculea, but he
tried to fight his nature. He pulled back a little, but Rill clung to him breathlessly. "Take, my prince."
He didn’t really understand what it was that Draculea needed from him, but he knew he could provide
it, and he wanted to do just that.
"Boy," Vlad’s voice was strained. "Sweet boy, you don’t understand."
"I know. There is so much that I do not understand, but I have helped you, haven’t I?"
"You can never know how greatly."
"There isn’t much I can do. Let me serve you this way."
"Rill..." The boy was not strong--Draculea could have stopped him. But when Rill dipped his head
back, arching his throat, Draculea allowed himself to be pulled down.
Still he tried to resist. He kissed Rill’s neck, gently mouthing the deep bruise. He licked the
half-healed holes. Before, when he had finished feeding, this had speeded the healing, stopping the
blood. This time it was different. Whatever he meant to do, his physical self realized how close he was
to a rich source of nourishment.
There was a trickle of warm liquid across his tongue. He groaned, his fingers flexing unconsciously on
Rill’s bruised shoulders. Still he might have fought off the urge till Rill made a soft, pleading sound
and pressed him even closer.
Draculea moaned. As gently as possible he sank his fangs into the yielding flesh, re-opening the
wounds. Rill whimpered with a mixture of pain and pleasure as the prince began to feed.
Always before Draculea had drained his villainous victims quickly and ruthlessly. The blameless
victims he visited no more than twice in a row. He’d never taken so much blood from one person, but
Rill offered himself so humbly and warmly. The ecstasy of feeding washed over Draculea, and he did
not realize there was anything amiss till the boy’s hands loosened, then fell.
Draculea stopped immediately, lifting his head. Rill’s face was so white, but his smile was wistful, and
his gaze clear and direct. His pale lips barely moved. "Thank you, my prince. I don’t feel cold
anymore." His eyelids fluttered rapidly, then closed.
"SIMION!"
Draculea’s shout rang through the house. Simion had been warming soup in the kitchen. The spoon
clattered to the floor as Simion raced to answer his master’s call. His heart sank when he saw Draculea
cradling Rill’s limp, still form.
Draculea looked up at him with burning, anguished eyes. "Simion, help him."
Simion bent over the boy, feeling his pulse, checking his breath. He peeled up one eyelid and made a
distressed murmur when the pupil remained wide, not shrinking at all. He lifted rill’s upper lip with his
thumb and noted the paleness of the boy’s gums.
Without a word he hurried over to his chest and threw it open. He rummaged frantically, finally
coming up with a small bottle. He uncapped it, saying, "Hold him up, my lord, so he does not choke."
Draculea lifted Rill’s torso. Simion tipped back the boy’s head, and held the bottle to his lips. "Rill,
drink this." There was no response. His voice rose. "You must drink, please!"
He dribbled the liquid between Rill’s lips, but it spilled out again. "RILL!" He lifted Rill’s chin,
pouring in the last of the liquid. He closed Rill’s mouth, trapping the liquid. Simion stroked Rill’s
throat. "Swallow, Rill, please."
Rill coughed, spewing the sharp smelling liquid. "Simion..." he rasped, voice faint. "I don’t like strong
spirits."
"Boy, it’s your only chance."
"Please, Simion, let me sleep. I’m tired now." His voice faded.
Simion sighed resignedly. "All right, Rill." He stroked Rill’s face as the boy’s eyes closed. "Sleep.
May you awaken somewhere warm, and safe."
Draculea laid Rill back on the bed, arranging him gently. He pressed his hand flat on the young man’s
chest, feeling the infinitesimal rise and fall slowing. "I didn’t know. Simion, I swear to you that I
meant him no harm."
Simion rubbed his eyes. "I know, my lord." He bit his lip. "I think... I think that he just wanted it to be
over." When he saw Draculea start he said, "No, my lord, not his congress with you. I meant his life.
In a way, it was a mercy. If we could not take him away from this pest hole, and the animal who used
him, it was better. But I wish..." He bit off the word, shaking his head. He cupped his hand over Rill’s
mouth and nose, and felt no stir. He laid his head on the boy’s smooth chest, and heard no stir.
Sitting up with a sigh, he said, "Domn, I beg permission to bury him. I know it is a risk, but I cannot
bring myself to leave him in some back alley, like refuse."
Draculea looked at the still form, and said slowly, "Not yet, Simion."
"But my lord, the longer we wait, the greater the chance of discovery."
"I know, Simion. But wouldn’t you like to sit with him for awhile, as you did with me?"
Simion studied Draculea, a strange suspicion, rather like hope, creeping over him. "What do you
mean, Domn?"
"I’m not sure, Simion. You know that even now I am learning about my state, what is and is not
possible." Simion nodded. Almost from the first Draculea had known that he had influence over
certain animals. In the last decade he had been slowly developing the ability to transform himself even
beyond the subtle shifting of the flesh that Simion had observed. "You know the effects my blood has
on you, Simion--how it preserves and invigorates. And you know that when I find release, i emit
blood. Simion, Rill drank my seed, and not just once, but several times."
"My lord! You... you think...?"
"I don’t know, Simion."
"But... he is dead."
"So was I."
There was silence while the two men stared at each other. Finally Simion said, "My lord, CAN we
wait?"
"I think we must, Simion. After all," he carefully arranged the boy’s hair. "this may be my first
childe."
Rill’s body was carried to Draculea’s room and laid out on the bed, a clean sheet drawn up under his
chin, and again Simion settled himself for a vigil.
*****
"What do you mean, ’they took him’?!" Rock growled at Clothilde.
Her latest lover, a carter who was twice Rock’s size, was standing behind her, and she wasn’t feeling
very impressed by Rock. "Just like I said. That blonde man what came here before came again. A little
later he called up some dark heathen, an’ they carried the poor half-wit off. He looked poorly, Rill
did." She cocked her head. "He looked like he’d been beat. Funny, though, I didn’t hear no fight--not
after he arrived."
Rock fumed. He’d come home, anticipating another TWO gold coins. There’d been no money, and,
even worse, there’d been no Rill. He wasn’t worried at first, thinking that perhaps the prince’s man
had just come by early. But as the day wore on and Rill did not return he became first angry, then
worried. He searched through all the local taverns and shops, but no one had seen him. Finally he went
back to the house and confronted the slut. She had told him the news with smug pleasure, and he
would have thrashed her if not for the hulking brute standing behind her. The rough behemoth fondled
her ample buttocks, scowling at Rock in warning.
"Damn him! He knows he’s not to go to the customer’s houses. There’s too much of a chance that
he’ll find himself with one of the vicious ones. He could be damaged so badly that he’d be near
useless."
Clothilde and her lover exchanged looks of distaste. Clothilde said dryly, "And he might even die, and
then he’d be no use to you at all." Rock gave her a venomous look, but he could do nothing.
It was beginning to get late. He spent the evening asking around the taverns and bawdy houses, trying
to find the location of Draculea’s home. He had no luck. He found Emory again, but the boy was
settled close beside the pimp who had driven him away before. The man had a reputation for
protecting his charges fiercely, and all Rock could do was drink and stew. He stumbled up to a rented
room fairly early, clutching a bottle of brandy. It was good that he did. Draculea was hunting him that
night.
The next day Rock went to the police. More exactly, he went to the policeman who accepted money to
allow him to pursue his work. The officer listened to his ranting accusations, shaking his head in
sympathy. "You say he was abducted by a nobleman--a royal? A rich man? Are you sure he didn’t just
go with him willingly?"
"He knows better! He knows what I would... How upset I would be. He wouldn’t leave me willingly.
He loves me." Rock said it with complete assurance, but no warmth.
That night he slept in a tavern, lying across a bench in the corner, in a drunken stupor.
Draculea had been looking for Rock from the moment that Simion was settled in beside Rill. The first
night he went through all the public houses he could find. The second night he had gone back to the
narrow little house where he had met Rill and stood outside the front door. Rather than knock for the
landlady he used another of the powers he had discovered in the last century. This power was not
infallible. He had found that there were barriers he could not transcend. For some reason, he could not
enter a private home unless he had been invited. Here, though, there was no problem.
He concentrated, willing himself lighter and lighter... insubstantial. Then he flowed forward. Clothilde,
had she been awake, would have thought that the city was experiencing a particularly thick fog, or
perhaps she would have panicked, thinking that a fire was causing smoke to drift under the door. The
fog swirled along the floor of the hall, then disappeared under the door of the room rented by the two
brothers. In only moments the hall was clear, and Draculea sat in the darkness of the room, waiting. He
had to leave without accomplishing his purpose, hurrying through the streets, even as the sun rose.
In his room, he put his hand on Simion’s shoulder. "My friend, did you sleep at all?"
Simion shook his head. "I fear, my lord. He is so still. Do you truly think he will awaken?"
"I think there is a good chance, Simion. Look, here." He lowered the sheet. "See here? The bruises are
fading. Have you ever known a corpse to heal? And this." He lifted Rill’s hand high, and it dropped
back, bonelessly.
Simion turned hopeful eyes on the prince. "He is still supple!"
"Yes, the after-death stiffness has not come. He shows none of the signs of death save the lack of
breath and a heartbeat. I really think that there is a chance." Simion looked at the boy, with a softness
in his eyes that was unfamiliar to his master, and it touched Draculea. *I hope for your sake this is so,
my friend.*
Simion’s eyes were hard again when he looked back at Draculea. "You didn’t find him?"
"No."
"Just as well. I am not sure, my lord, that you would have brought him here undamaged."
"I’m still not sure if I should let him live even a little while."
"We have discussed this, Domn. If... When Rill awakens, he will be frightened and confused. If we
want him to be happy, we need the brother to give his blessings--whether he wishes to or not. Once he
tells Rill that he is to go with us, you can dispose of him out of Rill’s sight."
Draculea scowled. "Only for the boy’s sake. If I thought it would not distress him, I would rip out the
bastard’s throat the moment I saw him."
"You may have your chance, my prince. It may take a day or two, till the boy becomes accustomed to
his new life, though."
Draculea made a doubtful sound, then said, "I’ll have to bring someone back tomorrow. It shouldn’t be
hard to entice some thug back."
"Why, my lord?"
"Simion, you remember how I was when I awoke. Rill will not have had food for over three days. He
will be ravenous, and he won’t have even the little preparation that I had. I do not believe he will be
able to feed without killing, at least this first time, and a suitable meal must be provided. I won’t risk
you or the gypsies."
Simion nodded agreement, then tenderly tucked the sheet back up over Rill’s shoulders. "Domn?
Would it be very terrible if I lay down with him? I think I could sleep, if he was close."
"No, Simion," Draculea said quietly. "I think he would like that." Draculea watched as Simion
stretched out beside the cold body of the young man. He lay his head on the same pillow, turning on
his side beside him, and curved an arm over the still chest, and closed his eyes. Draculea watched them
for a moment, then settled into his case, lowering the lid for his daily rest.
*****
Rock had started drinking around noon. He had only finished a few drinks when he sensed someone
watching him. He looked up to find a ragged beggar child staring at him. Rock started to snarl at him,
then paused, examining him with a calculating eye. *Almost thirteen. Old enough.* His voice was
almost cordial. "What do you want, boy?"
"Ain’t you been askin’ around ’bout where that Rill went?"
Rock sat up, suddenly alert. "Yes. Do you have news for me?"
The boy scratched his arm. "Yesterday the prince’s man sent me with a message to the prince’s house.
He called for his wagon." He cocked his head slyly. "I know where he lives."
Rill clenched his fist, thumping the table with savage triumph. "Tell me!" The boy rubbed his thumb
and forefinger together significantly. Rock was tempted to beat the information out of the brat, but
there were people around who might object. Scowling, he pulled a coin out of his purse and offered it.
The boy just stared at it. "I want silver. They’d most likely pay me more’n that NOT to talk."
Rill’s voice was a growl, "Or they might slit your grubby throat." He tossed a silver coin to the boy.
"Now, show me the way."
The boy laughed, tucking the coin in his breeches. "And have you take back your money when you
know, or even do what you said the prince might? No, I’ll tell you where it is, and I’ll stay here." The
boy gave him the directions, then scampered away. Rock considered following him, but the chance to
get back his financial mainstay was too pressing. He went directly to Draculea’s house.
He was surprised when he saw the place. *The man seems to be richer than God, and he lives in this
hulk? Even my place is better than this--not so grand in size, but in better repair. Still, if he can afford
to live here, he can afford to pay handsomely. I’m not averse to letting him have the simpleton, but by
God I WILL be recompensed.*
Rock made his way through the small, overgrown patch of garden to the front door, and banged
smartly on it. He was about to knock again when the door was opened. A stocky, dark skinned man,
roughly dressed, stared at him questioningly. "I want to see the prince." When the man continued to
stare blankly, he raised his voice. "Don’t act the fool with me! I know you understand, otherwise the
prince’s lackey could not have sent word to you."
The man shrugged. "The prince, he not here." The gypsy laid his hand casually on the handle of the
knife he wore at his belt. "You go."
"If I come back, I’ll have the police with me. Kidnapping is a crime, you know. And when I tell them
how he debauched my poor, innocent, simple brother the scandal will ruin him."
The knife slide an inch or two from its sheath. "You GO!"
"No." They both looked back to see Simion coming down the hall. "Let him in. This prince’s toady
can see to him."
Staring at Rock suspiciously, the gypsy stood aside to let him enter. Simion led Rock into a small
office just to the left. The older man sat beside the desk, and gestured Rock into another chair. "Well?"
"Do no play games with me, sir, and pretend ignorance. I have come for my brother. The landlady saw
you taking him away," Rock accused. Simion inclined his head. "You admit it?"
"It is the truth. Why should I lie?"
"I told Prince Draculea the first night that all business was to be transacted at our residence! Rill had
strict orders not to go to the homes of his gentlemen. It’s too dangerous."
Simion’s voice was sharp. "From what I have seen he ran a much greater risk in his own home."
Rock flushed. "The simpleminded, sir, require a strong guiding hand. In any case, it is none of your
affair. I want him back, and I want recompense for my lost earnings, and my anguish." Simion was
staring at him in disbelief, scarcely crediting the man’s enormous nerve.
"Suppose," Simion ventured, "that the boy does not wish to go with you?"
"That will not happen," Rock said flatly. "In any case, it would signify nothing. I am his guardian, he
must be returned to me. Unless..." his voice was crafty.
The greed in the pimp’s manner was palpable. "Unless?"
Rock shrugged. "If it amused the prince to take charge of the boy... I know that rulers once kept all
manner of touched folks to entertain them, and Rill can certainly do that. I might sign over
guardianship of the boy... for a consideration."
*So, you would be a literal slaver, rather than simply one in spirit.* "I cannot answer for Prince
Draculea in such a thing. He will return in a few hours, though, and you can discuss it then." Simion
smiled coldly. "He wants to talk to you."
Rock felt a thrill of nervousness, and stood up. "It would be better to meet him somewhere public--say
an inn." He started edging for the door.
Simion got up, following him--stalking him. "No, I believe he wishes this discussion to be private."
Rock turned to hurry for the front door. As he stepped into the hallway he was seized by two
gypsies--the one who had admitted him, and another who was almost his twin. Rock began to struggle
immediately. "Let me go! Let me go, you bastards! I’ll have you hanged. I’ll..." Following Simion’s
gesture, the gypsies threw him into a room across the hall. When tried to escape, one of them
cheerfully struck him across the face, half stunning him. Before he could recover the gypsy had taken
his knife, and the door had been locked.
Rock threw himself against it, to no avail. The one small window was thickly boarded over. He was
trapped. He screamed for awhile, but though the old building was in bad repair, the walls were still
thick. It was unlikely that anyone outside the house would hear him. Eventually he gave up and settled
down to wait in a worried silence.
*****
When Draculea awoke, Simion was waiting, smiling grimly. "You need not seek a meal for Rill, my
lord. One had provided itself. Rock came looking for his property."
Draculea’s smile was wolfish. "Oh, excellent." He went to Rill and examined him. The smile gentled.
"Soon, I think, Simion." He laid a hand on Rill’s forehead. "I can feel him struggling toward the light.
He will be with us soon. You must not stay here." Simion agreed, remembering how Draculea had
been when he awakened. "Well, I suppose that Rock wants to see his brother. We should let him."
Rock considered rushing the door when it opened, but decided against it. It was well that he did. Both
Simion and Draculea were in the hall. Draculea gave him a glittering smile that radiated contempt. "I
understand that you have come to sell me your brother."
"You took him, and that isn’t right, sire. I have a right to some profit, after all the time and trouble I’ve
spent with him. I could have left him with our father. He’d have been up the boy’s ass at least once a
week, taking him in turn with the others. And he’d have worked him till he dropped, and beaten him
till he could scarce move..."
"And your treatment of him is that much better?"
Rock seemed indignant. "I trained him to make a good living for these times. What else could a
simpleminded peasant do? I kept him from starving."
"Save your justification--it makes me ill. Tell me, before you bargain for him, wouldn’t you like to see
your brother, and satisfy yourself about his wellbeing?"
Rock seemed a little surprised. "Yes, of course."
"Such tender fraternal concern moves me. Come." Rock stepped out of the room. Draculea laid a
heavy hand on his shoulder and directed him down the hall. "Rill has been resting in my room." At
Rock’s smirk he said coldly, "Resting. Listen to me, dog. I will see that you are well paid. Yes, you
will be paid in full, but you must tell your brother that he is free to come with me. Indeed, you must
tell him that you WISH him to, that it will make you happy. I do not want him to pine for you. And do
it quickly."
At the door to Draculea’s room Rock jerked free and faced him defiantly. "Before I give him my
blessing to go with you, I’ll know what you will give me for him. I’ll not do it unless the fee suits me.
You can deal with his whining and moping for all I care."
"Name your price."
Rock hesitated, trying to gauge his chance. Draculea did not even seem inclined to bargain. How much
did he dare ask? He was wary of naming a price too low, and losing the chance of gain. He considered.
The prince had been willing to pay one hundred florints for one night. He watched the prince closely
as he said, "Ten thousand florints." Draculea did not blink. "And a good horse and carriage."
"Is that all?"
Rock, delighted by the prince’s largesse so far, considered demanding a small house, but decided not
to risk it. Perhaps if Rill had been normal he would have felt safe in asking for more. But Rock felt
that he was being well compensated. With what he could earn from this he would be set up. Perhaps
he’d make a trip back home and see if his other two younger brothers had grown comely enough to be
assets. "Yes, that will be sufficient."
"Very well. Now you will see your brother, and you will do all in your power to comfort him, and ease
his mind."
Simion unlocked the door, and Rock said to him, "I’m doing this for him as well, you know. He can
have a rich life with you."
Simion dipped his head, his voice stony, "Some slaves do benefit from a change of owners."
The room was more lavishly appointed than the one that had imprisoned him. Rill reposed on the great
bed, sleeping peacefully. Rock went to the bed and sat beside him. "Rill." There was no response.
"Rill, wake up. I have something to tell you."
He shook Rill’s shoulder. Two things struck him at once--the chill of the flesh under his hand, and the
limp manner in which Rill’s head rolled on the pillow. He leaped up, horrified and enraged. How
could he profit from a dead body? He’d be worth barely ten florints to the medical school. He turned
on the other two men. "He’s dead!"
"In a manner of speaking." Draculea said calmly.
"You... you’ll pay for this, prince! Your rank won’t save you from this. Oh, it’s not likely that you
would be executed, but you’ll be jailed!" He straightened his jacket, calming a bit, then said, "Was it
an accident?"
Draculea nodded. "Yes. I never meant to hurt the boy, but things went too far. Before I realized it he
was slipping away. Though, perhaps, if he had WANTED to live, if there had been anything to keep
him here, it might not have happened."
Unsurprisingly, Rock saw no condemnation for himself in this. "If it was an accident, perhaps the
authorities need not be brought into this. Only provide me with what I ask, and give Rill decent burial,
and that can be the end of it."
Draculea and Simion were watching the body that lay on the bed behind Rock. There was a faint
twitching beneath the sheet. The tip of Rill’s tongue crept out to sweep over dry lips. Simion said, "I
believe there will be no end to this. Look to your brother."
Puzzled, Rock turned back in time to see Rill’s eyes open. He cried out in alarm, stepping back. "He
was dead! I have seen death before, and I know. He was COLD."
Draculea caught him before he could get to the door. "And he still is, but that will be remedied."
As he spoke Simion shut and locked the door, then hurried to the bed. Draculea said sharply, "Careful,
Simion!"
"He will not harm me, lord." Simion bent over the reawakened boy, who was blinking confusedly at
the ceiling. His voice was gentle. "Rill, welcome back."
"Simion?" Rill whispered. "Have I slept long?"
"Yes, a long time. How are you?"
The boy’s face twisted. "I’m cold, Simion. And I’m hungry." His voice rose plaintively. "Simion, I
feel starved, and I’m so thirsty." His voice was becoming rougher. "I need..." Now he wailed. "I don’t
know!"
"Hush," Simion pressed a kiss to his brow. "It’s all right. We will get you what you need. But first,
your brother is here to see you."
Apprehension and joy flickered over Rill’s face. "Is he angry?"
"No, child. Don’t worry."
Rock was struggling to escape Draculea’s iron grip, panting, "Let me go! He was dead, I tell you! This
isn’t natural."
"As though your dealings with him were ever natural, scum! You will do as we agreed."
"I won’t go near that monster!"
Draculea turned quickly, putting his body between Rill and his brother, and put his hand on the pimp’s
throat, squeezing. "You dare call HIM a monster? Do as I say, or I will tear out your throat and have
my men throw your body in the nearest pig sty." Rock’s eyes bulged with fear and indecision.
"Consider, Rock. Who do you fear most, Rill or me?"
Rock thought of all the years that Rill had cringed at his displeasure, and said, "Very well."
Draculea thrust Rock toward the bed, and Simion got up to allow him to sit. Rock hesitated, but slowly
sat when he saw the unyielding expression on the older man’s face. He was stiff as he stared at the boy
lying beside him, but he slowly started to relax. This was, after all, Rill. "Well," he said roughly.
"you’ve landed yourself in the jam pot, haven’t you, Rill? Prince Draculea has become very fond of
you."
Rill smiled shyly, but it faded quickly. "I know I wasn’t supposed to leave the room, Rock." His brow
puckered. "I’m not really not sure how I got here."
It went against his nature to allow Rill leeway in his obedience, but Rock forced himself. "Don’t
trouble yourself about it. So, do you want to stay with him?"
Rill looked at Draculea, then Simion. His eyes lingered there longest. His voice was sad. "I like him
very much." He looked back at Rock. "But we need each other."
Rock shook his head. "Don’t be silly. They’ll take good care of you, and I can always find someone
else to earn for me."
Rock watched in shock as beads of blood trickled from the corners of his eyes. "You don’t need me?"
"Stupid boy, I’ve never needed you."
Rill was trembling now. He reached up and grabbed his brother’s shoulders. "No, don’t say that."
"Let go, idiot!" He tried to pull away, but Rill’s grip tightened. Rock’s eyes widened as he realized
how strong it was. Rill had never been strong, and judging from his wan appearance he should be
almost fragile by now, but his grip was like iron. And his expression... It was sorrowful, but there was
a feral hunger surfacing.
"Don’t, Rock. I need you. You have to help me. You always take care of me. I’m so hungry, Rock."
Draculea had come up behind Rock. Now he grabbed his red-blonde hair, pulling his head back till his
neck was stretched. One sharp nail stabbed into the straining white column, making a shallow
puncture. A thick, crimson drop oozed out, then drooled down his throat. Rill’s eyes, enormous,
fastened on it. His lips pulled back, exposing wicked, glistening fangs, and Rock screamed. Draculea
commanded, "Feed, childe. Take what you need."
Rill lunged with a growl. Draculea released his hold, and watched as Rill threw Rock back onto the
bed, swarming over him. Rock thrashed and shrieked, but he could not dislodge his brother. His head
was shoved back into the pillow, and the cold, heavy body above him pressed him down, nearly
smothering him. He felt totally helpless-- shocked, confused, and terrified. Rock had a moment of
ironic clarity when he knew that this might be something like what Rill had experienced the first few
times he took him. Then the revelation was wiped away by pain as sharp teeth ripped his throat open.
Rill was too famished to be neat in his first feed.
Rill sucked fiercely, gulping the hot blood in great mouthfuls. The gnawing hunger began to ease, and
the thirst disappeared at once. The harsh fire that had seemed to consumed him settled into a warm,
pleasant glow. The body beneath him gradually ceased to fight, growing still, but he continued to feed.
Simion looked at Draculea and said, "We should stop him."
"Why?"
"The same reason a mother does not let her child gorge when he first leaves the breast for real meat. It
may not be good for him."
Draculea sighed, "Very well, but you stop him. I do not want to spoil his joy."
Simion went to the bed and touched Rill. "Rill, you must stop now."
"Mmm, Simion... Just a little more?" The boy’s voice was muffled against Rock’s throat.
"No, Rill. You’ve had enough for now. You can have more later."
"Promise?"
Simion smiled. "Yes, I promise."
Rill was now simply lying on Rock. He lifted his head and smiled at Simion. His mouth and chin were
wet with blood, and he licked his lips, then giggled. "Rock doesn’t like me to have sweets, but this is
so good. Maybe if he tastes some, he’ll understand..." His voice trailed off, eyes widening, and he
looked back at Rock. "Rock?"
Rill shook him. There was no response, save for a faint flicker of eyelids. Rill shook him again.
"Simion, Rock is sick. You help him."
Simion tried to pull him away. "Come, Rill. He needs to rest."
"No! Simion, I... I..." He cried out, seeing the blood that was soaking into the pillow. His hand went to
his mouth and came away smeared. "What have I done?" He turned wild eyes to the other two men.
"My prince, Simion, what have I done to him?" Bloody tears began to course down his cheeks, and he
wailed. "I hurt him! I killed my brother!"
Draculea managed to pull him away from Rock, gathering the sobbing boy into his arms. "No, Rill,
no."
"I did!" His voice rose in a scream. "I’m wicked! I killed him. I didn’t mean to, I swear." He turned
anguished eyes on Simion. "Don’t hate me!"
Draculea handed the hysterical boy over to his friend, and watched as Simion cradled him, trying to
soothe him. "Rill, no. I couldn’t hate you. You did nothing wrong."
"I killed him! Oh, Simion, I should die. I WILL die. How can I live after doing this?"
Draculea’s face hardened as he made a decision. Simion watched over Rill’s bent head as Draculea
brought his hand to his face and used his fangs to rip a gash in his wrist, Then he pressed the wound to
Rock’s gasping mouth, muttering, "Drink, you filth. It’s more than you deserve, and be sure that I’ll
see that you pay for what you’ve done to the boy, but drink now. He can’t lose you just yet." Rock’s
throat worked--feebly, but he managed to swallow several mouthfuls before he stopped, his half-open
eyes glazing over.
Draculea came over and said firmly, "Rill! Listen to me." The power of Draculea’s personality moved
through the bond that his blood had created with the boy. Rill’s sobbing slowed, and he lifted his head
to look at Draculea. The prince said quietly, "He isn’t dead." Rill looked at his brother’s corpse
doubtfully. "I tell you that he isn’t dead, Rill. Do you trust me?"
Rill nodded slowly, rubbing bloody tears away with the back of his hand. "He sleeps, my lord?"
"Yes, Rill," Simion assured him. "He has been a little hurt, and must rest and recover. He sleeps very
deeply. He will sleep a long time, as you did. You felt much better when you awakened, didn’t you?"
Rill considered his raging hunger and thirst, but he never retained things for long, and the unpleasant
memory was already fading. He nodded again.
"Three days, little one," Draculea assured him. "Only three days, and your brother will be back with
you." He eyed the bloody, sprawled figure on the bed and said wryly, "and I can assure you that he
will be much more amenable."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 51: Chapter 51: Restrictions

Fandom: Dracula
Pairing: Vlad/Rock
Archive: The lists I’ve sent it to.
Disclaimer: Only minor characters and Nicolae are mine. Others originally created by Bram Stoker.
Summary: Rock reawakens into his unlife--and is not pleased.
Warnings: Non-con, but it’s Rock, and if anyone ever deserved it, he does.
Notes: black beetles--nasty form of cockroach
Child of the Night, Part 51: Restrictions
Budapest, Hungary
"Simion?"
"Why aren’t you asleep, Rill? The sun was up an hour ago. Aren’t you sleepy?"
There was a huge yawn. "Yes."
Simion urged the young vampire back into his room. "And I told you to stay out of the hall. If the front
door opened and sunlight fell on you, you wouldn’t like it, believe me."
"Yes, Simion." Rill stretched out on Simion’s bed again, and the servant drew a blanket up over him,
tucking it around his shoulders. "But I was wondering--are you sure Rock is comfortable? I mean, that
room you put him in is awful cold and dusty, and he has only one blanket."
*He’d have less than that if not for you, boy. I’d have happily dumped him naked in the cellar with the
rats and black beetles till he awakened.* "He doesn’t feel anything, Rill, remember? Now, go to sleep.
Rock should wake up tonight, and you want to be well rested to greet him." There was a knock on the
front door. "I have to answer that." He held up a warning finger and said sternly, "No more getting
up." Rill smiled at him sweetly, turning over to snuggle down under the blanket.
Simion stared at him for a moment, then gently stroked the boy’s dark curls. He barely touched the
tresses, but Rill made a pleased murmur deep in his throat. Simion bit his lip and carefully removed
his hand, then went out, shutting and locking the door. When he was sure there was no chance of a
stray sunbeam finding his charge he opened the front door.
A short, scruffy, thoroughly disreputable man was standing on the front step. There was a small terrier,
as dirty and scroungy as its master, sitting near his feet, and there was a burlap sack slung over his
shoulders. The surface of the bag was jerking and twitching, and muffled squeaks came from inside.
The burlap was also spotted with blood.
The man on the steps briefly raised his dirty cap, bobbing his head to Simion. "Mornin’, yer worship.
Had a fine night, did me an’ Tipper. Got a good lot of fat ’uns for ya."
Simion indicated the blood stains on the sack. "Are they all alive? I told you, I don’t want dead
ones--they’re of no use to me."
Clement, the rat catcher, nodded agreeably. "I understands, yer worship, an’ they’us all right frisky
when they went inter the bag. Now, bein’ as I ain’t the good Lor’ ’imself, I can’t promise yer that all
the beasties are still wigglin. There’s a few what may ’ave gone on ter rattie ’eaven by now, but I’d
think only a few. Surely not enough for yer to dock my promised fee."
Simion held out his hands, and Clement passed the bag over. Simion carefully felt the contents
through the material, feeling for still, limp masses. All of them seemed to be vigorous. His fingers
were sharply pinched a time or two, but the rodents’ teeth couldn’t penetrate the rough burlap. Finally
he nodded, took a silver coin from his purse, and tossed it to Clement.
Clement snatched it out of the air with practiced ease, and grinned at Simion, showing teeth
remarkably like the those of the beasts he hunted. "Thankee, yer worship. You be needin’ more
t’night?"
"No, this should be sufficient."
"Wull, yer just remember Clement if yer ever need ratties again." He hesitated. "If yer don’t mind me
askin’, sir, what DOES yer need the vermin for?" He snickered. "My best customers be tanners fer the
hides an’ meat pie shops fer the rest."
"Let me just say that I need neither the hides, nor the meat, but that your last customer’s purposes
aren’t THAT far off the mark." He shut the door.
Clement considered this, tossing the coin on his palm. Finally he shrugged, tucking the coin into a rag
and stuffing the rag in his shirt. "Well, Tipper, who are we to wonder about the oddities of the rich an’
well born?" The dog yipped. Clement rubbed his hands together. "Meat an’ ale for us both, an’ a
proper bed t’night, me lad!" and he led the dog away.
Simion carried the twisting, squeaking bag through the house, to the pantry just off the kitchen. He set
the bag down long enough to unlock the door. The lock on this door was as sturdy as any in the house,
due to the previous owner’s suspicions of his servants. He had been determined that they would have
no more than their meager allotment of food, and had been assiduous in counting potatoes and
measuring leftover butter. More than one servant had been dismissed if a sausage couldn’t be
satisfactorily accounted for.
The pantry was long and narrow, dark and dusty, and lined with shelves that now held nothing more
than rubbish. What few supplies Simion and the gypsies required were stored out in the kitchen.
Simion dropped his bundle next to the two other bags sitting near the door. As it thumped next to them
he was gratified to see them stir. Their occupants were no doubt hungry, but didn’t seem to have
started to feed on each other. There wouldn’t be too many dead by the time they were needed tonight.
He started to go back out, but paused, then walked slowly to the back of the room and squatted beside
the blanket-covered figure that huddled there on the floor. Simion flicked back a corner of the blanket
and stared at Rock’s cold, still face. He looked dead. *But then, he IS dead--has been these last two
days. There’s no way of knowing for sure, but I think he’ll awaken tonight. Damn me if I’m not torn.
Rill will need him for at least a little while, but I think he’ll be more trouble than he’s worth. He’s a
willful thing.*
Simion shrugged. *Well, even before he found his new talents, my lord was a forceful man. He’s dealt
with stronger and more treacherous men in his day--he’ll handle this one.* Simion studied Rock a
moment more, remembering the marks of violence on Rill, which were only now disappearing. He
spat in the man’s face, tossed the blanket over him again, and left the pantry, locking it. He stepped out
into the hall, thinking that he might go lie beside Rill for a few moments. Even when he didn’t sleep,
just being close to Rill seemed to soothe and refresh him.
"Simion?" Draculea was standing at the door of his room.
"My lord?" Simion went to stand before him.
"I want you to take Rill out tonight, as soon as it is safe." At Simion’s questioning look he said, "Yes, I
know. It IS early for him to be going out, but I trust you to take care of him, and I don’t want him here
when his brother awakens. I think it will be noisy, to say the least." Simion nodded his understanding.
"Find him something to eat, something that won’t distress him. He can’t keep using my servants
forever."
Rill had been feeding from the gypsies, a mouthful here and there, carefully supervised by Simion or
Draculea. He was treated like an infant--frequent small meals, and he seemed to be thriving. The
gypsies occasionally provided a meal for their master during times when it was not convenient for him
to hunt, so this was nothing new to them, and while Draculea was never brutal, he had become
matter-of-fact in his feeding. After his initial feeding frenzy they had had to coax him. Rill had been so
hesitant and gentle as he took his nourishment that it seemed to have touched even these stolid men.
Simion had seen one of them smiling, stroking Rill’s head softly as the boy fed.
Simion nodded. "I can get him one of the serving wenches, or whores."
"Good. None of my usual fare--at least not yet. I have a feeling the boy won’t kill unless in error, or if
he is forced, and we don’t want any of the villains running about half-drained. They could cause
trouble."
Simion knew what he meant. Draculea seldom made mistakes, but it did happen. He’d been surprised
once in the middle of a kill. His victim’s partner had followed them, and had slipped a dagger between
his ribs. While Draculea was snapping his assailant’s neck and removing the dagger, the half-dead
victim had managed to make his way to a tavern. Draculea would probably have been able to fight his
way free from the mob that boiled out of the tavern if he had not been wounded, but he thought it
prudent not to risk it. It had taken almost two weeks for the wound to heal.
The rim of the sun was just slipping below the horizon when Simion woke Rill that evening. "Come,
Rill. We are going out."
Rill rose obediently, but with a small frown. "But Simion, Rock is to wake up tonight."
"Yes, boy, but he will do so if you are with him or not, and our master bids us do this. We will be back
before the sun rises, and you will see your brother then." Simion made this promise, and almost hoped
that Draculea would not find it necessary to kill the bastard, lest Rill be disappointed.
He led Rill out into the dim street. They were out of hearing range when the screaming started.
~~~~~
Cold. That was what he was first aware of, even before he noticed how very, very dark it was. Rock
felt as if he was drifting, but it wasn’t the pleasant sensation he associated with restful sleep. No, this
was frightening. It was as if he had been cut adrift from his body... from the world itself. And so
COLD! Had Rill taken the blankets? Had he allowed the fire to go out? He’d have to punish him for
that.
Punish him... Yes, he’d done that not too long ago, hadn’t he? He remembered the satisfying feel of
his fists on his brother’s back and shoulders. It was almost as satisfying as the feel of his cock
plunging into his cringing body.
Even as he thought this, he seemed to rise, spinning upward so quickly that it was as if he were falling
instead of rising. At that moment he was engulfed by a hunger that seemed to burn, despite the cold.
He felt himself sucked and squeezed into a tight, chilly, uncomfortable space that he realized, with
horror, was his body.
He remembered what had happened. He remembered Rill, cold and dead, oh yes, undeniably dead--but
still moving. He remembered the cold touch, the ripping pain, and the heat of his own blood bathing
his skin. Then the gradual fall into the cold darkness. But before he could sink beneath the surface of
blackness that he somehow knew was death, a thin trickle of cold, sweet fire had seared its way down
his throat. Then nothing. Now this.
Rock’s conscience burst back into awareness, and he opened his eyes, screaming.
A booted foot caught him in the side, and a voice hissed, "Quiet!"
Rock screamed again, and gave in to his first natural instinct--he attacked. He sprang up, throwing
himself on the half-seen figure that had been standing beside him. Hands closed firmly around his
throat, ripping him away from his target, holding him easily. He was shaken, much as Tipper the
terrier shook rats when he caught them for his master.
"Stop it, you fool, or I swear I will find a way to kill you, despite your brother." Rock continued
struggling till he was shaken again, and the man demanded, "I command you to STOP!"
Rock was alarmed to feel the compulsion to fight drain away. No man had ever been able to order him
about, not since the last time his father had tried to thrash him, and he had fought back. Now he
quieted, but the rage, resentment, and fear still boiled inside. His captor sensed his resignation, and the
grip was eased. It didn’t occur to Rock till much later that he should have been gasping for air.
A few quick glances showed him that he was in some sort of small storage closet. This revelation
puzzled him because there was no source of light, yet he could see.
Prince Draculea stood before him, his eyes narrowed in distasteful contempt. He took quick stock of
himself, and almost couldn’t blame the prince. His clothes were ripped and filthy. He would never
credit it, but he seemed to have soiled himself. *How long have I been unconscious?* There was a
mass of caked dirt around his throat and shoulder which he unconsciously scratched at. Then he
paused and brought his fingers to his nose, sniffing. A musty, tangy scent filled his nostrils. He
couldn’t name it, but at the same time it was shatteringly familiar. His mouth flooded with saliva, and
he quickly sucked the mess from under his fingernails. The taste was rank, but it sparked his already
gnawing hunger till he was ravenous.
He stared at the silent prince with accusing eyes. "What have you done to me?"
"Nothing that I had first intended, I assure you."
"Am I dead? Am I in Hell?"
Draculea smiled cruelly. "Not quite dead. As for Hell..." He made a gesture. "There are those that
believe that each man has a private Hell, fashioned just for them. This may very well be yours. You
are Nosferatu, Rock, like your brother."
Rock swayed at the revelation. Part of his brain was shrieking in denial, but the other part accepted the
situation. Rock could adapt. He’d always been a survivor. "Like you?"
"Hardly. I created you, Rock. I am your master."
"No man is my master," Rock snarled.
Draculea struck him. The blow threw him back against the wall, breaking his nose. Indeed, it would
have killed him--had he not already been dead. Again the prince’s hand went around his throat,
pinning him to the wall. "Again I call you fool. Idiot! Have you not yet learned that I am NOT a man?
I am Draculea, Nosferatu, Prince of Darkness, and I AM your master. You will obey me, or you will
suffer."
He leaned close to Rock and purred, "I’m not yet sure of how the undead can be killed. There are
various legends, and I could try each one till I found an effective method, but I want you to think of
something, Rock. This body you now inhabit can withstand much abuse. I could spend long years
learning just HOW much."
Rock, much to his anger and shame, found that he was trembling. He had no doubt that Draculea
spoke the truth. He forced out the words, "Do not hurt me--master." Draculea released him. Hating the
thought of asking rather than demanding, Rock said sullenly, "Master, I’m hungry."
"No doubt, but there are some rules to be discussed first. If you wish to continue your wretched
existence, you had best listen carefully. The sun is your enemy now. I have only felt its rays for a
moment at sunset or sunrise, and that was like scalding water on my skin. Its full strength might very
well kill you. Silver burns as well, as do all holy objects, but I don’t suppose you’ll miss the last so
very much."
"And I must drink blood."
Draculea smiled grimly. "Only if you want nourishment. I’m not sure if we can starve to death, but
going without can be agony. That brings us to another rule--prey. You will limit yourself to
scum--murderers, rapists, and the like. Those you can kill, though it is better to be careful when we are
in such close quarters with the living. Until such time I feel you can control yourself, you will feed
only under my supervision."
Rock was twitching now, ravenous. "Yes, master. But please, take me to one now."
"No. It would be too much of a risk to bring one here, or to take you out while the first feeding frenzy
is upon you. You’ll have to make do with something else." He picked up a sack that had been lying
near the door and began to unlace the mouth. "Here is another nugget of information about your new
state, Rock." He upended the sack and a horde of rats tumbled to the floor, squeaking and scrabbling
madly.
Draculea watched in amusement as Rock screamed when the first fat rodent ran over his foot. "It need
not be human blood."
~~~~~
Rill sat before the fire in a tavern, staring in puzzlement at his flagon of mulled cider. "I don’t
understand, Simion. It still tastes good, and I want to drink it, but..." he shook his head, "but I DON’T
want to drink it."
"A taste or two will do you no harm, Rill, but you don’t need such things anymore," Simion explained.
"If you eat anything you may be, um, uncomfortable till your body expels it." He patted the boy’s
hand. "Best to stick with what is good for you."
Rill touched the tip of his tongue to his lips, and Simion felt warm. The boy sighed, "Yes." He turned
dark, liquid eyes on Simion. "I AM hungry."
"I know." Simion scanned the room, then pointed to a handsome, hard-faced woman who was sitting
by herself, sipping an ale. She smiled at every man who passed, but there were younger, prettier girls
about, and none of the men paid her much attention. "Shall I ask her to join us?"
Rill blinked, then said, "Simion, she is a whore. I know--I can tell my own kind."
"Stop it!" Simion said sharply. When Rill winced, Simion’s voice softened. "Rill, I don’t like to hear
you talk about yourself like that. No matter what you once were, that is behind you. You are Prince
Draculea’s childe, and my young master."
Rill looked at him shyly. "I’d rather be your friend, Simion."
Simion felt his heart swell. "I’d like that, very much. But what about the woman?"
Rill shrugged. "If you want her, I’m sure she has a room here. I can wait."
"No, boy. I meant for you."
If Rill had still been warm he would have blushed. He whispered, "I... I’ve never been with a woman,
Simion."
Simion’s smile was gently skeptical. "What, never?"
Again the boy shrugged. "Rock could never find a lady who wanted me enough to pay." Simion
looked away briefly so that Rill would not see the anger in his eyes at hearing how rigid had been
Rock’s control of every aspect of his brother’s life. Rill spoke again, bringing his attention back. "I
really don’t think I want to."
"Not for that. You said you were hungry, didn’t you?"
Rill brightened, looking again at the woman. She caught his eye and smiled at him. Rill, always a
friendly boy, smiled back. "Will she feed me, Simion?"
Simion had noticed the silent exchange between the two. He curled his finger at the woman, and she
got up, coming toward them. "Yes, Rill. You only have to remember to be careful, and gentle."
~~~~~
Rock crouched on the pantry floor and tossed the twitching, dying rat against the wall so forcefully
that the beast died of a snapped neck before it could die from blood loss. His stomach heaved once
again, but he did not vomit. He’d done that once before, much to Draculea’s amusement, and his
partially sated hunger had come roaring back. He’d been forced to begin quenching the blood thirst
again. It was a good thing that Simion had laid in a plentiful supply of rats--Rock had needed them all.
"I hope you’ve had enough," Draculea said, "because there aren’t any more. You will not be allowed
to hunt tonight, and I’m not sacrificing my servants or my horses to your appetite if you can’t hold
down what you’ve already taken. Get up."
Rock stood, and Draculea turned to unlock the door. Rock tensed, considering if he would be quick
enough and strong enough to break the prince’s neck. Draculea paused and said, "Try it, if you must,
Rock." Rock froze in astonishment. Draculea laughed, "No, I didn’t read your mind--not quite,
anyway. But a sneak attack at the first opportunity is EXACTLY what would occur to you, Rock."
When he turned back, his eyes glowed red, and Rock flinched. "You’re very predictable, Rock. That
means that you may be dangerous, but you’re not as dangerous as you think."
Rock followed Draculea out into the kitchen. The gypsies were emptying a final bucket of water into a
large tub. They silently bowed to the prince, smirked at Rock, and left the room. Draculea indicated
the tub, then a pile of fresh clothes on the table. "You’re filthy. Strip and clean yourself. I want you as
presentable as possible when your brother returns." When Rock still hesitated Draculea said
impatiently. "Go on! Hades, man, I know you were a prostitute before you debauched your poor
brother. It isn’t as if you had never been naked before another man, and you might as well become
accustomed again."
Sullenly Rock removed his clothes and stepped into the tub. The gypsies hadn’t bothered to warm the
water, but he scarcely noticed. He washed quickly and efficiently, very aware of the prince’s eyes on
him. In other circumstances he might have been aroused. Draculea was an attractive man, and Rock
had always been attracted to power. But he didn’t like being UNDER someone’s power. He’d had
enough of that in his childhood, and had vowed that he would never again be subject to another’s will.
Now it seemed he had no choice.
Draculea watched the former pimp bathe, and desire began to rise. But it was an oddly detached
sensation. He could admire Rock’s physical beauty, but he despised the man himself. He was
everything cruel, crude, and petty that Draculea hated. *But he is fair of body and face, no matter how
foul his mind. And I have never been with one of my own kind. I have a feeling that he would be able
to take much more than my mortal lovers.* A slow, cruel smile played about Draculea’s lips. *It
should be awhile before Simion and Rill return. I think I’ll find out.*
~~~~~
The prostitute was congratulating herself on her luck--two men, both comely and clean, with ready
money. She smiled to herself as she locked the door to her room, glancing at the pair as they waited
patiently by the bed. *And the youngest a virgin, if you can credit that. This is almost a treat.*
She strolled back to the men, making her hips sway enticingly, and held out her hand, palm up, fingers
wriggling. The older man pressed two silver coins into her hand, and she almost whooped with glee.
She couldn’t wait till one of those younger bitches tried to brag about how much they could pull down
in one night. She tucked the coins into her nightstand and began to unlace her bodice.
Simion was whispering to Rill. "Just stay calm, and go slowly. Talk to her, pet her, caress her. Your
touch and voice can soothe, if you only try, Rill. When she is lulled, then... then you can take what you
need."
She came back to them, smiling. Nodding at Rill she said, "That your boy?"
"No, not really. We’re just good friends, and I’m helping him."
"Ah. It’s just that I thought that would be kind of sweet--a father teaching his son about women. So,"
she took Rill’s hand, pulling him to sit beside her on the bed, "you’re Rill." She gave him a kiss on the
cheek. She was a seasoned whore, well able to conceal her true feelings, so she made no sign that she
realized how cold the boy was. "What a pretty boy you are, Rill."
Rill smiled shyly. "You’re a pretty lady." He stroked her cheek, and his hand was cold, too. "So very
pretty and warm." There was something odd here, but she could not say what it was. His hand trailed
down her throat, and the touch was becoming more tolerable every moment. He moved lightly down to
her bosom, and she felt her nipples begin to harden at the soft, cool touch. "The prettiest lady I’ve ever
seen. Your skin is so smooth and white." The whispered words and the gentle, insistent touch lulled
her. Soon she felt she was half-dozing.
Simion watched as Rill murmured and petted the woman. He wondered if this were a talent shared by
all Nosferatu. He had a feeling that the personality of each one might shape their strengths. Rill was
such a simple, beguiling creature that he could hardly help but enchant all who were in the least
susceptible. Rock, he thought, would be more likely to take by force.
The whore was leaning limply against Rill, her head on his shoulder, her eyes half closed. Rill said
quietly, "Can I kiss you?"
The woman smiled. "I’d like that. Been a long time since I been kissed by anything as sweet and pretty
as you." She tipped her face up toward him, her eyes drifting shut. Rill looked questioningly at Simion,
who gestured for him to go ahead. He bent down and touched his mouth to hers in a chaste kiss.
The woman, thinking him shy, smiled beneath his lips. The smile broadened as he kissed her cheek,
then moved down to press his cool mouth to the side of her throat. She moaned at a sharp pain, but the
moan turned to a sigh as she felt the gentle pull of the boy sucking at her throat. So, the little thing
wanted to mark her, did he? He might be innocent of the ways of a man with a woman, but he had
good instincts.
Simion watched as Rill fed. If Rill did not finish soon, Simion would have to stop him. But after a few
more swallows the boy stopped sucking and began licking the wounds, as Draculea had taught him.
The bleeding stopped quickly. Rill pulled away from the woman and eased her back on the bed. "You
should sleep now. You were so good to me, you made me feel so good. Thank you, pretty lady. But
you seem so tired now. You should sleep."
"Sleep," murmured the woman, her eyes closing. In a moment she was breathing deeply and evenly.
Rill looked at Simion, eyes shining. "Did I do good, Simion?"
He smiled, moving to hug the boy. "Perfect, lad, perfect. You took only what you needed, and you did
not make her suffer. Indeed, tomorrow she may be a bit tired, but she will be very pleased with herself.
She’ll brag of how she stole the cherry of a beautiful young man, and was paid for the privilege. Now,
come. I think it’s time we returned home."
~~~~~
Rock finished his bath and stepped from the tub, reaching for a towel. Draculea said, "Best spread that
over the end of the table."
"Why?"
Draculea plucked the towel from his hand and spread it on the table. "The surface is splintery." He
began to unlace his breeches. "It will make it more comfortable when you bend over it."
Rock took a step back, fists clenching at his sides. "No."
Draculea raked his eyes over Rock, watching the lamplight glinting on the smooth, damp skin, seeing
the wet red-blonde hair plastered close to his head. "If you fight me, you’ll regret it."
Rock turned to run, perfectly willing to run out into the streets naked. He never reached the back door.
Draculea caught him easily, seizing one arm and dragging it up behind his back till the smaller man
yelled in pain. "I can break this with little effort. Do you know, if we break a bone, it must be set, just
as with a mortal. We heal much more quickly than they, and if we don’t take care of it they will heal
awry. You might not have noticed it, but my right little finger is a bit crooked. I ignored it for a day or
so, and now I’d have to break it again to straighten it. If you’re satisfactory, when I’m done, I’ll
straighten your nose for you, so that it doesn’t end up crooked."
"Lick my ass!" Rock snarled.
Draculea tightened his hold, lifting the arm higher and wringing another yell from his captive. "No, I
won’t be doing any of that, though YOU will, soon enough. I see you’ll have to be forced the first
time. How regretful."
Using his hold on the younger man’s arm, he turned Rock and slammed his upper body face down on
the table. Rock squirmed, trying to escape, but Draculea leaned his weight on Rock, pinning him and
straining his arm nearly to the breaking point. With his free hand he gripped his rigid cock and pressed
it to the narrow crease of Rock’s ass. He couldn’t release his grip to spread the man’s buttocks, so he
simply pushed forward, using one finger to guide his prick.
Vlad slid the head of his prick up and down the narrow cleft, pushing, while Rock struggled and
swore. Finally the glans moved over Rock’s anus at the proper angle, and lodged shallowly. Draculea
gave a growl of triumph and thrust hard, sinking deep into the tight coolness of Rock’s body.
Rock howled, thrashing. What Draculea had said was true--he HAD been a prostitute when he first
came to the city as a youth. He had rented his mouth and ass to any who had the coin, and the hatred of
being possessed by another, even for a moment, had grown to an obsession. He hadn’t allowed another
man to penetrate him since he had brought Rill to the city more than eight years before. The vigorous,
dry mounting was physically painful, but the psychic pain was agony.
Draculea fucked Rock hard and fast, not bothering to restrain himself in any way. With Nicolae he had
made love, with his other lovers he had had sex, with Rock he rutted. He allowed his lust full release
for the first time in a many years, pounding into the cool tightness, feeling the thick gel of Rock’s half
congealed blood slick his way as the delicate tissues of his anal passage tore under the furious assault.
Rock finally stopped fighting, concentrating on just enduring the assault. Draculea gripped his hip
with his free hand and lifted him slightly, to give himself a deeper penetration. His cock passed over
Rock’s tiny pleasure nub, and the young man shrieked as a hot burst of pleasure flared deep inside
him. This meant nothing to Vlad, but in this position he received more stimulation, so he continued.
Again and again Rock’s pleasure spot was jabbed, and soon he was erect, his stiff cock wavering
beneath him as he was buffeted.
Draculea came, releasing his sperm into the now quivering man. Rock groaned as he felt the liquid
gush. It seemed to freeze, even as it burned. He’d forgotten what this felt like. To Rock, it felt like
being owned, and he hated it.
Draculea pulled out almost casually, releasing Rock. He took the bath cloth and cleaned himself
fastidiously, wiping away blood and shit. Rock stood up stiffly and painfully, turning. His cock was
hard and leaking. Rock glared at Draculea and said sullenly, "What about me?"
"You have permission to finish yourself," said Draculea negligently, closing his breeches. "When
you’re done, clean yourself, then get dressed. Then come to my room to wait for your brother." He
started to leave the room. "And by all means, try to leave, if you wish. I’d rather enjoy hunting you
down and punishing you."
With a snarl Rock gripped his cock and brought himself to completion with a few hard, fast strokes.
He screamed again when he saw the bloody semen spurt from his dick, but since there was no pain he
calmed quickly. Another unpleasant aspect of his new existence. It was the most unsatisfying climax
he’d ever had. Cursing, he wiped himself clean and began to dress. *I suppose I’ll have to cosset Rill
not. It sounds as if the prince has made a pet of him, but I’m to be his bitch.*
~~~~~
When Rill and Simion entered the house, they saw Draculea standing at the end of the hall, before his
room. The moment he saw the prince Rill was almost vibrating with excitement. His desire to fly
down the hall was palpable, but he held himself back, waiting to be summoned. Draculea smiled,
waving to him, and Rill raced to him.
"Rock?" he said anxiously. "Prince, has Rock awakened?"
"Yes, little one. Your brother is with us again, and he is eager to see you." Draculea stepped aside. "Go
to him."
Rill entered the room and saw Rock sitting on the bed, looking so much better than he had before, but
he was scowling. Rill stopped short, staring at him hopefully. Rock looked past his brother to see a
grim-faced Draculea. Rock had been carefully instructed on how he was to act toward his brother from
this point on, and had been just as carefully informed of what he might expect if he caused his brother
any further misery.
Rock forced a smile and held out his arms. With a glad cry Rill ran to him, throwing himself into his
brother’s arms. "I’m sorry Rock. I didn’t really hurt you, did I?"
"No, little brother, of course not."
"I was so afraid. I couldn’t have borne it if I’d hurt you."
"Well, don’t trouble yourself."
"Rock? We’re to stay with Prince Draculea now."
"So I have been told." A touch of frost had crept into Rock’s tone, but Rill didn’t notice it.
"I won’t have to go with the gentlemen any more, and you won’t have to work. Isn’t it wonderful,
Rock? We will be taken care of."
*YOU will be taken care of. And perhaps you will not have to go with the gentlemen," he caught
Draculea’s cold eyes over Rill’s shoulder, and his insides knotted with hate and outrage at the
injustice, "but I most assuredly will.* "Yes, Rill. It’s wonderful."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 52: Chapter 52: The Third

Summary: Draculea has moved on to the court of the Louis XIV, and meets his third ’bride’-to-be.
Notes: Okay, I know that I’ve been telling you from the start that the third ’bride’ would be named
Thomas, but I changed my mind. Hey, I’m a woman, it’s my prerogative. Besides, I decided that he
would be French, and I couldn’t find a French equivalent. Found a wonderfully appropriate sounding
name with my character namer, though. So in this chapter I will
introduce Sinn Barbee--ambitious, scheming, and vain young noble in the court of Louis XIV. Louis’
extravagance put his country deeply in debt, and helped pave the way for the French Revolution.
Draculea is amused by Sinn’s name, knowing the English connotation of ’sin’, and Sinn uses the
semantics to charm and disarm. Sinn still looks like a young Tom
Cruise. BTW, all other names so far are my own creation (where they aren’t Bram’s).
Child of the Night, Part 52: The Third

Versailles, France
The Palace at Versailles
Monsieur Jacques Destoup, Head Steward of the Palace at Versailles, was not pleased. King Louis
usually liked all his court about him at the evening meals, and Destoup had garnered the rarely given
boon of permission to sup privately. He had been entertaining a charming lady of the court, one of the
very minor ones who was seeking alliances to promote her position in the glittering throng of nobles.
Perhaps she thought that Destoup might bring her to the attention of the king himself. After all, he
might very well tire of his current favorite, Madame de Maintenon, if he were presented with someone
fresh. The king was old, but he wasn’t dead.
Destoup had been coaxing the giggling mademoiselle into a third glass of wine, admiring the smooth
perfection of her shoulders as they rose above the fashionably low neckline of her gown, when the
summons had arrived, brought by an almost cringing footman. The servant was loath to disturb
Monsieur, he said, but foreign royalty had arrived--a Transylvanian prince. He must be presented to
the king, and this was not a task for a lowly footman, nor even one of Destoup’s aides.
Grumbling, Destoup left his wished-for morsel, bading her to go on to the dining hall and find herself
a place. There would be no time for a tete-a-tete now. After the prince had been presented to the king
Jacque would have to arrange suitable quarters for him and his servants. That would entail moving
several of the courtiers, since there was currently nothing fit for a prince (even a minor foreign one)
available at present. La, there would be fussing, ranting, and pouting, and HE would have to deal with
it all. These nobles were all so careful of anything they thought signified their rank. Machiavellian
schemes had been enacted simply to gain banquet seating a few places nearer the king.
Destoup had a servant re-powder his hair, then changed into a more elaborate vest and jacket. After a
moment’s hesitation he had the servant replace the silver buckles on his shoes with the carefully
hoarded gold ones. He did all this very quickly, thinking it unwise to keep the guest waiting if he did
not know his true rank. He might be a prince, but there were princes, and then there were PRINCES.
The proper reverence had to be shown to royalty, even down to being sure that one’s dress was rich
enough to honor them. Destoup was not sure yet how powerful this man was, but with royalty it was
better to be safe than sorry. One never knew when they might take a fancy to have one thrown in
prison for an imagined slight.
As they made their way through the halls the footman told Destoup that the two lower servants had
accompanied the prince’s carriage and horses to the stable, and they would be given quarters there.
Aside from them, the prince had only a companion and two upper servants. Destoup was relieved to
hear this. Royalty tended to travel with an entourage, and the smaller the group, the less trouble it was
for Destoup. He’d had SUCH a problem telling a German princess that she would have to make do
with the palace’s seamstresses and laundresses, instead of keeping her own.
They were waiting in a small salon, decorated in cream and gilt. The two servants were easily
identified by both their positions and their garb. An older and a younger man, they stood near their
masters, dressed in sober, simple clothes. The younger one, a handsome brute with bright red-blonde
hair, must perform something other than domestic services. He couldn’t think of any other reason he
could keep a position with that sullen attitude.
The two men who had been taking their ease on a small sofa looked up as Destoup entered. The
younger one, a dark-haired youth with large, deep brown eyes, gave him a winning smile. *That one
will be popular at court,* thought Destoup. *He’ll do well for himself, if he’s clever.*
The elder servant stepped forward as the taller of the two gentlemen stood. He said formally, "I present
to you Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea, of the royal house of Wallachia, or as you say, Transylvania."
Destoup bowed low. "Your highness, I am Monsieur Jacque Destoup, principle steward to His
Majesty, Louis XIV. I welcome you to Versailles. I apologize for your inconvenience, but I am afraid
that there was a breakdown in communications. I was only now informed of your arrival, and I had no
previous notice."
"We were invited by the Comte de Amestoy. We became acquainted in Paris this spring." The prince
gestured to the elder servant, who handed over a letter.
"Indeed." *Amestoy? That old villain? Yes, he was spending some time in the city, waiting for that
scandal about his valet’s child to blow over. There’s been no word of him for months, though. Ah,
well, the seal on the letter looks authentic.* He read the letter. ’To the Court at Versailles. My deepest
regards to Your Majesty, from his humble servant, de Amestoy. I beg Your Majesty to extend
hospitality to a friend, and representative of Wallachia. This is to introduce His Royal Highness Vlad
Tepes Draculea, prince of the royal blood, Transylvania. Prince Draculea is a man of taste, refinement,
intelligence, and discretion, and cannot help but be a beneficial addition to the society of the court. I
look forward to the day I may once again bask in the light of your presence. Till then I remain your
faithful servant, Dupin, Comte de Amestoy.’
"Everything seems to be in order, your highness. And this young man?"
Draculea’s hand rested on Rill’s shoulder. "My childe, Rill. You will be responsible for our quarters?"
When Destoup nodded, Draculea said, "I have two directives in that matter." Destoup, used to dealing
with the demands of his superiors, nodded slightly, wondering what demands would be made, and how
difficult his life would become trying to fulfill them. "They are simple requests. First, and most
importantly, there must be no windows." Destoup raised an eyebrow at that. Generally, the rooms with
many windows were considered the most desirable. "This is not a frivolous request--our health is at
stake. If you cannot provide this, we will find a tavern that can."
Destoup was shocked. The idea of someone going to a tavern when they could lodge at Versailles was
startling. "There will be no problem." *In fact, that will make my task easier. The one’s in windowless
rooms are generally of lower rank, and will not be so inclined to protest a change.*
"Secondly, our rooms must be together--side by side, if not interconnected." He rubbed the nape of
Rill’s neck. "The boy becomes nervous if we are much apart."
As he led them through the palace to the royal dining hall, Destoup considered that last touch, and the
tender tone in Draculea’s voice. The French nobility were not, as a rule, very close to their children.
King Louis required his court to live at the palace, but he was not overly fond of children. The sons
and daughters of the nobles were left on their country estates in the care of nursemaids, governesses,
and tutors till they were sufficiently grown to be of the greatest interest and least trouble. Even then
there were not many nobles who cared to call their children up to court.
But Draculea seemed to have a warm regard for his son, VERY warm. *Well,* thought Destoup, *it
wouldn’t be the first time a relationship had grown TOO close between parent and child, particularly
in a royal family. They can usually have whatever they want, and they get bored.*
Draculea felt at home when they entered the dining hall. It was so like the banquets he had known in
his early life, before he became Nosferatu. The room was a bit brighter, the dress of the attendants a bit
more refined, but it was much the same. The twitter of conversation, mainly gossip and flattery, was
familiar. The lowering of voices and curious stares were familiar, also.
Whispering arose when the assemblage saw that Draculea and Rill were being led to the king. Louis
had been engrossed, as usual, with Madame de Maintenon, but he turned his attention politely to the
new arrivals as they were presented. He perused the letter presented by Destoup, then smiled genially
at the prince. "We are pleased to welcome you and your son to Versailles, Prince Draculea. We hope
that your stay will be a pleasant one. This is not a state visit, I take it? I believe I would have been
warned if this were so."
Draculea bowed. "No, Your Majesty. The fame of what you have created here at Versailles reached
even into my mountain home, and I wished to see it for myself. I also wished to show my childe the
glitter and elegance of the French court. He has led a simple life up till now, and I felt it was time that
he saw a little of the world. You see, Your Majesty, my bloodline suffers from a health peculiarity that
somewhat limits our pursuits. While we are long lived, there are restrictions we must follow to remain
healthy and comfortable. Sad to say, we are morbidly sensitive to the sun, and must spend most
daylight hours resting. Direct sunlight can be dangerous to us."
There were a few sympathetic murmurs, but this revelation didn’t cause much of a stir. Odd physical
imperfections were not uncommon in royal families--too many marriages among cousins--or even
closer relations. One line suffered from free bleeding, several others produced feeble minded children
on a regular basis.
Destoup was dismissed to prepare the quarters, taking the two servants with him, and room was made
for the prince and Rill near the top of the king’s table. Both men declined food, but accepted wine.
Though they brought the goblets to their lips occasionally, the level of wine never dropped
appreciably. An observant person might have noticed this--one did.
Vicomte Sinn Barbee was seated halfway down the table, across from the new arrivals. He adroitly
managed to keep up conversation with his two dinner companions and still observe the two men.
*Mm, a great improvement over the last foreign visitors. The German duke was as fat as a Black
Forest boar, and the Italian Marquis was old enough to be my grandfather.
The courtiers will be thick around them. I may have to work to get close and make myself noticed.*
Sinn watched as the young one, Rill, tried to talk to the giggling lady sitting beside him. He didn’t
know much French, and the woman knew no... He was suddenly even more interested. Hungarian?
The boy’s natural language seemed to be Hungarian. How odd. Sinn knew that the second language of
most foreign courts was French, so how did the son of a Transylvanian prince end up speaking
Hungarian?
*This may be turned to my benefit,* Sinn mused. He smiled to himself. *And Father thought that
learning more than one language would be a waste of time.* Besides his native French, Sinn was
fluent in German, Hungarian, Italian, and English, and he had smatterings of several other languages.
His tutors had despaired when he refused to turn his mind to science, mathematics, or theology. His
final tutor, though, had not long tried to persuade the young man to devote himself to one particular
field of study. He had recognized the burning ambition and vanity at the young man’s core, and had
realized that he would never be good at anything that he could not turn to a personal advantage.
After the meal the assemblage scattered to various pursuits: cards, dancing, conversation, or
dalliances. As Sinn had anticipated, the lords and ladies flocked about Draculea and his young charge.
The prince was at ease with the crowd, but Sinn noticed that Rill was shrinking gradually into the
background, speaking less and less, beginning to look anxious. *I think I can get to the prince through
his son, and it will be a very pleasant detour. But first I must speak to the prince, to pave the way.*
He managed to work his way close to Prince Draculea, risking offending some lesser nobles by
slipping in ahead of them. He bowed to the Prince, saying, "Your Highness, may I present myself? I
am the Vicomte Sinn Barbee."
Draculea had scarcely been paying attention, he was awash in the warmth and life that surrounded
him. The scent alone was intoxicating. But the young man’s words caught his attention, and he
focused on him. The first thing he noticed was his eyes--bright green, like fresh new leaves. There was
no telling his hair color, as he followed the fashion of wearing a powdered wig, but his brows were as
dark as raven’s wings.
Sinn saw that he had the prince’s attention, and he poured his charm into a smile. Prince Draculea had
been sober till then, but he returned the smile. The young man said, "Something has amused you, my
prince?"
"A small thing, young man. A play on words. Your name..."
Sinn’s smile widened. "Yes, my name. I think you refer to its meaning in English." He leaned a little
closer, his voice dropping. "I assure you, it is not indicative of my character. No, I was named for a
town near my birthplace--St. Clair."
"You know English?"
"Among other languages. For instance, your highness, I am fluent in Hungarian. I noticed that young
Rill has trouble with French."
Draculea sighed. "He tries very hard, but I have had little time to teach him, and my servant does not
know much more of the language than Rill."
"If I may be so bold, I would consider it a privilege and an honor to assist him."
Draculea considered young Barbee. He was a smooth, handsome young man--very attractive. Rill
would like him, and this would bring this interesting boy closer. "I would be most grateful, sir. My
childe is... very young for his age. I protect him as best I can, and my steward, Simion, does the same,
but we cannot be with him always. He could use a friend."
Rill had been effectively backed into a corner by a trio of women. They chattered at him non-stop,
giggling at his increasing confusion. Sinn came up behind them, tweaking lace-draped sleeves and
prodding rustling, bouffant skirts. He scolded, "Mignon, Therese, Fleurette! You should be ashamed of
yourselves, teasing the boy! Run to your beaus, before they tire of your fickleness and find other
sweethearts." Pouting, the girls drifted away. Sinn smiled at the relieved boy and spoke to him in
Hungarian. "Do not let them harry you, young sir. They haven’t a brain between them."
"You speak my language!" Rill exclaimed delightedly. "Oh, how wonderful to have someone to talk
to." He suddenly looked contrite. "It is not that I do not speak with the prince, or Simion, or Rock, but
so often they are busy, and... and..." his voice became shy, "it is good to make new friends."
*He’s simple. How perfectly delicious. Sweet clay, to be molded as I wish.* "Yes. Can I be your
friend, Rill?" The boy nodded eagerly, and Sinn led him toward a secluded corner.
Draculea watched the exchange. *Barbee is not so guileless as he pretends, I think. Still, Rill has been
improving in his hunting techniques. This one should provide excellent experience. So, Monsieur le
Vicomte Barbee, I think this time you are more the prey than the stalker.* The Contessa who had been
trying to engage the prince in gossip about what he
had lately seen in Paris wondered what had inspired that cool, rather grim, smile.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 53: Part 53: Suspicion

Fandom: Dracula
Summary: Rock is discontent, and a bit about Sinn’s obsession is revealed. Warnings: Brief reference
to Satanism.
Notes: lawn--A light cotton or linen fabric of very fine weave, mon petit--my little one. Sinn is being a
bit condescending here. After all, he believes that Rill is only a very little bit younger than he. Rating:
NC-17
Child of the Night, Part 53: Suspicion

A week later
Versailles, France
"It isn’t fair!" growled Rock. "We’re in the thick of this human herd, and I must feed off the four
footed beasts."
Simion, stitching another frill of lace at the wrist of one of Rill’s jackets, didn’t bother to look up.
"You know why. There are no suitable victims here. If you had learned to curb your impulses as your
brother has, you would be allowed to sup from the gentle lords and ladies. But no, you cannot sip
lightly," He bit the thread through, examining his work, "you must glut yourself each time," he turned
disapproving eyes on the sullen young man. "I would have thought that the thrashing our lord gave
you when you drained that poor stable lad would have taught you. But no, it takes you a week to
recover, and again you drink an innocent so dry that they die within a week."
It had taken Rock nearly a full season to recover from the beating that had followed his second
transgression. He felt that he might have starved if Rill had not caught rats and brought them to him.
At first his brother had to tear the squirming beasts open and hold them over his brother’s mouth,
letting the blood drip between his torn lips. It would have taken longer, Rock thought, if Rill had not
sliced open his own wrist when Simion was not looking and fed Rock with his blood.
There was only that one time. Rill’s self inflicted wound healed quickly, but not before Simion saw it,
and took the boy to task. "He’s being punished, Rill, you know that. You know what he did was
wrong, and he has to learn." Rill had apologized, but ’he was so hungry, Simion’. Simion’s expression
had softened, and he’d agreed not to tell the prince, as long as Rill did not do it again. Rock healed
much more quickly after that. Somehow it made him resent Rill even more.
Simion hung the jacket on the back of a chair, stroking his hand across the shoulders slowly, as if the
boy were wearing it. "You should sleep more. You know how debilitating it is for you to be up during
daylight hours. The weaker you are, the worse your thirst will plague you."
They were in the room that Rill and Rock shared, which connected to the one occupied by Draculea
and Simion. To the court, Rock was valet and companion to the prince’s son. There was a trundle bed
for his use, and the sheets on it and the master bed were mussed each day. Now Rill was sleeping in
the larger bed, burrowed into a pillow. If Simion was to be away from the rooms, though, he slept in
one of the large boxes that were replicas of Draculea’s.
Rock stared at his peacefully sleeping brother. As Rock watched the boy, who was sleeping nude,
stretched, twisting to lie on his stomach. The sheets slipped down, and the crease between his cheeks
peeked from the top. Rock had to restrain a growl. He hadn’t been allowed to touch Rill since that last
satisfying fuck before Simion took him to Draculea. While Rock might rebel in other ways, he
believed Draculea when he said that molesting his brother again would inspire the prince to find a way
to kill him. The only sex Rock had was with Draculea, and in that he always played the bitch. It was
driving him mad.
Simion was still preoccupied with Rill’s wardrobe. The young vampire would rise soon, and he
wanted to have things ready for him. Rock, his eyes narrowing, watched the older man moving about
the room. He usually preferred someone younger, more vulnerable, but Simion was an attractive man,
and he knew that Draculea still sometimes took his pleasure with him. But Simion was not the sort
who could be easily taken without his consent. Rock had seen the older man fight.
One night in Germany the two younger vampires, Simion, and the gypsies had been driving between
towns, Draculea having gone on ahead. They were attacked by bandits--at least a dozen of them. The
highwaymen had thought that they would be easy meat. How wrong they had been.
They lost one of the gypsies to a gunshot wound at the beginning. (That was annoying in itself--it took
weeks for a replacement to be summoned from Wallachia.) After that it was close fighting, with fists
and knives. Had the traveling party been normal men no doubt they would have been slain, but the
villains had not expected two vampires and one man strengthened by the blood of the Nosferatu.
It had been quick and bloody. Rock had slain four himself, ripping and tearing with fangs and talons.
He had taken the opportunity to gorge on his last victim. During the fight he had seen Simion slit the
throats of two men, and gut another two. His knife was caught in the body of the last when a bandit
had leapt at him from behind, and gentle Rill had made his first kill. He had caught the attacker and
broken his neck with one hard twist. Then he had cried.
That had been one of the few truly satisfying meals Rock had known since his change, but he
remembered the incident more for what it had revealed about Simion. The man might act as a servant,
but he was a soldier. With his strength enhanced by his blood tie with Draculea, he would be a
formidable opponents, and Rock preferred to look for easier prey. Still...
When Simion passed Rock again, the younger man reached out and ran his hand down his arm. Simion
paused, looking at Rock. Their eyes met. Rock let his fingers massage the firm muscle of Simion’s
arm. Simion gave him a small, cold smile. "You must be joking."
Rock scowled, his grip tightening. "He hasn’t forbidden it."
"No, he hasn’t. But I am free to choose my own companions, Rock, and you are not my choice. You
never will be."
Rock let go with a small shove. Only a small one, he did not dare more. "You don’t fool me. You’ve
got your eye on Rill." Simion stared at him, but didn’t answer. Rock nodded his head, smirking. "It’s
the way you watch him. Haven’t done anything about it yet, though, have you? You don’t dare. He’s
Draculea’s little pet, and he’d do something nasty to you if he caught you sniffing around, wouldn’t
he?"
Simion shook his head. "You’re more of a fool than I thought, Rock. You can only see things from
your own viewpoint. Draculea cares for Rill, and wants him to be happy. He would not forbid the boy
anyone he truly wanted to be with."
Rock frowned. "But you haven’t had him yet, I’m sure of it. Why?"
"Is there no end to your stupidity?" Simion hissed. "I will not make advances. Good God, the child has
known nothing but use his entire life. He would give himself, because I have been kind to him, but I
don’t want that. If someday he comes to me, that would be different. But I will not ask." There was a
small sound from the bed behind him, and Simion gave Rock a warning look before turning to a
yawning Rill. "Good morning, young one."
"Good morning, Simion." Rill sat up, throwing off the covers and swinging his legs over the edge of
the bed, entirely unselfconscious about his nudity. "Good morning, Rock."
Rock grunted, and Simion handed Rill a pair of drawers. "Dress, child. Your friend Barbee has been
by twice already, looking for you."
Rill donned the underwear and the stockings and pair of breeches that Simion had laid across the foot
of the bed. As he was putting on his fine lawn shirt he said, "Simion, did you get a chance to...?"
Simion smiled at him, showing him the jacket. "There."
Delighted, Rill fingered the snowy falls of lace. "Oh, Simion, it’s beautiful! It looks just like the one
Sinn wore yesterday."
Simion felt a twinge. Rill was spending a lot of time with the young vicomte. *It’s normal, I suppose.
After all, Barbee is charming and attentive. The boy had little enough of that in his life since he came
to us, and we... Well, the master is so often melancholy, thinking of Nicolae. And I... I am no
courtier.* "Yes, Rill. You’ll show up well beside him."
Rill fingered one dark curl. "Do you think the prince would let me powder my hair?"
Rock rolled his eyes, but Simion answered gently, "You can ask, if you wish. But Rill, your own hair
is so beautiful, why would you want to hide it under that white dust?"
He considered. "I could wear a wig."
"You’d have to have your head shaved or your hair cropped very short for it to sit properly." Simion
put aside the jacket and took Rill’s hand. "I’m going to tell you something that I don’t want you to
mention to the prince, then I’m going to ask you do something for me, Rill. Pay attention." Rill
nodded, round-eyed. He knew that he could sometimes be forgetful, but if he paid close attention, he
could remember as well as anyone.
"You have heard Draculea speak of his lost love?"
Again Rill nodded, and his expression softened. "Nicu. I look like him a little, don’t I, Simion?"
Simion, surprised, said, ’Yes, a little. How did you know this, Rill? You have never seen the portrait
that hangs in Castle Draculea."
"It is the way he looks at me--like he’s trying to look beyond my face. Like it hurts him sometimes."
"That is what I am speaking of, Rill. You see, when they first met Nicolae’s hair was cropped very
short. If you do the same, I am afraid the sight will tear at the master’s heart, though he would not
admit it. Please do not adopt this style. Besides," he tousled Rill’s hair fondly, "why would you want
to imitate all the fashionable dandies here at court when you can stand out just by being yourself?"
There was a knock at the door, and Rock opened it. He found Sinn Barbee waiting in the hall. The
young nobleman was dressed in what passed for casual clothes here at court--trousers instead of knee
breeches and a simple shirt with only a touch of lace at the collar and cuffs. Instead of the usual richly
buckled shoes (Rock had noted with amusement that he followed the custom of wearing built up heels
to increase his height--Sinn Barbee was not a tall man) he wore knee boots. The boots would normally
have been gleaming, but now they showed odiferous evidence that he had been around horses.
Sinn gave the sullen servant who opened the door a quick glance, then looked beyond him. Rock, his
name was. He was interesting in his own right--the soft, bright color of his air at odds with the hard
handsomeness of his features. He was undeniably common, but the common were very good at
satisfying the grosser appetites. He intended to get better acquainted with the servant later, but he
mustn’t neglect his main interest. Things were coming along nicely with Rill.
He brushed past Rock and came into the room, smiling at Rill. "Rill, I was surprised you weren’t at the
stables this evening." To allay gossip, the vampires occasionally appeared before sunset, but they
stayed inside as much as possible, keeping themselves well muffled with cloaks on the very rare, very
brief occasions they went outside before full dark. But yesterday had been a rainy, overcast day, with
not a ray of sunshine visible, and Rill had ventured out more boldly. "Didn’t the kittens hold your
interest?"
Rill became even more animated. "Oh, Simion, I forgot to tell you! Sinn showed me where one of the
stable cats hid her kittens! They’re just the most perfect, tiny little things--all of them as black as
night." He laughed. "They barely have their eyes open, and they have no teeth, but they hissed at me
when I picked them up."
Interested, Rock came closer. "Where are these kittens?"
Rill looked alarmed. "No, Rock!" The servant gave Rill a nasty smile.
Rill looked appealingly at Simion. Simion said pointedly, "No."
Sinn watched the exchange, interest growing. Rill did not react to Rock and Simion as a young master
relates to his servants. *There’s a more intimate bond between these three, I think, but I’m not quite
sure what it is. It might be best not to be too imperious with them till I know how things stand.* Sinn
addressed Rill. "Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything to harm the kittens." Rill looked doubtful, and
Rock looked disgusted. "Not when he knows how much you like them." *Mmm, more doubtful still.
Whatever is between you two isn’t all pleasant, is it?*
"I came to speak to the prince about your progress." Sinn smiled at Simion, knowing that what he
knew, Draculea knew. "He’s doing very well. Already he has a good vocabulary, but the grammar
sometimes escapes him. Soon he will be able to make himself understood fairly well."
Simion nodded. "That is good to know. Proficiency in different languages can be very useful,
especially with the way the prince has travelled."
"About that," Sinn sat on the bed beside Rill. The young man had become enthralled by the jet buttons
on the jacket Simion still held, playing with them. "When the prince first arrived, I had the impression
that he had come fresh from his home in the Wallachian mountains, and he spoke of Rill having led a
simple life, yet speaking with you I would believe they had travelled the world for the last few years."
"I’m sorry if I have confused you, my lord. It was not my intention."
*And that is all the explanation I will get,* thought Sinn. *Very well. It is time to begin fishing for
information from my simple friend.*
Rill showed the jacket to Sinn. "See what Simion has done for me? Look." He ruffled the lace.
"Yes, Rill, very elegant."
"Just like the butter yellow one you wore two nights ago. Will you wear it again tonight?" he asked
eagerly. "We can look alike."
Sinn smiled. "Not tonight, cheri. I could not wear the same jacket so soon--the gossip would be
vicious. And besides, I will not be at court this evening. I have an errand elsewhere."
Rill looked disappointed, then perked up. "Can I come? I could help with your errand."
"Not this time, mon petit." He gave the boy a considering look. Madame Tisane would like him. The
old hag always had use for the innocent, and the gift of a strong, handsome young man who was
simple enough to be led would please her greatly. It might even inspire her to greater efforts in
achieving Sinn’s particular aims.
Sinn Barbee was only in his mid-twenties, but he had been seeking the secret of eternal youth for
several years. He was obsessed with preserving his own physical beauty, and was willing to go to
extremes to avoid the ravages of time.
First he had tried conventional medicine, reading extensively and investigating every quack and
physician that came to his notice. He had considered magnetism, mesmerism and bleeding. He had
followed with interest the fad that had swept through the nobility of taking a regime of various (and
increasingly bizarre) enemas. He’d come to the conclusion that conventional, and even fanciful,
medical treatments were useless.
Then he had gone on to consult alchemists, researching the effects of powders, pills, infusions, and
unguents that contained ingredients both arcane and distasteful. He had kept track of people who tried
all different kinds of concoctions. None of them improved, there was no evidence that the mixtures
had even slowed their physical decay, and some of them... Well, some quite frankly had died.
Sinn had finally resorted to mysticism. The Catholic church was of no use, exhorting its followers to
accept their mortality. He had found Hinduism, with its round of rebirth, more acceptable, but even
they believed that one had to die to regain youth through reincarnation. Sinn wanted to hold on to his
present form. So he had finally turned to Satanism.
It wasn’t so much that he BELIEVED in it--there was very little Sinn believed in, aside from himself.
But right now it seemed like the likeliest solution, and he was perfectly willing to try it. There had
been no visible gains so far, but it was no more expensive than any of the other methods he’d tried,
and he intended to give it a real try. He hoped that he wouldn’t be required to do anything too dreadful.
So far he’d only been required to pay the crone, and to make love to her a few times. It was quite
nauseating, but he’d managed it by thinking of an eternity of youth. He only hoped that he wouldn’t be
required to smear himself with blood or dung, as he’d heard some supplicants had, or supply her with
an unbaptized infant.
*No, I won’t bring Rill to her. This one would be missed, I’m sure, and I do not think that Prince
Draculea would be easily put off.* "Where is the prince?"
"I believe he is in his room," Simion offered.
"Really? I knocked, but there was no answer."
"Sometimes the master sleeps deeply."
"And sometimes he simply ignores a summons." The door to Draculea’s room had opened, and
Draculea entered. "Good evening, Barbee."
Sinn stood up quickly. "Good evening, my prince. I am sorry if I came by too early. I just wanted to
explain that I will not be able to keep Rill amused tonight. I have some business to attend to."
Draculea nodded. "Very well. We are grateful for your kind attentions, but of course you must not
neglect your personal life."
Sinn bowed. "I will be going, then." He hesitated. From the corner of his eye he could see the blonde
servant lounging to the side. Rock was watching him, his gaze much hotter than was entirely
respectful. "I have a few little things I want to give you, Rill. Just a set of buckles that would go well
with the jacket, and some simple cuff links for when you wear a plain jacket." He gestured casually at
Rock. "Let your man come with me, and I will send them back to you."
"Thank you!" Rill gripped Sinn’s hand, squeezing it ecstatically.
Sinn winced at the pressure. *Good God! He is stronger than he looks!* The grip continued to tighten,
the sensation going from discomfort to actual pain. In a moment it was agony. It felt as if bones were
about to crack. "Rill," he gasped, "my hand!"
"Oh!" Dismayed, Rill released him, then petted the abused limb. "I’m sorry."
It took Sinn a moment to uncramp his fingers. He wiggled them, thinking, *I’ll be damned if I don’t
think I’ll have bruises!* He looked more carefully at Rill. *This isn’t natural.* He noticed how
carefully Draculea and Simion were watching him, and schooled his expression into breezy dismissal.
"No damage, Rill. You just startled me." He started toward the door, saying, "Come along." Rock
trailed after him, smiling.
Simion and Draculea exchanged looks. Draculea said, "Perhaps I made a mistake in encouraging
young Sinn to spend so much time with us. He appears to be more perceptive than most." Simion cast
a significant look at Rill. "Simion, come into my room and help me finish dressing. Rill, do not leave
without us." The boy nodded obediently, and the other two men went into the next room.
Once the door was close, Simion said, "Do you believe he may become aware of the true state of
things?"
"I don’t know. It is possible. He’s been spending so much time with Rill. The boy would never
purposefully expose us, but, well..." He shrugged. Rill knew that their secret must be kept, but his
childlike nature made him vulnerable. "Besides, Sinn does not have the generous, caring nature that he
presents to the world. He sought our acquaintance for a personal reason. I’m not sure what he hopes to
gain, but he DOES intend to gain, make no mistake about that."
"Should we eliminate him, lord? It would be simple enough. This place is so huge, the population so
thick, that anyone who was not of the king’s inner circle could simply disappear without too great an
uproar."
Draculea thought. "Not yet. It may eventually become necessary, but Rill is fond of him." Draculea
shook his head. "I haven’t been able to find a time to get rid of that scum brother of his, and I don’t
have the heart to deny him this companion unless it is imperative. We’ll wait and see."
"Very well, lord," Simion acquiesced. *But I will watch him. I feel that Barbee will either draw down
his own death, or force us to exit Versailles abruptly.*
end
Back to index
Chapter 54: Part 54: Alliance

Fandom: Dracula
Pairing: Rock/Sinn
Archive: Lists, and I may ask to have it removed if I can interest a publisher.
Disclaimer: I believe Dracula is public domain now. Original characters are mine.
Summary: A bond forms between Rock and Sinn, as much as either can have with anyone.
Rated: NC-17
Child of the Night, Part 54: Alliance

Versailles, France
Sinn, though popular, was still a minor noble, and his room was in one of the more remote parts of the
palace. He preceded Rock down the hall. While he resented being relegated to walking behind as if he
were a pet dog, this time Rock was content because it gave him a good view of Sinn’s rump in his
tight breeches.
Sinn did not look around, but he knew what was happening. He could feel the servant’s gaze on him
like a touch. *A hungry touch,* he thought. *Perhaps letting him satisfy his hunger will satisfy my
own. That satin livery the prince dresses him in can’t hide that delicious rough edge.*
He stood back when they reached his room to allow Rock to open the door for him. The taller man
glowered at him for a moment, then opened the door and stood aside with a clearly mocking bow. As
he went into the room, Sinn reflected that such insolence, even though it was unspoken, often earned
the offending peasant a beating. He found it promising.
Rock followed the little lordling into his room, shutting the door quietly. This one was interested--he
could smell it. The scent of desire was thick and musky, and it was making him hard. *Mustn’t touch,*
he thought sullenly. *Draculea says I mustn’t touch the pretty lords and ladies. He says that if he
finishes first as he rides my ass, I shouldn’t complain when he leaves me to satisfy myself afterwards.
Well, may your master, the devil, take you, Prince Draculea. This one wants me, and I damn sure want
him.*
Sinn paused in the center of the room, looking about, tapping his chin with one finger. "Now, where
did I put those trinkets?" Rock approached him slowly, and Sinn pretended not to notice, stepping
away to idly move some items about on his dresser.
Rock wasn’t adverse to a bit of a pursuit, and he smiled as he followed the younger man. "If you wish,
Vicomte, I can return later."
"No." Sinn turned to find Rock only inches away. His eyes widened in surprise. He wouldn’t have
thought the rough young man could move so quietly, but he had been as silent as a cat. "No," he said
quietly. "I don’t want you to go."
"No?" Rock moved even closer. His chest brushed Sinn’s. "What DO you want, my lord?"
"What do you have to offer, Rock?" Rock took his hand and pressed it to his fly. Sinn could feel the
hard lump outlined beneath the cloth. Sinn gave the erection a leisurely feel, molding his hand around
it and squeezing lightly. "Yes, I think this would do very nicely--if you aren’t afraid to use it."
"There are few things I fear, pretty boy." Rock sank his hands into Sinn’s hair on either side of his
head and kissed him hard. Sinn’s lips parted instantly, and Rock plunged inside, eager to taste the
young man.
Sinn almost choked in surprise. *He’s COLD. Not just his hands, but even his tongue, and what an
odd, salty taste...* Rock was probing roughly, exploring Sinn’s mouth with ruthless enthusiasm. *But
he DOES know what he’s doing.*
Rock growled softly as Sinn responded to his advances by sucking on his tongue. Rock fumbled at the
tiny buttons that closed Sinn’s silk shirt. They refused to slip from their holes, and he pulled back far
enough to curse.
When the servant wrapped his fist in Sinn’s shirtfront, Sinn touched his hand, saying, "Gently,
Rock--at least till I’m undressed. I don’t have as much to spend on wardrobe as I’d like, and this is a
costly garment." The smile became sly. "I’d rather not have to let some fat old courtier fondle me to
earn a new one."
Rock released his hold, pushing him away with a small shove. "Then if I’m not to be your valet,
strip--and do it quickly."
Sinn began to unbutton his shirt. "Why Rock, one would think you were used to giving orders."
Rock watched greedily as Sinn removed his shirt, his eyes stroking over the smooth, well-defined
chest. He could just see the shallow dip of Sinn’s navel, set on an admirably flat belly. Sinn pulled off
his boots and stockings, then began to unbutton his pants. He did so slowly, despite Rock’s earlier
admonition. Sinn knew well that, if he teased enough, his soon to be lover would have the rough,
impatient edge that he now craved.
The pants were laid neatly on the chair upon which Sinn had draped his shirt. Barbee’s drawers were
made of silk so fine that it clearly outlined his engorged sex. He followed Rock’s hot gaze down to his
own crotch. Making a tsking sound, he touched a dark, damp patch forming just over where his glans
rested. "Damn, I hope the laundress will be able to get this out." He smiled at Rock. "Do you think it
will stain?"
Rock’s answer was a snarl. He grabbed the waistband of the garment and tore it away with one violent
jerk. Sinn gasped, eyes widening in surprise. Before he could draw breath to comment or protest, he
was seized, spun around, and pushed up against the wall--hard.
Rock pressed against Sinn’s back, pinning him to the wall, and began to rub his crotch against the
tempting curves of his bare ass. The walls of Sinn’s room were covered in elegant wallpaper that was
flocked with a velvety design of fleurs des lis. Sinn’s nipples were hard, and the buds scraped first
over the smooth sections of the paper, then the fuzzy patches of flocking, sensitizing them even more.
Rock pulled back just far enough to be able to reach his fly. He unfastened his pants with sharp,
motions, freeing his straining cock. When he felt the cold fingers prying his buttocks apart, Sinn
thought of the small vial of oil he kept beneath his pillow, but things were moving too fast for that. He
knew that Rock would be too impatient to take the time to prepare him, and he shuddered in
anticipation that held an edge of fear. This was going to hurt deliciously.
Rock DID prepare him, after his own fashion. He’d never been all that worried about not hurting his
partners, except occasionally with Rill. He had tried to be a bit more careful with him, because if he
was damaged it meant a loss of profits. Rock spat in his hand, rubbed it briefly against the pucker of
Sinn’s anus, the pushed the leaking knob of his prick against the little pucker. Sinn flinched at the cold
touch, but didn’t have time to try to relax himself.
Rock rammed home, sheathing himself fully in the liquid heat of Sinn’s body. At the same moment he
pressed a hand over Sinn’s mouth, stifling the shriek that he couldn’t hold back. He hissed, "Quiet,
slut! I don’t want to have to kill you." The chuckle chilled Sinn’s blood even as the steady plunge of
Rock’s hard cock heated it.
Rock pushed up and in with each stroke, and his glans bumped over Sinn’s pleasure spot. The young
lord’s knees grew weak with the combination of pain and pleasure, but Rock held him up with the
press of his body.
Barbee’s own erection was pressed tight between his belly and the wall. It slid back and forth with
each lunge Rock made into his body. Later the maids would debate with each other exactly what had
caused the odd streaks on the expensive wallpaper.
Rock brought his lips close to Sinn’s ear as he fucked him, whispering, "This is what you need, all you
high and mighty nobles. The prince wouldn’t be so haughty if he took a cock up his ass now and then."
Sinn moaned his agreement. They might come from different worlds, but he could understand the
servant’s philosophy.
Rock pounded into Sinn in a near frenzy. It had been fifteen years since he had taken another man, and
he used this chance to work out all his resentment and hatred of Draculea, punishing Sinn for the
prince’s transgressions.
Sinn was delighted. The only men he’d found who had the arrogance and drive to use him this way
had been old and unattractive. He was going to be very sore for a day or two, but it was worth it.
Rock nipped him sharply on the shoulder, then the back of the neck. Sinn almost swooned with
pleasure, a tiny corner of his mind hoping that he’d be able to cover any passion bruises with a high
collar.
Rock was approaching his release, moving more quickly and more strongly. He used his hand across
Sinn’s mouth to pull his head back and to the side, stretching his neck, and sank his fangs into the pale,
soft flesh.
Sinn screamed against the muffling hand as the burning pain ripped through his throat. He had come
away from rough sexual encounters with distinctive half-moon scraped bruises inflicted by lovers
either too careless or selfish to restrain themselves. Indeed he had often pleasured himself, stroking his
prick as he traced over the marks, reliving each wound. But this... The man must have drawn blood.
*If he scars me I’ll see that he ends his days in the Bastille.*
The hot blood gushed into Rocks mouth, and he gulped greedily. Oh, so good! Hot and rich and thick
after the thin, foul blood of beasts. He drank deeply, slaking the almost constant hunger that his
limited diet could never satisfy.
He could have happily drained him, literally fucking him to death, but a primitive survival instinct
caused him to slow, and finally stop. With a grunt and another brutal thrust he climaxed, spilling his
cold, blood-mingled seed into Sinn’s abused ass.
Rock leaned heavily against the still Sinn. He would have been gasping, if he had needed to breathe.
He watched a crimson ribbon trickle down his partner’s neck and begin to dribble down his back.
Rock idly licked it up, like a man savoring an after-dinner sweet. Then he tilted Sinn’s head again and
gave the oozing wound a few licks to begin the healing, but he did this as a grudging afterthought.
Now it was time to remove the incident from his victim’s mind. The man was limp, and Rock
wondered if he’d have to wake him up to mesmerize him. Then the alarming possibility that he had,
despite his efforts, gone too far made him quickly turn Sinn, anxious to be certain that he had not
slipped into unconsciousness, or worse.
Sinn was pale, so pale that he’d have no need to use rice powder to achieve the white skin so beloved
of the French court. Even his pink lips had paled. His eyes were closed, and the lashes lay thick and
dark atop his cheeks. Rock slapped him sharply. "Barbee! Damn you, don’t you DARE die now! I’m
going to want you again, and I don’t want to fuck a corpse--at least not an inanimate one."
Sinn’s eyes fluttered open, the usually-clear green as cloudy as a stagnant pond. Then he blinked hard
and his hand reached up to touch the only patch of color on his face--the pink smudge left by Rock’s
blow. Sinn stared at Rock blankly for a moment, then a slow, cat-like smile spread over his face. He
leaned forward in Rock’s grip and kissed him softly.
Rock pulled back, staring at the Vicomte in disbelief. He looked like a rape victim, but he was acting
like a sated lover. Rock glanced down and saw the man’s flaccid cock, and the long, sticky strings of
semen that streaked his leg. He gave a bark of laughter. "I’ll be damned! What a perverted little whore
you are."
Sinn’s smile did not falter. "When you grow up in the aristocracy, particularly in a court as decadent as
ours, it is easy to become jaded with the simple pleasures." His voice dropped to a purr. "I seek more
exotic amusements."
"Aye, well, you found a bit more than you expected, didn’t you?"
"That is my very great good fortune."
His knees began to buckle, and Rock caught him, dragging him to the bed. "Sit, before you fall."
Sinn settled gingerly on the edge of the mattress, wincing as his ravaged ass touched the sheets. Rock
sat beside him and took Sinn’s chin in his hand. Sinn said dryly, "As much as I enjoyed it, I don’t
think either of us is ready for another go-round."
"Look at me, lordling. Look into my eyes." Willing to humor Rock, especially since he hoped to have
another tumble with him before the prince and his entourage left court, Sinn obliged. The faint, ironic
smile faded, and Sinn’s eyes widened as the vampire reached out to his mind, exerting his power.
Rock touched the wound on Sinn’s neck. "You will forget this. It is nothing, an insect bite that you
worried in your irritation. You brought me to your room, we fucked, and that is all. Do you
understand?"
Sinn’s voice was distant. "Yes."
Agains Rock touched the wound and said in a conversational voice, "Sinn, what happened here?"
Sinn blinked seeming to return froma revery. He touched the aching spot on his throat, and frowned.
"This? It’s nothing. An insect bit me. The sting was painful, but the itching almost drove me mad, and
I’m afraid I scratched myself raw before I could stop."
"What a pity." Rock refastened his pants and looked at the still slightly-dazed young man. "There were
some things you wished to send to my lord, Rock?"
"Hm? Oh. Oh, yes." Sinn got up and went to his dresser, moving nonchalantly, as if he didn’t realize
that he was naked and streaked with come. "Yes, here." He went to his dresser and removed a pair of
etched silver buckles and a pair of square cut gold cufflinks, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and
handed the bundle to Rock. "Give these to Rill with my compliments, and my admiration."
Rock bowed slightly, then left, not bothering to back out as an upper servant was trained to do. When
he was gone Sinn sat down on the bed once again and spent a few moments staring at nothing.
His hand drifted up again to his throat and he ran his fingertips over the raw patch, frowning. At last he
arose and went back to the dresser. Pulling a small mirror from the upper drawer he held in up, tilting
his head to examine his reflection.
Yes, there was an injury. But why had he thought that it was caused by an insect, and aggravated by
scratching? The mark was clear--two puncture marks, an inch or two apart, and a little ragged around
the edges.
Sinn stared, noting the faint line of bruises strung between the two marks. It looked familiar, but he
couldn’t quite place it. He put the mirror away, went to the wash basin, and began to clean himself. *I
think something very strange happened, something other than a good fuck, but I have no idea what it
is,* he thought as he absently wiped blood and come from his ass. He shrugged mentally. He rinsed
the cloth, watching the water as it was tinted pink, not really caring about that. *I will.*
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 55: Part 55: Payment

Fandom: Dracula
Archive: Lists I send it to, but I may ask for removal if I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: I believe Dracula is in the public domain. However all recognized characters were created
by Bram Stoker.
Summary: Sinn pays a visit to Tisane, the witch, who has demanded special payment for a certain
object--one which will strengthen the vicomte’s suspicions about Draculea and his brood.
Warnings: Non-consensual, but non-violent, sex. Intimations of Satanism.
Notes: nefiresc faptura--Romanian for unnatural creatures, aici a exista monstus--here there be
monsters
Warnings: Non-consensual, but non-violent, sex. Intimations of Satanism.
Notes: nefiresc faptura--Romanian for unnatural creatures, aici a exista monstus--here there be
monsters
Child of the Night, Part 55: Payment

Versailles, France
A Cottage in the Woods Near Versailles
"Monsieur le Vicomte, are you sure of the way?"
Sinn paused, turning to look impatiently back at the boy who was following him. "I have walked this
path a hundred times, Rustan. I could find my way there blindfolded. Now, stop dragging your feet. I
don’t want to be all night about this."
"But sir, I brought a lantern. If you will let me return to the horses and fetch it..."
"For the last time--no!" Sinn snapped. "Haven’t you learned yet, boy, that there are things that are best
done in the dark? There is enough light to see where we are going."
And, indeed, there was--just barely. Enough silvery moonlight sifted down through the branches for
Rustan to be able to just make out the path, and the man who strode along before him. Still, there were
far too many shadows to suit the boy.
Rustan was the son of the Barbee family’s head groom, and had grown up in Paris with his mother.
When Sinn had come to court he had been sent along to care for the two horses and carriage that had
been the Comte Barbee’s parting gift to his son. He was proud of the responsibility (not many
seventeen-year-olds were so trusted), and he liked life at the bustling palace well enough, but the
untamed countryside around it made him nervous. He had often prepared his master’s mount for
nighttime excursions, and waited for his return till the small hours of the morning, but this was the first
time Sinn had demanded his company.
Sinn hurried along, mentally cursing his lagging companion. ’Bring a friend,’ Tisane had said. ’A
boy--a pretty one.’ He thought briefly of Rustan, with his dark copper hair, creamy skin, and dark blue
eyes. *Well, he certainly fits the bill, and he’ll do what I say if he knows what’s good for him. God
knows what the old slut has planned. If I’m lucky her attentions will be directed toward the groom, and
I will be able to take my purchase and go.*
Thinking of the item that might be waiting for him, Sinn’s heart beat faster. He hadn’t even been sure
that the book existed, but Tisane swore that it did, and that she could obtain it for him.
Sinn knew this area as well as he claimed, but he was still startled when he came upon the cottage--he
always was. The path wound between close-growing brush, and opened out suddenly into a small
clearing. Sinn halted just at the end of the path, eyeing the small building before him.
It was no more than a lighter shadow against the surrounding dimness. There were no
windows--windows were still a luxury. No sliver of light escaped from beneath the rough door, but
Sinn could just make out the wisps of smoke from the chimney as they drifted across the face of the
moon.
Rustan whispered, "Who would live in such a lonely place?"
Sinn turned back to him with a not-very-nice smile, widened his eyes and whispered, "A witch!"
Rustan swallowed hard. He knew that the Vicomte was teasing him, but he couldn’t help being a little
frightened. His old grand-dad had once seen a witch burned at the stake. He swore that a bat had flown
from her mouth as the flames engulfed her.
Sinn was watching him, wondering if he should have made that last remark. The little idiot might bolt,
and then what would he do? Tisane wanted a second playmate, and if she were denied, she would not
be easy to deal with. "You’re not afraid, are you?"
Rustan squared his shoulders. "No, m’lord. Such things are only superstitions."
Sinn nodded. Let him believe that, if it made him braver. "I’m sure are right. She is only a strange old
woman, but she has something I need, so you will help me humor her." He laid a heavy hand on the
boy’s arm. "You will do EVERYTHING I tell you. Is that understood?" Rustan nodded. "I’m serious,
boy. I may ask you to do something you find distasteful. You must not hesitate." Rustan nodded again,
more slowly. "Good. Don’t worry, I’ll not ask you to do murder. Come."
Rustan knew that Sinn was being sarcastic with him, but it DID ease his mind a little. The nobility
expected unquestioning obedience from their servants, sometimes even unto death.
Sinn led the way to the cottage and rapped peremptorily on the door. Rustan hovered behind his
master, casting nervous looks at the surrounding shadows. A cracked voice called from inside, "Who
asks entrance at such a late hour?"
Sinn scowled, but he answered civilly. Tisane liked to play her games, and it would not do to spoil
them for her. She could be pettish if she was not humored. "One who seeks knowledge, wise woman."
He glanced back at Rustan. "One who brings a fee, and a gift."
"This gift you speak of--is it pretty?"
"Very pretty, Madam."
He heard the scrape of a bolt being lifted down, and a moment later the door creaked open. A golden
glow spilled out, making Rustan blink and shield his eyes. Sinn had been expecting it, and had turned
his face away to avoid being blinded, but still the figure in the doorway was nothing but a silhouette to
him. He sensed rather than saw the woman looking past him, studying the blinking boy. Then she
stepped back. "Enter, young ones."
Sinn started forward, then looked back at his companion. "Well? Come along, boy."
Rustan followed reluctantly. As he passed the tiny figure, averting his eyes respectfully, he felt a sharp
pinch on his ass and jumped away, yelping. There was a dry chuckle as the door was shut and barred.
He found himself in a typical peasant’s cottage--perhaps a bit cozier and cleaner than the average. It
was warm, and there was a heavy, spicy smell in the air. He thought it might come from the bunches
of dried herbs and roots hanging from the ceiling, but the smoke that rose up the chimney smelled of
more than burning wood. She must have tossed some herb on the fire to scent the air.
Rustan began to feel a bit light-headed. Sinn was talking to a tiny, ancient woman, their voices low.
The Vicomte gestured toward him, and small, shrewd eyes turned to study him. She came toward him,
her movements slow, but there was no unsteadiness in her movements. She moved the way a cautious
person would approach a skittish child.
"Well, now," her voice was high pitched, but strong. Rustan saw now that she might not be as old as
he had first thought. The wispy hair that straggled from under her mob cap still had dark strands mixed
with the gray, and the lines that marked her face had more to do with dissipation than age. "’T’isn’t
often I have TWO such fine visitors. What’s your name, child?"
Rustan started to answer, but had to clear his throat before he could get the words out. "Rustan Dubois,
m’lady."
She cackled, raisin eyes twinkling with merriment that wasn’t the least reassuring. "M’lady! Oh, that’s
rich, that is!" She reached up, and he flinched as she pinched his cheek. "It’s a polite little thing, too.
Would you like a sip of wine, my dear?"
"I..." The place was clean enough, but the thought of eating or drinking anything this woman had
handled made him feel a little queasy. "No, thank you, m’lady."
Tisane looked at Sinn, who said curtly, "Would you shame me by refusing her hospitality?"
"No!" Rustan said hastily. "Yes, thank you."
"Sit, then, the both of you." She took two crude mugs from a shelf and went to a bottle sitting on the
table. When Sinn made no move she spoke again, her voice a bit harder. "I said sit, lordling." He
reached for the table. "Not there." The only other place was the rough bed against the wall. Wrinkling
his nose slightly, Sinn sat on its edge. Rustan shifted uneasily till Tisane motioned to him. "You, too,
boy."
Rustan looked at Barbee doubtfully, but his master sighed and patted the mattress beside him. "Come,
Rustan." He cocked an eyebrow sardonically. "Unless my nearness is distasteful to you?"
"Oh, no, m’lord!" Rustan sat beside Sinn, but the lightheadedness was beginning to take on a sense of
unreality. He’d never before sat in the presence of an aristocrat, much less shared a seat with one. He
noticed that the young nobleman was wearing some sort of scent. That wasn’t unusual, as many
courtiers preferred to use perfume rather than to bathe. What was different with Sinn was that there
was no sour body odor underlaying the spicy scent.
Tisane had filled the cups. Now she gave Rustan a sly smile. "I wager you like sweet things, eh boy?"
When Rustan nodded, she laughed. "Well, I’ll give you a bit of a treat then." She opened a small pot
and spooned thick, golden liquid into one of the cups. "This honey is special. The bees feed only on
the sweetest of clover, and they yield their honey only to me. Anyone else who tried to steal their
treasure would sorely regret it."
She stirred, then brought the drink to them, giving Rustan the sweetened wine. Rustan started to sip,
then said shyly, "Vicomte, you did not want honey?"
Sinn tipped a cynical look at the old woman, who smiled. "I do not need the honey to make me desire
my refreshment, Rustan." They both drank, and Sinn watched the boy over the rim of his cup.
Lowering the mug he licked his lips slowly, his eyes traveling lazily over his groom. "I find it sweet
enough."
Sinn set the empty cup on the floor and said, "Madame, you have what we discussed?"
"Patience, Barbee, patience." She sat down in the chair at the table. "Entertain me a bit before we do
business." She paused, smiling as her eyes flicked to Rustan, who had finished his wine and was
setting aside his own cup. "Tell me the court gossip."
Sinn sighed and began, "Well, there’s a rumor that the king is thinking of taking another mistress." He
clicked his tongue. "Seventy-five, and still he must play the rooster in the henhouse. The court beauties
are driving their hairdressers and seamstresses mad..."
Rustan sat, letting Sinn’s drawling voice wash over him. He found it interesting--as a stable worker he
was not privy to all the gossip shared by the servants who worked in the palace proper. Like most of
his class he was fascinated by the doings of his betters, and he wanted to absorb all that he could. He’d
gain status among his fellows if he could relate a few juicy tidbits.
Rustan tried to pay close attention, but he found his mind wandering. The room was very warm, and
the air seemed almost thick. *Is the chimney blocked, so that the smoke seeps back into the room? The
old woman doesn’t seem to notice, nor does the Vicomte...*
"...feeling well?"
"Sir?" Rustan blinked at Sinn.
Sinn gave him a condescending smile. "La, boy! A few sips of wine and you’re addled."
Rustan shook his head, trying to clear it. "I am sorry, m’lord. I feel a little dizzy."
Tisane held up her hands, her expression sorrowful. "Sinn, we are corrupting the innocent. What was I
thinking of, pressing drink on him?"
"Oh, Rustan is fine. A bit of wine is good for the body, and the soul. You’re swaying, Rustan."
Rustan realized that he was listing, and drew himself up. "The room is spinning."
Sinn chuckled. "No, that is only your head. Here, lean on me." He put his arm around Rustan’s
shoulder, pulling the boy against his side. "Put your head on my shoulder." He pressed the bright head
down on his shoulder and held it there, his touch familiar as he began to tell Tisane about the gambling
debts that a certain Duchess had paid in a most intimate and unusual manner.
Rustan, his senses swimming, relaxed against his master. He had enough self-awareness left to wonder
at his own boldness. While Sinn was not a cruel master he had never encouraged closeness, there was
a good chance that he’d regret allowing this casual contact, and punish Rustan later.
Rustan let his eyes drift closed and his mind wander. The gossip Sinn was relating was quite
scandalous. Rustan was surprised at the crude terms the Vicomte used. He had thought that only the
lower order of street scum used obscenities with such ease, but the filth spoken in Sinn’s soft, cultured
voice was oddly compelling.
He blinked as he was gently shaken. "Rustan! It isn’t polite to sleep during a visit." The room looked
even hazier, and his surroundings seemed oddly drained of color. The only color was the vibrant green
of Sinn’s eyes, and those were very close.
"I am sorry. Perhaps if I took some air it would wake me up." He started to try to stand, but he lost his
balance and fell back against Sinn.
"You’ll break your fool neck," Sinn scolded. He shifted, pushing Rustan back till he lay on the bed,
then sitting beside him. "Lie down for a few moments. Rest."
"Rest..." he murmured.
"Yes, relax." Rustan closed his eyes again. He heard Sinn and Tisane whispering together, and he
caught the words ’...promised me...’ and ’...show first, then...’.
"Very well." Sinn’s voice was annoyed, but he gently brushed the boy’s hair back from his brow.
Rustan felt the warm fingers move over his face, stroking his cheeks and lingering on his lips before
one fingertip pushed between. He was so relaxed that the invading finger slid deep into his mouth,
stroking over his tongue before he realized what was happening. Before he could gather his wits it
stroked sensuously over his tongue and Sinn’s voice, near his ear, whispered, "Suck, little boy. Let’s
see if you have any talent before we go any further."
Rustan obeyed instinctively, tightening his lips around the finger and sucking softly. It slid in and out
slowly, and Sinn sounded pleasantly surprised, "What was it you gave him, Madame? I would have
sworn that he would have run like a startled rabbit by now."
"My own concoction, Monsieur. I do not share my recipes, but it has been used more than once at your
court, and I have been well paid." Her voice was amused. "Are you enjoying that?"
"More than I expected. He’s a softer sort than I usually like, but he has possibilities I hadn’t
recognized."
The finger was withdrawn, and Rustan sighed with loss, his tongue darting out to lap at his lips in
search of a final taste. He heard Tisane laugh. "He likes it! Well, you may thank me for finding you a
new playmate, Sinn, but you’ll not enjoy the pleasures of the boy’s throat tonight. I need his
essence--BOTH of your essences, and I want every drop."
Rustan felt tugging at his trousers, then a brush of warm air on bare skin. Sinn’s voice was amused.
"He’s not wearing drawers. How deliciously low."
Rustan, with a concentrated effort, managed to open his eyes. His master was leaning close over him.
"Sir..." he whispered. "What...?"
"Sh, Rustan. You’ve fallen asleep. You are dreaming. You’ve dreamed of me before, haven’t you?" It
didn’t occure to the boy to deny it, and he missed Sinn’s satisfied look when he nodded. "Then relax.
A dream cannot hurt you," Rustan gasped as a warm, firm hand closed around his prick, squeezing,
"but it CAN bring you pleasure."
Again Rustan closed his eyes, feeling himself harden as the knowing fingers stroked and gently
pinched. When they were withdrawn he moaned in loss, reaching out. There was a laugh, and a
woman’s voice said, "Greedy slut. I like him, Sinn. You must bring him again."
There was the rustling of cloth. "Don’t plan ahead, Tisane. I promise nothing till you have fulfilled our
bargain."
"Sinn," he voice was chiding. "I have always dealt fairly with you, have I not?"
"As fairly as any snake may."
"Bold lordling," her voice was silky. "I could punish you for that. Suppose I asked you to slit the throat
of that pretty child while you pleasured yourself with him."
There was silence, save for the distressed sound Rustan made. He was not so drugged that he did not
understand the menace in the woman’s words. Rustan felt Sinn’s hand on his cheek. "Hush, boy. She’s
teasing." Sinn gave the crone a hard look. He knew that she wasn’t, that she was fully capable of
demanding such a foul act. He also knew that he was capable of doing it, if he saw no other way to
keep her favor, but he didn’t want to. It wasn’t so much for moral reasons--Sinn had the morals of a
Paris alleycat. No, it was more for practicality. The boy was known among the palace servants, and
would be missed. He let his hand move, stroking the warm, firm flesh that filled his hand. "You won’t
ask that, Tisane--not when he’s so young and beautiful, and could be used again in the future."
He had opened his own trousers. Now he eased out his own stiff cock and stroked himself in time with
his ministrations to Rustan. "Must I continue like this? I know I can’t fuck him because you need the
seed, but I might as well enjoy this."
"As long as none of the spend is wasted, I care not." A dry chuckle. "Enjoy yourself, pretty. You
always do."
"Just be ready to catch it when I tell you." Sinn got on his knees, shoving the limp legs apart, and
lowered himself to his body. He sighed at the first brush of their sexes, and began to rub himself
against Rustan. The boy had a good sized prick, and Sinn was tempted to rise up and spike himself on
it, riding him like a stallion. Perhaps later...
Rustan was moaning steadily now. There had been dreams before, but never one so vivid. He had
never consciously thought past an embrace, or perhaps a kiss. There had been more in dreams, but they
were confused--muddled images and sensations that had melted away with the morning light. He could
never have imagined such pleasure, but he was frightened as well as excited. Somewhere, in the back
of his mind, a voice was whispering that he had been given no choice in this.
Sinn humped against the weakly moving boy. If he could not have a strong, masterful lover, then
taking his pleasure with someone so helpless was almost as stimulating. He gripped the boy’s waist,
thrusting against him hard, relisishing the way the boy trembled beneath him. Feeling the boy’s hips
begin to give tiny jerks, he called, "He’s close. Hurry if you want it, woman."
Tisane snatched up a small jar from the table and hurried over. Sinn reared back on his knees, bent the
boy’s rigid prick till the head pointed into the container, and stroked him, hard and fast. Rustan gave a
choked cry, back arching, and warm, white sperm spurted into the jar, splattering with the force of the
jet.
When he had milked the final drops, Sinn lay back down on him and fucked against his body with
increasing speed and strength. Finally he knelt back up again. Tisane held the jar and caught his spunk
as he climaxed, his handsome face tense with concentration.
When he was done she fitted a lid over the jar, gloating to herself while Sinn refastened his clothing,
and Rustan’s. The vicomte poured himself more wine and drank it, then said wryly. "At least with
your method there’s little need for clean-up." He eyed the boy, who was still save for the rise and fall
of his chest. "How long till he’s fit to travel?"
"Oh, not long, not long. His activity will have burned most of the drug out of his blood. I’d watch him
when you go, though, to be sure he doesn’t fall from his horse. His balance is apt to be a bit weak for
an hour or two."
Sinn nodded curtly, setting aside the cup, and looked at her expectantly. "The book?"
"For one who pursues his ends so meticulously, you can be quite impatient." She held out her hand.
"The rest of the payment?"
Sinn removed a small bag from his pocket and handed it to her. She opened it and peered inside.
Seeing the glint of gold she once again closed it and tucked it in her withered bosom. "Aren’t you
going to count it?" Sinn asked.
"Nay, lad. I know you have enough sense not to try to cheat old Tisane."
"I could have miscounted."
"As careful as you are? I doubt it." She went to a cupboard that was closed with a padlock. Pulling a
key from her pocket she unlocked it and reached inside. She withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle and
handed it to Sinn. Sinn stroked the cloth, then carefully unwrapped it.
It was a book--a book that was at least two hundred years old. The binding did not hint at its antiquity.
No, it had been carefully preserved over the years. Generations of owners had kept the leather oiled
and supple. He opened it gingerly, but there was no cracking. The pages inseide were yellowed
parchment, and the ink had faded from black to grey over the years, but the writing was still clear. "
Nefiresc Faptura. Aici a exista monstus." He frowned. "Monsters? You said this would tell me about
imortal creatures, perhaps give me clues that would lead to my own immortality."
"And so it may. Immortality can be a monstrous thing, little lord." When Sinn turned a disbelieving
look on her, she shrugged. "You are as yet young, and have not seen as much of the world as you
think. Believe me, immortality can be both a blessing and a curse. Where is the wonder in seeing all
that you know and love wither and die? Ah, forgive me!" She smiled cynically. "That would not be a
problem with you, would it?"
Sinn gave her a blank look. He knew, objectively, that he SHOULD care about others, but he’d never
really felt it. He was talented, though, and had learned to sham the emotions that others expected. He’d
long ago abandoned pretense with Tisane, though. They recognized each other as cold opportunists,
and there was a peculiar kind of respect between them.
There was a soft sound from the bed. Sinn re-wrapped the book, went over, and prodded Rustan.
"Wake, boy. You had my permission to doze, but must you snore?"
The boy sat up groggily, and Tisane offered him a wet cloth. He wiped his face, shaking his head in an
attempt to clear away the mental cobwebs. "I beg your pardon, sir--lady." He looked around in
bewilderment. "I do not understand. I have had wine before, more than this, and it never affected me
so."
Tisane patted his cheek flirtatiously. "Ah, but this was MY wine, sweetling. I promise you that you’ve
never had its like."
*And never wish to again,* Rustan thought fuzzily. *My head aches, and why do I feel chafed in the
crotch? What an odd reaction to drink.* He was happy that Sinn was ready to leave. Though there was
no one thing he could point to, the place made him uneasy, as did its mistress. He decided that if Sinn
ever asked him to come again he would find some excuse to demur, even if it meant punishment.
The walk back to their horses helped bring Rustan back to alertness. By the time they had reached the
other end of the path there was no danger that he would fall off his horse.
When they reached the palace, they dismounted outside the stables. Rustan took both sets of reins,
preparing to lead the mounts inside and settle them for the night, but Sinn halted him with a hand on
his arm. "Rustan, you are not to speak of this to anyone. My business with Tisane is just that--MY
business. If you tittle-tattle and gossip spreads among the servants, I will hear of it." His hand
tightened warningly. "I will not be pleased." Rustan nodded. Of course he would keep his piece.
Servants who spread information about their masters lost their positions, and sometimes their heads.
Sinn scarcely glanced at the yawning footman who opened the door for him. The footman did no more
than bow to him and ask if he needed an escort. He knew better than to question the nightly rambling
of any noble. Sinn waved away the offer and hurried to his room.
He lit a few more candles, stripped to his drawers, and seated himself comfortably in his bed with the
book. He ran his hands over the cover, enjoying the smooth feel of the leather, then opened it and
began to read, easily translating the Romanian. *’Herein the serious scholar will find all the
knowledge known to man concerning beasts and creatures that do not conform to the laws of God or
Nature. Some are harmless, while others are clearly the minions of the Evil One, and should be killed,
or avoided where killing is impossible.’ Yes, yes. But are any of them immortal, and can their secrets
be stolen?*
He flipped pages, scanning them. *Banshees, Faerie folk, Mermaids, Ghouls, Succubi and Incubi...*
He smiled at those, licking his lips. The illustration was quite interesting. *Unicorns. Didn’t I read
somewhere that drinking or bathing in the blood of a unicorn would restore youth, or stop aging? I
must study that more closely. Let’s see... Shapeshifters, Nosferatu..."
He paused, blinking, his gaze becoming far away for a moment. His hand crept up and touched the
bruised, raw spot on his throat. It had been more than a week, and it didn’t heal. Somehow it seemed
significant. He had a nagging feeling that there was something he could remember, something he
could UNDERSTAND, if he could only concentrate. His eyes drifted back down to the book, and he
frowned. The sketch showed a cadaverous creature with great fangs bending close over the bared
throat of a swooning maiden. *This is important. This MEANS something.*
Sinn settled back against his pillows and began to read.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 56: Chapter 56: Love Realized

Fandom: Dracula
Archive: Lists it was sent to, but I reserve the right to ask for its removal if I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters were created by Bram Stoker, but I believe they are in the public
domain now. Other characters are the author’ creation.
Summary: Rill and Simion admit and consumate their love.
Rating: NC-17
Child of the Night, Part 56: Love Realized
Versailles, France
The Palace
As Simion was helping Draculea with his boots the prince noticed a paper wrapped parcel sitting on
the table. "What have you there, Simion?"
"Nothing, my lord. I think it’s time for a new pair of boots for you. Would you prefer black or brown
this time?"
Draculea smiled, nudging Simion’s shoulder with his toe. "Whatever you feel best, as usual, and that
was a most clumsy dodge. Is it a present?"
Simion stood, dusting his hands. "Yes, Domn."
Draculea waited. "And no more information. It isn’t for me, is it?"
"I’m afraid not."
"Then it’s for Rill," Draculea said decisively. "I won’t press you about it." He smiled. "I’ll see it soon,
anyway."
Simion answered his smile. "Indeed, lord. The boy cannot help but share his joy." Draculea stood, and
Simion draped the silk cravat around his neck and began to tie it. "He has told me some of his previous
life, even before his brother brought him to Budapest." He was silent for a moment, teasing a loop out
to perfect fullness.
Draculea laid a hand on his friend’s wrist, and Simion looked into his eyes. "I know. He has spoken to
me, too. It helps him, I think. He is much more peaceful these days."
"He deserves peace, my lord. I only wish that the bastard who sired him was still alive." There was the
hint of steel in his voice. "I do not envy you many things, prince, but this I do--you killed with your
own hands the one who hurt your beloved."
Draculea squeezed his shoulder, then dropped his hand. "He should be up by now. I think," he gave
Simion an odd look. "I think Rill may have a present for you as well."
"That would not be so unusual, Domn. The boy is always bringing me a night blooming flower, a
feather he’s found, or a pretty pebble. When we stayed near the seashore he offered shells, starfish,
and sand dollars. Once, I was forced to persuade him to free a small crab." But all the other tokens,
Draculea knew, were carefully preserved in a small box that went everywhere with Simion.
The look that Draculea gave him was both amused and pleased. It was as if he knew a secret. "He’s
very excited about this. It’s something special."
"And you won’t tell me?" Draculea shrugged, indicating the package, and Simion shook his head
wryly. "Yes, secrets must be kept."
"Not all, my friend, and not forever."
"Do you wish for me to send Rock to you?"
Draculea sighed. "Not now. I’ve promised to play cards with the prime minister." Simion pursed his
lips, fighting a smile, and Draculea shrugged. "He’s lost over a thousand francs to me, and he’s
determined to win some of it back."
Simion helped him on with his jacket. "So, how much will he owe you when you return?"
"At least twelve hundred," Draculea smiled. He adjusted his cuffs. "Tell Rock he can have the evening
off. I’m a little surprised that he hasn’t misbehaved since we have been at court. I didn’t think he’d be
able to resist, with all these soft throats surrounding him."
Simion had his own ideas about this, but he kept them to himself.
Rock sat on the bed watching Rill with a tolerant expression as the younger man sat at the room’s
desk, scratching industriously with a quill. There were at least a dozen pieces of papers crumpled on
the desktop. Rill’s head jerked up as Simion entered, and he quickly tucked the paper under some
others. "Does the prince need me, Simion?"
"No, Rill--he is busy tonight." Simion looked at Rock. "Your evening is free."
"Good." Rock stood up, stretching. "I think I’ll go hunting. I’m tired of making my meals off the
peasants’ cattle." His tone was sarcastic as he left. "Perhaps I can catch a nice, healthy rabbit."
Rill sighed, and Simion said, "He probably won’t bother with the rabbits, Rill."
"I know," the boy said matter-of-factly. "He’s too lazy." He brightened. "Will you play soldiers with
me tonight, Simion?"
"You won’t be going with Sinn?" Simion carefully kept his voice neutral. He was trying not to resent
the young nobleman, but Rill spent so much time with him. Simion had been used to having Rill
mostly to himself during their journeys. The time he spent with Sinn Barbee rankled Simion, despite
how he told himself that it was good for the boy to have a companion closer to his own age, even if
that was only through appearance.
Rill looked down at his feet. "You don’t want to?" His voice was small.
Simion went to him, touching his shoulder to make him look up. "I always want to spend time with
you, Rill. You know that." He was rewarded with a bright smile that made his heart feel full. "But
before we get the soldiers, I have something for you." He offered the package he’d brought from
Draculea’s room.
"Oh!" Rill took it happily. "I was wondering about that, but I didn’t want to ask. It isn’t even my
birthday."
Simion held his smile steady, despite a twinge of anger at the boy’s long dead father. The fact was that
neither Rill nor Rock knew their own natal days. It hadn’t been deemed important enough for their
family to mark. Simion decided that they would choose a day and celebrate it from now on.
Rill sat on the bed and turned the package over several times, then he slowly began to pick apart the
knots of the string that bound the paper. Simion sat beside him to watch. This had surprised him about
Rill--his care and patience in unwrapping a treat. Given his childlike nature, Simion had expected him
to eagerly rip and tear the wrappings from his gifts. Simion noticed that the boy’s fingernails had
lengthened and sharpened *the better to help him deal with the string. Rill has adjusted to his state
quite well, in his own quiet way.*
Rill removed the string, then unwrapped the paper and gave a glad cry at what was revealed.
"Lucifer!" he gasped. "It’s Lucifer, isn’t it, Simion?" It was a remarkably lifelike wooden horse, about
the size of one of the tiny lap dogs so favored by the court ladies. It was posed on a base, rearing
fiercely, hooves ready to strike out.
Both Simion and Draculea had told Rill stories about the Prince’s great battle stallion, and the beast
had achieved the mythical status of Pegasus in Rill’s simple mind. Simion had found a talented local
craftsman and commisioned the toy, refusing the first two efforts as too stiff or not muscular enough.
This one was almost a portrait of the long-dead steed. It was painted shiny, ebony black. The mouth
was open to reveal white teeth, bared and ready to bite. The hooves were shod with steel, and the eyes
were sparkling glass.
Simion reached out and traced a finger over the carved swirl of the wild mane. "Yes, Rill--are you
pleased?"
Simion was startled when the boy suddenly threw his arm around his neck, burying his face against his
shoulder. "Oh, YES, Simion! He’s beautiful! I’ll love him forever."
Simion patted his back awkwardly. "I’m glad."
Rill didn’t move away, but he turned his head to look up at Simion. He wasn’t smiling, as Simion had
expected--his expression was solemn. "You always think of me, Simion." He reached up and touched
the older man’s face, his fingers soft and cool. "No one else ever has."
"The prince cares for you, Rill."
Rill shrugged, letting his hand slide down to play at Simion’s collar. "The prince is good to me, he
cares about me, but he doesn’t LOVE me." Again the boy turned wide, dark eyes up to Simion. "YOU
love me, don’t you?"
And there it was, as simple as that, and he couldn’t lie to the boy. His voice was a little hoarse. "Yes,
Rill. I love you."
The smile that Rill gave him made him want to cry. "Wait." He stood up and went to the desk. Setting
the horse down, he reached under the stack of papers and removed one sheet, then brought it back to
the bed and shyly extended it to Simion.
Simion took the sheet and looked at it. There was a single line of words in the center of the page, the
letters large and carefully formed. ’I love you, Simion.’ "Oh, Rill," he said softly. He felt tears well up
in his eyes.
Rill’s smile faded into anxiety. "I... I’m sorry, Simion."
"No!" He quickly wiped away the treacherous droplet and smiled back at the boy. "Oh, no. I’m crying
because I’m happy, Rill."
The smile returned, relieved. "Truly? I do that sometimes, when I think of how good you and the
prince are to me. Does it really please you, Simion? I tried very hard to get it perfect. I got the prince
to write them out for me so I could copy them." His voice was apologetic. "I’m afraid it smudged
when I hid it under the other papers, but I didn’t want you to see it."
"I think it’s beautiful. Perfect. I’ll keep it forever."
"In the box, with my other presents?"
"Oh, you know about that, do you?"
He ducked his head. "You left it out once. I wasn’t spying."
Simion reached up, touching Rill’s hand. "I know."
Rill bent toward him slowly. Simion stayed very still, but he closed his eyes as Rill touched his mouth
to his own. The kiss was soft, sweet, and tentative. Rill pulled back a little and studied his face
questioningly. "Is it all right?"
"It’s more than all right, Rill. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long, long time."
Rill smiled joyously and sat beside Simion again, putting his arms around him. "I asked the prince, and
he said that if you felt the same way, he would be very happy for us. I mean..." he hesitated, "if you
want to be with me. Like Draculea was with his Nicolae?"
"Rill," said Simion softly. He took the young vampire’s face between his hands. "You’re so brave."
Rill blinked. "Me?"
"I never would have had the courage to tell you how I feel." He kissed Rill. "Thank you."
Rill buried his face against Simion’s neck, and they just held each other for a long moment. Finally
Rill whispered, "Simion? Can I love you?"
Simion closed his eyes. "Of course you can, sweet boy. Only tell me what you want." There was a
moment of silence. "You can tell me, dear heart. Anything that gives you pleasure will pleasure me."
"I... I want... But maybe you won’t. I never have."
Simion lifted his chin to look in his eyes. "Do you want to mount me, Rill?" He knew that the boy
would have blushed if he’d eaten recently, but instead he just nodded. Simion hugged him again. "Yes.
I want that, too. I want it very much."
"Rock always said I wasn’t enough of a man to do that."
"Rock is a vicious fool, child. He has no bearing on what is between us, so forget him. You are a
man--a beautiful, strong, gentle man, and I desire you."
Simion went and locked the doors, then came back to where Rill waited on the bed. He stood before
the boy and began to remove his shirt. Rill watched, wide-eyed. When Simion dropped it to the floor,
Rill embraced his waist, pressing a nipping kiss to his belly that ignited a fire in his groin.
Rill pulled back and stood, beginning to remove his own clothes while Simion finished stripping.
Simion had imagined this so many times. By the time they were both naked he was completely
aroused, his cock so hard it almost ached. He was gratified to see that Rill was just as excited, his cock
jutting eagerly, the head already slick with a thin film of reddish pre-ejaculate.
"How do you want me?" Simion asked.
"I’d like to see your face," Rill replied decisively. He smiled slightly. "I want to be able to kiss you."
Simion stretched out on the bed, moving a pillow under his hips to ensure that both he and Rill would
be comfortable. For a long moment Rill stood beside the bed, staring down at the other man, slowly
stroking his own prick. At last he said quietly, "I like to look at you. You’re beautiful."
Simion felt himself blushing. *Oh, God, the eyes of love.* "You have ointment or oil?"
Rill nodded, reaching into a drawer on the bedside table. "I haven’t used it much. The prince does not
come to me often these days, so there is plenty." He set the open pot on the table, within easy reach,
then climbed on the bed with Simion.
Simion spread his legs, and Rill settled in the vee. They embraced and kissed. As Rill moved his
tongue into Simion’s mouth he began to undulate against him, rubbing their arousals together with a
slow, sensuous friction. Simion groaned, wrapping his legs around the boy’s slender waist, pulling him
as close as he could. Rill’s flesh was chilly, but Simion had learned to find this erotic. He let his hands
wander over the smooth, cool skin of the boy humping against him, relishing the liquid shift of
muscle.
After a few moments Rill pulled back, kneeling between Simion’s legs, and reached for the jar. He
coated the fingers of his right hand with the white, sweet-smelling ointment. When he turned back,
Simion lifted his legs, curving his back and hooking his knees over the boy’s shoulders.
Rill paused for a moment, looking down at Simion, his left hand stroking the other man’s thigh.
Simion knew what he was seeing, knew that he was spread out for him, open and vulnerable. The idea
excited him even more.
Rill reached down and wiped the ointment down the spread crease of Simion’s ass. Then, smiling, he
caressed Simion’s rigid cock, spreading a thin film of the slippery ointment over his heated flesh,
giving him a few squeezing strokes. When he moved his hand back down, Simion gripped his own
erection and began to masturbate slowly.
Rill’s fingertip settled against the pucker of Simion’s anus, and he begans to massage it with slow,
circular motions. Simion did not instruct him to be careful and slow. Rill had suffered often enough at
the hands of unconcerned lovers to know what hurt, and had been with Draculea enough to know what
brought pleasure. Simion trusted him.
Rill rubbed gently till he felt the tight ring of muscle beneath the crinkled skin soften, then pressed the
tip of his finger to the opening and pushed slowly. Simion sighed as the digit sank into him. It had
been a long time since he’d done this. Draculea had limited his physical cravings to Rock and Rill, and
if Simion was with any of the anonymous men he met during their travels, HE was the aggressor. How
sweet to be the one who was taken, and cared for.
Rill stared down, watching as he worked his finger in and out. When he judged it was time he
carefully pressed a second finger in alongside the first and continued to stroke in and out, then started
to spread them apart. Simion made a tiny grunt, and he said anxiously, "I didn’t hurt you?"
"No, it’s fine. It feels good."
Rill nodded. "I know. The prince told me about a trick, but maybe only he can do it. I want to try to do
it for you." Simion felt Rill’s fingers curve slightly, edging along his internal walls. "He said it was
just a tiny, little bump." Simion felt a touch on his special spot. His back arched involuntarily, and he
made a quiet noise. Rill laughed in delight. "I did it! I did it!" He rubbed again, watching as Simion
writhed on the impaling fingers. "Oh, doesn’t it feel GOOD, Simion?"
"Yes!" Simion clamped his hand around the base of his cock, squeezing hard to prevent an immediate
orgasm. "Please, Rill! I want to feel you inside me now."
Rill pulled his fingers out and moved closer, settling Simion’s legs more firmly. Simion shuddered as
he felt the cool, smooth touch at the entrance to his body. He braced himself. He would not flinch
when the boy entered him. Rill must not suspect that he had even a passing discomfort, because that
was all it would be--passing.
Rill bit his lip and pushed forward slowly, sinking in an inch at a time. His eyes drifted half shut and
his mouth dropped open, his head tipping back as he settled into the liquid heat of Simion’s body.
When he rested against him he held still, feeling the heat seep into his own cool flesh. "Oh," he
breathed. "Oh, oh, Simion."
Simion squeezed, giving the boy an internal caress, sending his muscles rippling along the buried
length of the boy’s prick, and Rill cried out softly, his hips jerking. He bent forward till he could press
his lips to Simion’s and began to move, fucking him with long, slow strokes.
The coolness faded as his own body heat warmed Rill’s flesh. Simion buried his hands in the boy’s
soft hair and put his lips to his ear, whispering, "Yes, so good. Show me your love, Rill. Let me feel it.
I’m strong, sweet one. Let yourself go."
Rill’s head was down beside Simion’s and he didn’t lift it, but he began to move more quickly, more
strongly. Soon he was pounding into his lover with hard, fast strokes, hitting the special spot with
almost every pass.
Simion was jolted with pleasure. It was different somehow than what he had shared with Draculea. He
knew that the prince valued, respected, and cared for him, but it was the same as it was for Rill--the
prince did not love him as he had loved Nicolae. Simion knew without doubt that Rill DID love him,
with all his simple, generous heart. He intended to spend the rest of his life showing the boy that it was
returned.
Rill had never experienced anything to match this. He had been sucked before, and had enjoyed it
greatly, but it was nothing to compare to this. Simion was so tight and hot, and he MOVED. He
cradled Rill in his body perfectly, and Rill knew that this was where he was meant to be.
As he moved he panted, "Simion, later... later you will do this, won’t you? I want you to do this to me,
too. We can do so much together."
"Yes--everything. We have so much time, Rill."
"You’ll love me forever?"
Simion strained up to kiss him again, sucking Rill’s tongue into his mouth and biting it gently. When
he released him he said, "For as long as I draw breath, my lover. Yes, forever."
Rill whimpered and ground against him, straining to plumb his depths, and Simion felt a gush of cool
liquid bathe his bowels as he found his release. Rill pushed Simion’s hand away, gripping the older
man’s cock and stroking. "You, too! You, too, Simion!"
Rill was still sunk deep inside him, Simion gave up fighting and let his climax sweep over him. His
seed spurted strongly, bathing his belly and Rill’s quick moving hand. "There!" Rill said exultantly. "I
did that, didn’t I? I made you spend."
Simion laughed. He dropped his legs far enough to wrap them around the boy’s waist, letting Rill’s
softening prick slide out of his body. Then he rolled them over till they were both lying on their sides.
Rill squealed with surprised laughter, then began peppering Simion’s face with tiny kisses. Finally
they both lay still, grinning at each other. Rill said, "We wasted a lot of time." Simion nodded. "Aren’t
we silly?"
Simion hugged him. "Not really, Rill. I think we were both just a little shy."
"Not any more," Rill said firmly. "Can I sleep with you now?"
"When it will not endanger you. When we are where there is no chance that a stranger will intrude."
Rill started to pout, and Simion took his nose between his two middle fingers, pretending to pull it till
the boy giggled. "You know better than that, boy."
Rill sighed. "Yes, I know." He snuggled down beside Simion. "You take such good care of me."
"It’s my life, dear one. And it’s enough."
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 57: Chapter 57: Deadly Discovery

Archive: Lists it was sent to, but I reserve the right to ask for its removal if I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters were created by Bram Stoker, but I believe they are in the public
domain now. Other characters are the author’s creation.
Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver
Summary: Sinn’s curiosity finally leads him to disaster.
Notes:merde--shit
Rating: NC-17
Child of the Night, Part 57: Deadly Discovery
A week later
Versailles, France
"Sinn, your glass!"
Sinn jerked, his eyes snapping open. The wine glass he’d been holding had tilted in his slack hand, and
the wine slopped out when he started. He cursed as an alert footman hurried forward and began to dab
at the mess on his trouser leg. "Leave it! They’re ruined now. Merde, it HAD to be on my new white
satin."
Rill, who had been sitting beside him, said, "I’m sorry. I should have caught it for you."
He forced a laugh. "Dear boy, it is not your fault that I dozed off." He shook his head. "I don’t
understand it. I’ve never become sleepy this early in the evening before." He yawned. "I’m so
TIRED."
"Are you ill?" Rill asked, concerned. "You’re very pale lately. If you’re sick, you should speak to
Simion." The boy’s voice wasfond. "He’s very good at medicines."
"Is he?" Sinn said. "You think a lot of him, don’t you, petite?"
Rill smiled, looking down into his glass. "He’s my friend."
*Mm, and from that caressing tone I’d say he’s MORE than that. I wonder what the prince makes of
that, if he knows at all? And surely he knows. He isn’t an inobservant man.* "Well, I’ve wasted my
wine." He indicated Rill’s full glass. "But you haven’t even tasted yours."
"Oh, this is my second glass," said Rill glibbly. "You were dozing, and I took another."
"Did you? You must be careful that you do not become tipsy." *The level in the bottle hasn’t dropped
at all. Now, why would he lie to me about that?* He stood up. "Well, I must go change."
"Will you be coming back?"
"Probably not. I’m going to stop by the library and pick up a book before I go to my room."
"Yes? The prince likes the library. He spends a lot of time there."
"So I have noticed." *I made it my business to learn his habits, and yours. He spends time in the
library, but he does not read much. It is as if he finds the atmosphere comforting.*
Rill continued, "I wish I could read better. Simion has taught me my letters, and I can read a little,
but..." He turned his glass in his hands, staring into it. He sighed. "So many words in the big books."
Smiling, he added, "Sometimes Simion reads to me. I like that. He read me one about a witch who ate
children." He shuddered, whispering, "Monsters and witches. I used to be afraid of monsters, but the
prince says there aren’t really any."
Sinn stood up, ruffling Rill’s dark curls. "No monsters, perhaps, but there ARE witches. But don’t
worry, pretty one." He pinched Rill’s cheek. "I won’t let her get you. Goodnight."
Sinn made his way slowly to the palace library. It was seldom used, unless the a particularly large ball
filled the other rooms, then the card games spilled over into it. Oh, occasionally some of the older
courtiers would make their way there to peruse some book of philosophy, or an adventurous lady
might search for a racy novel, but it was generally empty--of readers. More than one amourous couple
had been surprised among the shelves.
He was hoping to find a book that would tell him something about Wallachia. Try as he might, he
hadn’t been able to scrape up much information about Prince Draculea. He’d called on all his sources
and had been given only scraps. No one could even say how Draculea stood in the royal line. For some
odd reason the Wallachian nobility seemed reluctant to discuss the prince.
Sinn had familiarized himself with the library early in his stay at court. He seldom read, but he was not
adverse to a little research when it might help his interests. He located the books about other countries.
There were plenty about the larger countries like England and Germany, but volumes about the smaller
countries were few.
Sinn located a single book--a history. *Ah, well, better than nothing. I can at least converse with the
prince intelligently about the history of his nation. That should win a bit of favor.* He took the book
back to his room and settled in to read it, hoping that he could make headway before he fell asleep. He
was so tired lately.
He went directly to the chapter that detailed the royal lineages. The book was not so old that it would
be before Prince Vlad’s time, and Sinn hoped to finally determine his exact status in the Wallachian
royal family. *Mm. Their rulers were called voivodes. Bogdan I, 1324-1352. Mircea cel Batran... cel
Batran? Ah, the Old. 1360-1418. Draculea, Vlad Tepes, 1456-1462... So he was named for his
ancestor. But why, then, is he not called the second, or the third?* Sinn considered the generations that
lay between the first Draculea and the present. *Or even the fourth or fifth. Well, here’s where I start
my study. Most people like to discuss their family trees.*
There was an entire chapter devoted to Draculea, and Sinn flipped to it. As he began to read, dim
memories began to stir. Vlad Draculea, Son of the Dragon. *Or Son of the Devil. I wonder if his
pursuits were like mine?* The Impaler. This brought back more vivid memories. One of the servants
had delighted in telling him tales of the monsters of the past, both real and imaginary. Sinn had found
it fascinating. The servant had actually been disappointed when the boy lost no sleep over the
blood-curdling tales.
It seemed that the tales hadn’t been mere fancy. The prince’s atrocities were set down as fact.
Supposedly hundreds had died by his own hands, and most assuredly thousands had died at his order.
*What a bloodthirsty family line you have, Prince,* Sinn thought. *And I can’t help but think that a bit
of it has been passed down to you, despite your charming demeanor.*
There were illustrations--woodcuts that showed the forests of impaled victims set up by the ancient
ruler. One showed the prince dining in a table set amongst the stakes. Sinn flipped the leaf and came to
a full page portrait of Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea. He studied it, frowning. It, too, was a woodcut,
though the text said that there was an oil portrait. He wished he could see the painting--the print was so
stylized that it could have been any one of a number of people. Except...
He frowned. *The mustache. The mustache does not belong.* Sinn went to his dresser and rummaged
among the jars and pots till he located a small container of white paste. It could be used to impart a
pale complexion if one did not want to go through the danger and discomfort of being bled or taking
arsenic. Sinn had used it only once, then discovered that it contained lead. He hadn’t thrown it away,
thinking that there might be some future use for a toxic substance.
Now he dipped his finger in the paste and painted it over the dark patch that represented the
moustache. It took him two coats before it was thick enough to blot out the distracting image. Once it
was done Sinn wiped his hand clean and squinted at the page, tilting his head, trying to make
allowances for the paler color of the makeup.
He blinked, and something seemed to shift. He knew that it could be nothing more than his perception,
but it was almost as if the lines of the picture had changed subtly, and he was suddenly certain that he
was looking at a portrait of the PRESENT Prince Vlad Draculea.
*I know that family resemblence can be great, but to have the very image of one appear two hundred
and fifty years later...* Sinn turned the page, interested to read the rest of the first Draculea’s life.
*Married to Elizabeta Varga in 1462. He seems to have mellowed a bit after that. There aren’t any
incidents of violence mentioned till ’64.* Sinn read a bit more and shuddered. *Good God! I’m all for
protocol, but the man took it beyond the limits. Spikes! Brrrr. And that, of course, helped trigger the
Turkish aggression. You can hardly blame them. The woodcut of the battle is quite vivid, also.*
Sinn turned the page, eager to hear what end the prince had come to. This was not the sort of man
likely to die a peacefully, in his own bed. *Judging from the hints about his private life it might have
been in someone ELSE’S bed, killed by a jealous lover. I’m beginning to wish it WAS him here at
court instead of his descendant. The blood usually thins out down the line.*
Sinn read further. His smooth forehead slowly wrinkled in perplexity. *Well, I’ve read a good bit, but
I’ve seldom come across such a run of obscurity and misdirection.* He read the passage again, and it
made little more sense. *Why, they don’t actually say that he died. ’The ground trembled with a great
rushing of wind when the Son of the Dragon spoke his blasphemy, and the Prince fell down as one
dead. All God fearing Christians fled the castle, and thenceforth the place was cursed, haunted by
Nosferatu.’*
"Furthering your education, Sinn?"
Barbee dropped the book in surprise, but Rock snatched it before it hit the floor. Sinn gaped at the
young man, then tried to regain his dignity. "I didn’t hear you knock."
"Perhaps that’s because I DIDN’T knock." Rock idly ruffled the book’s pages. "I never took you for
an intellectual."
Sinn reached for the book. "Just some light reading."
Rock held the book away from him. "You’re a bit anxious to get this back, aren’t you? I wonder
why?" He took a few steps away and turned the pages more slowly.
"That’s of no interest to you." Again he tried to take the book back.
This time Rock shoved him back casually. "I CAN read, you know."
"I don’t doubt it. I never said you weren’t clever. Now give me that!" He tried to snatch the book.
Rock put his hand on the young lord’s face and pushed him down on the bed. In a flash he was over
him, kneeling on his arms. Sinn thrashed, but couldn’t budge him. Damn! When had he become so
weak? Rock stared down at him. "You’re entirely too eager to get this away from me, Sinn. That
makes me curious." He looked at the book again. "The History of Transylvania, Also Known as
Wallachia." He looked down at the now unresistant Sinn, studying him. "So, researching the prince?"
"That’s a history, Rock. It doesn’t cover the present situation."
Rock turned the pages. He paused at one, and his eyebrows rose. He touched the page, then examined
the pale smear that came off on his finger. "The king won’t like it, your dirtying his books." He wiped
the face paint casually on Sinn’s shirt, then continued reading.
Rock went very still. The only movement was his eyes, flicking back and forth. Then his lips slowly
formed the word ’Nosferatu’. Rock dropped the book to the floor, then lowered himself till he was
stretched along Sinn’s prone body, blanketing him. "Sinn..." his voice was chiding. "Oh, Sinn. Haven’t
you ever heard the old saying about curiosity and the cat?"
Sinn, for the first time in his memory, was truly afraid. "The book isn’t very useful. I wanted facts, and
it gave me fairy tales."
"Did it? I’ve always enjoyed a good fairy tale. Tell me."
Sinn licked his lips nervously. "Just the usual folktales that the ignorant peasants whisper to each
other. Ghosts and loup garous."
Rock settled even more. "Shapeshifters? Surely an intelligent man like you doesn’t believe such
nonsense."
"No, of course not."
Rock stroked Sinn’s hair almost gently, and Sinn shuddered at his cold smile. "Now, the undead..."
"Superstition," Sinn whispered. "Lies. Myths."
Rock’s smile widened. Sinn’s heart started to hammer as he saw the glint of fangs. The young man’s
eyes were red. "Not all of it." Before he could scream Rock lunged. As Rock tore into his throat,
Sinn’s cry died before it could be fully voiced.
Sinn shoved weakly at the monster crouching on top of him, but his struggles faded quickly. He felt so
weak, his head swimming. *This has happened before,* he thought dazedly. *Oh, God. The pain, and
the weakness, and... and...* The heat. There was a wave of erotic pleasure mingling with the pain and
terror. He wasn’t getting hard, and he realized vaguely with dawning horror that it was because he
didn’t have enough spare blood to achieve an erection.
As he began to slip into darkness, his last coherent thought was, *Nosferatu. Perhaps... perhaps I shall
live, even though I die...*
Rock felt him die. He sensed the sudden stillness in the body beneath him, the subtle shift in the flavor
of the blood, the minute difference of odor, and he jerked back, alarmed. Barbee lay beneath
him--limp, his green eyes dull without the spark of life to illuminate their glance. "Fuck!" Rock hissed.
Enraged beyond sensible thought, he shook the body roughly. Sinn’s head rolled and jerked bonelessly
and, with his enhanced senses, Rock could feel his flesh beginning to cool. He dropped the corpse
back on the bed with a snarl.
His first instinct was to flee. Draculea would surely kill him for this. The prince was adamant about
their limiting themselves to criminal victims, ones who would not be missed by anyone who could
make trouble for them, but Barbee... Barbee was a well-known, popular member of a powerful court.
He got up and paced, wiping his mouth absently. *I have to go, I should have left long ago.* He
paused, glaring at the body on the bed. *But I can’t just leave him here. This place is so crowded it
will be a day or two before anyone is certain that he is missing. If I hide him well enough, I should
have time to disappear.*
He wrapped the cooling body in the bed’s coverlete. No one would question a servant walking the
halls with what looked like a bundle of laundry. Indeed, it was unlikely that any of the nobles would
even remember seeing him.
He made it out of the palace without being confronted by anyone. He hefted the body over his
shoulder, grateful for his enhanced strength. Sinn wasn’t big, but he was solid, and he’d have been a
real burden before Rock had been turned.
There were several cottages on the outskirts of the palace grounds, occupied by groundskeepers. He
found a horse tied up behind one of them, and appropriated the animal, slinging the body across the
nervous animal’s back and going deeper into the woods. When he thought he was far enough, he
looked about. There was a great, hollow log on the ground, some long ago felled forest giant. This
would do for Barbee’s ’tomb’.
Rock carelessly stuffed the body into the log, then mounted the horse and rode. He knew that he
needed to find some safe hiding place before sunrise, and he wanted to put more distance between
himself and Versailles--or more particularly, Draculea.
He felt no twinge at abandoning his brother. Rill was nothing now but a source of envy and frustration.
Once he was free of Draculea, he should be able to acquire his own servants. Yes, with his new powers
he should be able to lead quite a satisfying life.
As he rode on, it never occured to him that even after two hundred and fifty years, Draculea had not
learned the full extent of his condition. Rock’s arrogance easily convinced the young vampire that he
knew everything.
He and his lord were about to learn just how strong the bond between a childe and its sire could be.
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 58: Chapter 58: The Third, and Retreat
Fandom: Dracula
Archive: Lists it’s sent to, but I may ask to remove it if I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: I believe Dracula is in the public domain. Original characters are my creation, and
copyrighted.
Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribble and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluve
Summary: A new vampire awakens, and finds a place, and Draculea grows weary of the world.
Warnings: Intimations of Satanism.
Notes: mon porcelte doux--my sweet piglet, petit--little one, que je suis Ã faire avec vous?--what am I
to do with you?
Rating: NC=17
Child of the Night, Part 58: The Third, and Retreat
The Next Night
Versailles, France
Rill’s eyes were worried. "He never came back, my lord. I fear for him."
Draculea regarded the boy, seeing how troubled he was. Simion sat beside his young lover, his arm
around him comfortingly. "Be calm, Rill. Perhaps he found himself farther afield than was safe when
dawn approached, but he knows well enough what he must do to remains safe. Surely he found some
dark place where he would not be disturbed."
Despite his words, Draculea was not at all sure of what he had said. Rock followed the rules set down
for his safety only grudgingly. He hadn’t yet felt the sting of sunlight and might not yet really believe
it could be so dangerous to his kind. Draculea no longer ventured from his inner rooms on even the
most overcast or rainy days. He suspected that the longer he existed in his present state, the more
vulnerable he was to the ravages of the day. If this was true then he risked much more than a simple
burn if sunlight struck his skin.
Rill wiped his nose, sighing. "I suppose so. He just WON’T take proper care, though. I don’t suppose
I’d be so upset if I wasn’t worried about Sinn, too. I was going to ask him about Rock. Sometimes they
are together," he said matter-of-factly. He didn’t notice the look exchanged by Simion and Draculea.
"so I went to his room, to see if Rock was there. But Sinn wasn’t there, either. I asked the girl who
takes care of his room, and she said she hadn’t seen him. That might not mean anything. I mean, Sinn
doesn’t have much to do with the servants. But none of the courtiers remember seeing him, either."
The look he turned on Draculea was both anxious and hopeful. "Do you suppose they are together?"
Simion gave him a squeeze. "I wouldn’t be at all surprised, love. Don’t trouble yourself about
him--he’ll turn up."
Draculea ruffled the boy’s hair. "If it makes you feel better, I shall look for your friend and your
brother."
Rill gave him a bright, grateful smile. "Thank you, my lord." He nodded. "You will find them." His
trust was simple and complete.
"Now, I know that you are not comfortable with the court, Rill, but you need to keep occupied while
Simion and I search. There is always a group of elderly ladies in the small blue salon--go sit with
them. You know enough French now to make a little conversation, and they will be pleased to have a
handsome young man seek their company."
Rill rolled his eyes. "They always want to pinch my cheek or pat me on the knee. Very well." He gave
Simion a kiss, then left.
Draculea watched as Simion smiled softly after his lover. "It’s good to see you two together, Simion. I
have never seen you so content."
"He completes me, lord," Simion said simply.
Draculea nodded sadly. He could well understand how his friend felt. If he still prayed, he would have
petitioned God to keep Rill safe--for Simion’s sake. He knew the agony of losing a soul mate. "Can
you tell me anything about this mystery, Simion?"
"Sinn and Rock have been intimate, my lord. It would not be surprising if they were together, but I am
at a loss as to where they might have gone."
Draculea grunted. "I have suspected that they had formed a liaison. I am not as inobservant as either of
them believes. I also think that Rock has been supping from the Vicomte."
Simion scowled. "Against your express orders? I wouldn’t have credited him with the courage."
"Oh, it isn’t courage, Simion. It’s more arrogance, and stupidity. I’ve noticed how pale and languid
young Barbee has grown lately. While it is fashionable to take arsenic to achieve the delicate pallor
and air, Sinn is too careful of himself to risk his health. He wants to live too badly. I wouldn’t put it
past Rock to try to ensnare Barbee, and use him to finance his escape." Draculea laughed shortly.
"He’s chosen badly. Sinn puts up a good front, but his funds are limited. He makes do on an allowance
from his father and whatever gifts his admirers provide." His eyes narrowed. "If they HAVE fled, they
won’t get far. Still, we had best exhaust all local possibilities."
"Yes, lord. I will search the domestic quarters. I will cause no suspicions there. But what shall we do
about the private rooms?"
"We need not enter them, Simion. The bond between a Nosferatu and its childe is strong, and grows
stronger with time. If I reach out with my mind, I can sense Rill and Rock. I know that it works when
they are nearby, but I cannot be as sure it will succeed if Rock has put a great distance between us. I
can’t help but feel, though, that it cannot be broken. I need only stand outside the rooms and FEEL for
him--then I will know if he is there."
They began their search. Simion spoke with the servants, and none had seen Rock since the previous
day. Draculea brought Sinn up with every courtier he met, and it was the same. Vlad either entered or
paused outside every room in the palace, reaching out with his inner being, but he found no trace of
Rock.
No PRESENT trace. His wayward childe’s scent was thick in Sinn Barbee’s room. Draculea stood in
the center of the room, turning slowly, searching the atmosphere with every fiber of his being. Simion
came to the room and found his master sitting on the neatly made bed, staring blankly. "Master?"
"There has been death here, Simion. I smell it."
Simion cursed quietly. "There is no sign of either of them, my lord. It looks as if Rock killed him, then
fled."
"I have no doubt of that."
Simion paced. "Someone will notice Barbee’s absence soon, and there will be questions. Everyone
knows how close he has been lately with Rill."
"Remain calm, Simion. Nothing will happen to your lover--I won’t allow it. But I think it best that you
begin packing, and notify the gypsies to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. We may have to leave
quickly."
"We can’t go with that bastard still running loose."
"I know that, and we won’t. It may take a day or so, but I believe I can find him. But not now--the sun
will be rising soon. How is Rill?"
"Near frantic with worry that Rock has still not returned. When will he be free of this compulsion, my
lord? The filth did naught but use him, and still he is loyal."
Draculea sighed. "The most abused can love the deepest, Simion, even where the love is undeserved.
Nicolae grieved for Ernestu, when most others would have danced on his grave. Try to keep the boy
calm for awhile longer, Simion."
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
The next evening Draculea found himself faced with a determined Rill. "I want to go with you."
"No, Rill," Draculea’s voice was gentle, but firm. "I don’t know how long I will be gone. If I were
caught away from the palace, it would be too hard to find shelter for us both. Besides, Rock or Sinn
might return. You should be here when they do."
Rill nodded reluctantly. Draculea thought it very unlikely that Rock would return on his own, and he
was now sure that Sinn COULD not. The ambitious, smooth young courtier was probably resting in a
shallow grave, if Rock had taken the trouble to bury him. It was likely that he’d already provided a
meal or two for some forest scavenger.
But Draculea was wrong in that. As he mounted his horse and set off with one of the gypsies in search
of his runaway childe, Sinn’s body was still quite untouched.
The hollow log Rock had chosen for his final resting place had been the home of a large, ill-tempered
badger. It had been very displeased when it had returned to find the cold, cloth wrapped bundle stuffed
in its lair. In fact, it had worried at the sheet until it had ripped a hole in it, exposing two pale, bare
feet. He’d been about to bite when he’d stopped, nostrils flaring. An old denizen of the woods, he was
familiar with carrion, and its scent, but there was something different here.
This smelled dead... but not quite. There was something wrong here, something so wrong that he
backed out of the cozy den and waddled off into the woods, seeking shelter elsewhere. Later a fox
came sniffing around the log. It jerked back, bushy tail bristling, large bat-like ears lying close to its
skull, then ran away, whining.
Sinn’s body lay undisturbed while the blood of the Nosferatu, the blood he’d ingested many times
while drinking Rock’s seed, percolated through him, changing him.
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
Draculea had been forced to take shelter with the rising of the sun, taking a room at a small inn. His
gypsy sat up, guarding him while he slumbered.
By the next evening his frustration was intense because he’d managed to pick up the trail of his errant
childe. He’d come across the carcass of a cow, its throat ripped. At a wayside tavern, he’d heard
babbled gossip about a red-eyed devil that had tried to attack a young couple walking home. It had
only been driven off when a group of men in the tavern had heard the screams and gone to investigate.
As it was, the young man was unconscious for hours, and the girl suffered a great wound in her neck,
nearly bleeding to death before an old granny woman had stopped the flow with an herbal poultice.
*The fool! Two nights away from my supervision and he has the countryside in an uproar! Killing
innocents, and so boldly that he is nearly captured. He’ll be the ruin of us all if he isn’t stopped. Well,
he can’t be far. Damnation, it’s time I took him back to Transylvania. At Castle Draculea he’d be
isolated enough that he could cause no trouble. I’m weary of this traveling, anyway. I’d hoped that I
might find Nicolae, but it seems a fruitless dream. I might just as well go home and await his return.
He’ll find some way to come to me.*
Draculea set off again, knowing that Rock had to be nearby, feeling his presence at the edge of his
awareness. The gypsy followed as best he could, though he had to stay on the roads. He was driving a
small, light wagon, which carried Rock’s sleep box. Beside it in the bed of the wagon were also
several lengths of chain and stout padlocks. Draculea did not intend to allow Rock to escape once he
was captured.
**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~
Sinn’s awareness burst up through layers of nothingness, and he knew immediately that this was not
an ordinary awakening. He came awake to cold, and utter blackness, and raging, consuming hunger.
And he found that he couldn’t move.
Oh, that wasn’t strictly true--he COULD barely move his arms and legs, but he was restricted. He was
wrapped in some sort of cloth, but beyond that, there was a more solid barrier. *I died,* he thought.
*This cloth is my shroud, and the walls beyond my coffin. How shall I ever get out if they buried me
deep?*
Most people would have panicked, going over into hysterics, but Sinn was not most people. Despite
the thirst clawing at his throat and the hunger gnawing at his belly, he was able to assess his situation.
*I’m not breathing. Good--I won’t have to worry about suffocating at least. That means I have a little
time.*
For a few moments he lay, considering all the details he could gather. Gradually he concluded that he
had not been buried. He could hear things that he wouldn’t have been able to if they had been muffled
by soil. And he wasn’t in a coffin. The barriers on the other side of the cloth seemed rounded instead
of squared off, as a casket would be.
He felt a slight shifting of air around his feet and his head, so that meant there were openings. He
wiggled, shifting himself minutely ahead. Luckily, the sheet hadn’t been wrapped too tightly around
his head, and he was able to gradually work his way out of it. When his head was clear he paused to
look around.
*I shouldn’t be able to see anything, as dark as it is, but I can, and this is NOT a coffin. What did that
dog do to me?* He continued working his way forward. First, his head was clear, then his shoulders.
He was outside, in the forest. *The bastard! He tossed me away like trash!* He got his arms free, and
was able to pull himself the rest of the way out.
Sinn stood up, brushing dirt and twigs out of his hair, swearing softly. *Well, the pants were already
ruined with the wine. Now I’ve lost the rest of the clothes, and...* He paused, his eyes widening, then
he laughed. *I died. I came back. I am a Nosferatu, immortal, and I’m worrying about my wardrobe!*
He sat on the log to think, wrapping his arms around his belly in an attempt to calm it. *I can’t stay at
Versailles now, not unless I have someone to keep watch while I sleep.* He tipped his head, thinking.
*If Rock is Nosferatu... He can’t be the only one. Yes, I remember now. That illustration in the book
HAS to be Draculea himself. So, Rock is Draculea’s creature. Does that mean that I am Rock’s?* He
frowned. *I don’t think I like that. If I have to belong to someone, it should be someone more
powerful. I need to get the prince to accept me. I think I could spend eternity safely under his
patronage. But he hasn’t been so readily charmed. Rill will plead for me, I’m sure. Rill...* He shook
his head, recalling the chill of the boy’s flesh, the strength of his grip. *Damnation. A clutch of
vampires living at Versailles, and no one aware of it! And Louis prides himself on the intellectual level
of his court.*
The hunger finally overwhelmed him, and he got up and began walking through the woods. He knew
what Nosferatu fed on, and there should be someone nearby he could use to slake his thirst.
He hadn’t gone far when he came upon a path that looked familiar. Sinn paused, grinning. The
moonlight glinted off fangs, and his green eyes momentarily sparked red. This path led to Tisane’s
cottage. "Perfect," he whispered, hurrying along the path.
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
A thin wail pierced the incense thick air of the cabin. "Oh, hush, brat!" snapped the witch. "I know
you’re hungry, but I have nothing for you. In any case, there’s little point in feeding you now." She
poked a long, bony finger at the naked infant who squirmed on her bed, and she smiled horribly. "The
Master won’t care if your belly is empty when I send you to him."
The little girl, no more than two or three days old, blinked and wailed again. Her first two days had
been relatively pleasant and peaceful. Her young mother had nursed her and cared for her, even
rocking her gently to sleep. She’d cried when the great, rough man, her grandfather, had taken her
away.
The infant, who had not even been officially named, hadn’t understood their words, but the mother’s
father had assured his daughter that the baby would be placed with a respectable family, who would
raise her as their own, without the stigma of illegitimacy. That was what the baby broker had told him,
and perhaps he even believed it. In any case, the man who had taken the baby ’as a favor’ had sold it to
Tisane for a purse of silver. He wasn’t unaware of the significance of the thirty coins, or what the evil
looking crone might have planned, but he wasn’t overly concerned about it, either.
Tisane left the baby on her bed, confident that it was not yet old enough to move to the edge. She
wouldn’t want it to fall and kill itself. No, no, that wouldn’t do at all. The proper ritual had to be
observed for her master, Satan, to receive the child’s soul. Otherwise, it would simply fly off to Limbo
to await the Second Coming. Any spell in which she used the body parts would have much less chance
of working properly, and she intended to render down the fat for another try at that invisibility salve.
She got a large, ancient book down from the shelf and opened it, muttering to herself as she read the
recipe. She needed to have most of the potion ready in the cauldron, so that the blood could be added
immediately, while it was boiling. She began to throw in various herbs and items.
There was a knock on the door, and she looked up, cursing. She had no appointments scheduled for
tonight. Whoever was brave and foolish enough to bother her now would be sent packing, perhaps
with a smarting head to remember her by.
She hobbled to the door and called, "Who troubles a poor old woman?"
The voice that answered was familiar. "Madame, it is I--Sinn Barbee."
"Sinn?" She frowned. After his first visit she had told him that he must make arrangements, and could
not just show up at her door. He was usually more careful about obeying directives, knowing that he
needed to stay on her good side. "What do you want, boy? I am busy tonight."
"Something has happened, Tisane--something marvelous! Let me in, so that I can tell you."
Tisane glanced back at the baby, who had grown quiet, save for a few low whimpers. Perhaps she
SHOULD let him in. If she got him to participate in the ritual, it would bind him even closer to her
will. Once he had damned himself by committing infanticide, he wouldn’t dare try to pull away from
her influence. Besides, she thought with a hard smile, she enjoyed causing others to commit cruelty.
She unbarred the door and opened it, stepping back.
He had moved back, just beyond the reach of the feeble light that came from the cottage. All she could
see was a vague outline, a shadow. "Well?"
"Ask me to come in, Tisane." The voice was a whisper.
She snorted. "You need an invitation after all this time? Very well." She swept him a mocking curtsey.
"I bid you enter, young lord."
"Thank you." He stepped into the cottage, shutting the door behind himself. "I wasn’t at all sure I’d be
able to get in without your permission. Some of the legends say that we can’t."
Tisane didn’t understand what he was talking about, but wasn’t about to admit it. "What was it you
wanted to tell me, boy?" She frowned. "And what has happened to you?" She took in Sinn’s
appearance. The young lord had always been very careful off his appearance. Now his clothes were
filthy--stained and rumpled, even torn in places. His hair was full of leaves and twigs, and... She
blinked. His feet were bare, the pale arches streaked with mud. Had he been walking through the
woods BAREFOOTED?
Now she noticed how pale he was. "What has happened, Sinn? Were you robbed?"
"No." He took a step toward her, and she instinctively moved back. He was smiling, teeth gleaming in
his dirty face. "Well, I suppose I was, in a way. I was robbed of life, Tisane. I was killed."
She laughed harshly, but quieted when he laughed with her--a silvery, unearthly sound. "What are you
playing at, boy?"
"Don’t you believe me?" He came toward her, and she continued to back up. "Come, Tisane! You
worship the devil--surely you believe in his creatures?"
"You... you are a ghost!" she said faintly.
"No. Ghosts are incorporeal--I’m quite solid." He gripped the edge of her heavy table and heaved it
over with an easy gesture. "You see? A ghost might scare you to death, but that would be all. They
can’t touch you. Nosferatu, on the other hand..." He smiled. Firelight glinted off long, sharp fangs.
Tisane screamed and fell back against the wall. There was no more room left. She crossed herself
frantically, and Sinn sneered. "Oh, PLEASE, Tisane! It isn’t as if you BELIEVE in the power of the
cross."
Tisane cast her eyes upward and cried, "Master! Master, I have served you faithfully. I have sent you
many souls! Protect me!"
Sinn paused, cocking his head, a faint smile curving his lips. "Why do you look to heaven when you
pray to the devil, you foolish woman? In any case," he reached out quickly and seized her throat. She
screamed, clawing at his hands, and he ignored her efforts. He whispered, "I’ve been to hell. I’ve seen
your master." His smile was cruel. "He told me to remind you that he is the Father of Lies. You
expected a high place in Hell? You’ll be the lowest slut in Hades, Tisane. The demons will bugger
you, when they aren’t busy roasting your withered carcass. And now it’s time to go to your reward."
He jerked her to him, shoving her head to the side, and sank his fangs deep into her wrinkled neck.
Sinn wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Tisane was so old, so debauched, so wicked, that he had
thought her blood would be thin and sour. But it filled his mouth in a great, salty-sweet gush, and he
found himself drinking eagerly. She managed to pull her head away once, and he growled his anger
and frustration, pinning her against the wall so violently that her rib cage was crushed. It didn’t
matter--she wouldn’t need to breathe for much longer.
He drank until the woman stopped struggling, then kept on drinking until the stream of blood ran
weak. She’d stopped breathing by then. He pulled his mouth away from the wound in her neck, and it
barely seeped. There was not enough blood left in her body for it to flow freely. As he held her there,
he felt the faint throbbing beneath his hands cease. She was dead.
Sinn pressed his bloody lips against the dead woman’s forehead. "You didn’t give me what I wanted,
Tisane, but I suppose you helped me find it. Enjoy your eternity in Hell. Perhaps I’ll see you there
someday, though I hope it’s not for a long, long time." He whispered, "You know what I said about the
demons buggering you? I rather think I might like it."
He dropped her and just stood for a moment. The raging hunger/thirst that had plagued him since his
awakening was gone, and he felt pleasantly sated, almost like he did after sex. He thought he was
going to enjoy this unlife.
But he couldn’t stay here. People sought out Tisane, and though few would complain officially if
anything happened to the old woman, private inquires would be made. He had to establish himself
firmly with Draculea, and hopefully talk him into leaving Versailles.
He heard a thin cry and looked down at the crumpled body of Tisane, nudging it with his toe. No, she
was quite dead. He walked to the bed and peered down at the naked baby girl. Then he looked at the
bedside table. It held a deep basin, and a very sharp knife. Sinn looked back at the dead witch, and
murmured, "Why, you filthy murderess." There was more surprise in his voice than condemnation. "I
wonder how many tiny bones I’d find if I dug up your vegetable garden?"
Sinn reached down to pick up the baby. The infant stiffened, and began to whimper. Sinn clicked his
tongue. "Ah, la! Yes, my hands are still cold, aren’t they, mon porcelt doux?" He flexed his fingers,
examining them. "Though I think they are warmer than when I awakened." He pulled the slip off the
pillow and wrapped the baby in it, then picked her up. "There! Better, cheri?"
The baby quieted, and regarded him with wide eyes. He bounced it gently. "Que je suis Ã faire avec
vous, le petit?" He cradled the baby close and rubbed his nose against the baby’s cheek. "So soft, so
warm." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he felt his fangs pricking at the inside of his lip. "So
sweet..."
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Rock picked straw out of his hair as he contemplated the
unfairness of the world. Why hadn’t he thought to steal a few trinkets from Sinn’s room before he left?
Surely, a snuffbox or a pair of gold cuff links would have supported him nicely for a few weeks, until
he could set himself up somewhere and start a stable of whores. Instead, here he was.
He looked around at the dim, ramshackle building. After that fiasco outside the tavern he’d known he
couldn’t afford to stay at a public place, so he’d taken refuge here. The old stable was half collapsed,
and hadn’t been used for some time. He had been certain that no one would bother to pick their way
through the tumbled maze of trash and fallen beams, and the roof at the back was still solid. Just in
case, he had built a lean-to against the wall, sheltering himself even further.
*This is too much! I never slept this rough, even when I was still in that hellhole where I was born. I
need to find someone with a bit of coin tonight.* He started to pick his way toward the exit. *And I’ll
need to get myself another horse, too. Damn that nag for running. I should have just drained it when...*
As he stepped out into the open a hard hand fell on his neck. He was lifted and thrown back into the
derelict building.
He was half stunned when he landed. The door he’d come through was a lighter square against the
surrounding blackness, and a tall silhouette--a silhouette with two glinting red eyes, suddenly blotted it
out. "Did you really think you could escape me, fool?"
Rock realized he had no chance of besting Draculea, and he leaped to his feet, seeking to run. Draculea
caught him by the back of his coat, threw him down, and jumped, landing on his right knee. There was
a muted crack, and Rock screamed at the bolt of pain. Draculea repeated the action on his other leg.
"Perhaps this will help remind you not to run from me."
Rock tried to scoot away from him. Draculea frowned, then stamped again, breaking his right leg at
the thigh. As Rock howled Draculea said, "We add hard-headed to your list of faults." He broke the
left leg again. "Stop trying to escape, dog. Take your punishment."
Though Rock had learned something of fighting during his time in Budapest, he would have been no
match for a warrior who had been training regularly for centuries before he was born, not even
uninjured. It would have been frightening if Draculea had been fighting in hot rage, but instead he
attacked with a cold silence that was terrifying. The methodical nature of the attack was inhuman.
The beating he’d received when he killed the stable lad years ago had been bad. He’d been afraid he
was going to die, then he’d been hoping that he’d die, but this... Rock had never experienced such pain
in his life. As Draculea continued to pummel him, he realized that this was going to be much, much
worse.
Had he been living he would have died quickly. The blows from the elder vampire’s fists and feet
crushed internal organs, tore sinews, and splintered bone. Finally, Draculea stood above him, fists
clenched at his side, and waited. When Rock stirred and tried to crawl away Draculea beat him again.
Finally Rock lay still.
Draculea squatted beside him. "Do you still live, Rock?" He was answered by a small groan. Draculea
nodded to himself. "So I thought. The legends are specific in the methods that must be used to kill a
Nosferatu--a stake through the heart, the removal of the head... I think I’d finish with burning, just to
be sure. But I’m not going to do that, Rock. Do you know why?"
Somehow Rock managed to form words, "...hate me..."
"No, I don’t hate you. You disgust me, you fill me with contempt, but you aren’t significant enough
for me to hate you. One reason I’m letting you continue your miserable existence is the same reason
that I created you in the first place--I don’t want your brother to suffer. But do you know the main
reason?" Draculea put his hand in Rock’s hair and pulled his head up. There was the faint grating of
bones. "You’ll live because you’re mine, Rock, and I don’t throw away what’s mine. You’re going to
survive, and heal eventually, and serve me again."
Draculea stood, keeping his grip in Rock’s hair, and used it to drag him out of the stable. The wagon
was pulled up nearby, the gypsy waiting patiently on the front seat. He stepped down into the bed of
the wagon and opened the lid of the box. Draculea unceremoniously dropped Rock’s limp body inside,
and the gypsy dropped the lid. He silently offered the prince a hammer and a handful of nails, but
Draculea shook his head. "I’ll let him out--eventually." Instead, he wrapped several lengths of heavy
chain around the chest, from side to side and end to end, securing them with the padlocks.
When he was done, he rapped on the box. "Can you hear me, Rock? You had best become accustomed
to that space--it’s your new home. I’ll probably let Rill feed you, like he did before, but it will be
awhile. I’m not worried about letting your hunger build. I’m sure that when I allow Rill to bring you
rats you’ll still not have healed enough to be of much trouble."
Draculea mounted his horse, and they started back for Versailles, riding quickly to reach the palace
well before dawn.
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
The second gypsy was waiting at the stables. Draculea directed some of the palace stablemen to put
away the wagon and horses, then he followed the two men as they carried the box into the palace.
There was much speculation among the men as to what sort of treasure the prince had brought back. It
must be very valuable indeed to merit the chains.
He had them take the chest to Rill’s room. He was sitting with Simion on the bed, and looked up
quickly when they entered. His eyes fastened on the box, then flicked questioning to Draculea. "Leave
it," Draculea told the servants. They deposited the box, then left.
Rill came over and knelt beside the box, putting his hands on it. "Rock?" he said softly. He pressed his
ear to the lid. "Rock, can you hear me?" From inside there was a faint moan.
Rill looked up at Draculea, wide eyed. "I had to, Rill. You know that."
Rill nodded sadly. "Yes. He has to learn." He stood up and hugged the prince. "Thank you for not
killing him."
Draculea patted him gently, then pushed him back. "Rill, I have sad news for you. I’m afraid that Rock
killed your friend, Sinn."
Rill’s eyes grew large, and red tears welled up in the corners. He looked at the box. "Rock, how could
you? Sinn was my friend."
The door to Draculea’s room opened. "I hope I still am your friend, Rill."
For the first time in a long, long while Draculea was surprised. He would have wagered that Sinn
Barbee was at least three days dead, but there he stood. He was dressed in simple clothes, and looked
freshly scrubbed, his face pale and glowing.
"Sinn!" Rill ran to him and threw his arms around him. Simion stiffened in displeasure, but he said
nothing. He knew that Rill only felt friendship for the young lord, but it still rankled. "The prince said
Rock killed you."
Sinn smiled gently, patting his cheek. "He did, mon petit."
Draculea stalked over to him, pushing Rill aside. He gripped Barbee’s arms and stared into his eyes.
Sinn remained still, unperturbed. His smile broadened, and there was the glint of fangs.
Draculea cursed, shoving the young man away from him. "He turned you!" Draculea kicked the box.
"I should have killed you when I had the chance, you snake!"
Sinn smoothed his sleeves. "Yes. I don’t think he intended to, but he wasn’t thinking very clearly. You
see, I’d found a book in the palace library. It had a rather good picture of you in it, though I must say
that you’re much more handsome without the mustache."
Draculea rounded on him again. "You’re too damn calm for a newborn. Who have you killed?"
Sinn didn’t try to deny it. "Tisane the Witch."
Draculea scowled. "Some harmless old madwoman?"
"Mad perhaps, but hardly harmless, prince. I think I can prove her worthiness of death and my
worthiness of life to you." He gestured toward the room behind him. "If you will just look?" Draculea
went into his room, followed by the others. When he looked at Sinn questioningly, the young vampire
indicated his bed. Draculea went to it.
There was a tiny infant, swaddled in a cloth, sleeping on the bed. "I stopped in the kitchen and got
some warm milk for her. She was very hungry." He smiled. "The kitchen maids didn’t want to let her
go. I suspect that they think she is my bastard." When the others looked at him sharply, he shook his
head. "No, I’ve been careful of that. She’s just some nameless waif, a castoff I found in Tisane’s
cottage."
Sinn tossed a knife down on the bedside table. "I found this near her, and there was a cauldron on the
fire. Do you know what witches do with unbaptized babes, prince?" Draculea scowled. The spells that
called for the bones, fat, or flesh of an unbaptized baby were notorious.
Sinn was still speaking. "I burned the cottage before I left. Tisane kept plenty of oil, and the place
burned merrily. I could have left this mite there on the bed. Or I could have supped from her." Rill
made a horrified moan. "No, child, I didn’t harm the baby. I’ll admit I thought of it, but no. Prince
Draculea, to prove to you my willingness to submit to your will, I bring her to you. You decide what to
do with her."
Draculea went and sat in his desk chair, watching Sinn. Rill lay down on the bed, examining the baby
with rapt attention, and Simion sat beside him, watching his lover. Draculea said slowly, "You’ve been
trying to ingratiate yourself from the very beginning, haven’t you?"
Sinn shrugged. "I do not deny it, my lord. I admit that it was because I thought that perhaps I could be
an important man in your court rather than an insignificant one here. Now... Now I want to be with
you because I am your kind. I know only enough of this new life to know that I need to learn more. I
want a protector, Prince Draculea. In return I offer my loyalty and my service," he smiled seductively,
"in any manner that you choose."
Draculea rubbed his face, sighing. "I never intended to make more of my own kind. Rill, though I have
come to love him, was an accident. I made Rock only for Rill’s sake, and now you... You were made
through selfish ignorance. Still..." He sighed again. "you’re here. You restrained yourself from killing
an innocent, and Rill likes you. He’ll need someone else for company till his brother heals enough to
leave that trunk."
He stood. "I’ve had enough of the world for now. We’ll be leaving tomorrow night for Transylvania."
Sinn nodded. "I can be ready with no trouble. I’ll just leave a letter with Destoup to send to my father.
I’ll tell him I’ve been given a place in your court. He’ll be happy, as he’s been wanting me to take
some sort of position. Once he thinks I’m settled, I doubt that he’ll bother about me anymore."
"My lord?"
"Yes, Rill?"
"Can we keep her? She’s very sweet."
"Rill," Simion said gently. "She isn’t a kitten we can adopt. She needs to be with a family, a mama and
a papa."
Rill gave him a blank look. "I didn’t like it when I was with my mama and papa."
Simion hugged him. "They aren’t all like that, Rill. There are some good ones."
"I have a suggestion," said Sinn. "I have a groom named Rustan. His mother and father work in my
father’s house. I need to get rid of him, in any case, if I’m to go with you. I can send her home with
him."
"Will she be safe with them? Will they welcome her?" Rill asked.
"I believe so. I seem to recall that they are fond of children, and they are so respectable that it is almost
painful."
Draculea thought about this. "Yes. I’ll send a purse along to pay for her care for the next few years."
Simion tugged Rill up off the bed. "Come, Rill. The more you stay with that baby, the harder it will be
to say good-bye. Come help me pack. My lord," he addressed Draculea. "I will send word to this
Rustan that he must attend his master here." They left.
Draculea regarded Sinn silently for a moment. He reached out and touched the young vampire’s cool,
smooth cheek, looking into his bright, deep green eyes. He seemed to be talking to himself. "I never
wanted a bride. I was forced by state duties to take one. Then I met my true love. He was no spouse, he
was my mate, and I lost him. And now... now it seems that I have again, in a fashion, wed myself to
others. I have bound you three to me with ties of blood, but there is no true love. Our souls do not
touch. No, none of you are a mate--you are only brides."
end part 58
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 59: Chapter 59: Rebirth

Fandom: Dracula
Archive: Yes to lists it’s sent to, but I may ask for it’s removal at a future date if I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: The Dracula characters were created by Bram Stoker, but are now, I believe, in the public
domain.
Summary: More than four hundred years after his death, and thousands of miles from where he died,
Nicolae Calugarul (Nicu), Draculea’s tragic lover, is reborn as Englishman Jonathan Harker.
Warnings: This is a short chapter, but I didn’t want to lessen it by adding to it, if you can understand
that. It accomplishes what I set out to do.
Notes: Gemini--The Twins. May May 22 to June 21. Traditional Gemini traits--Adaptable and
versatile Communicative and witty Intellectual and eloquent Youthful and lively. Negative traits--
nervous and tense... inquisative. Dual-natured, elusive, and complex. The sign is linked with Mercury,
the planet of childhood and youth, and its subjects tend to have the graces and faults of the young.
When they are good, they are very attractive. They are affectionate, courteous, kind, generous, and
thoughtful towards the poor and suffering. Most Gemini have a keen, intuitive, sometimes brilliant
intelligence and they love cerebral challenges. Their mental agility and energy give them a voracious
appetite for knowledge from youth onward. And yes, I HAVE left most of the negative aspects out of
Nicolae. :) My creation, my priviledge.
Rating: Series, NC-17
Child of the Night, Part 59: Rebirth
June 3rd, The Year of Our Lord, 1875
London, England
"Almost there, love, almost there! Rest a bit, now."
Catherine, panting in a most distressingly unladylike manner, fell back against her pillows, groaning.
"Good God. And William wishes for us to have at least five children! I’m not having it, I tell you!
Never again. If I have to sleep with a pistol beside me, he’ll not do this to me again!"
Her mother gasped in distress, but the midwife, Mrs. Soffle, shrugged, smiling. "You’ll forget the pain
once you hold your baby, ma’am," she assured the sweating, panting young woman. "Why, you’ve
only been on for six hours now, and I’m sure the babe will come before another hour is out. You’ve
had it quite easy."
"How many babies have you had?" Catherine snapped.
"Six, young lady, so I know what I speak of."
"You DON’T! You don’t know how it feels for ME!" A fresh pain struck her, and she screamed. "Give
me laudanum, for the love of God!"
Mrs. Drebbin, Catherine’s mother, patted her hand, saying, "Cathy, we can’t! It wouldn’t be right.
Woman was cursed to bear her children in pain and sorrow, and..."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Souffle sternly. "The reason I will not give it to you is that the drug affects the
baby as well as the mother. There is no way to judge how much will be too much, and I’ll not risk it
because you’re feeling a bit of pain, girl."
Cathy felt her abdomen squeeze, muscles rippling in agony, and she shrieked, "I hate you! I hate him!
I hate the baby!"
"Cathy, no!" cried Mrs. Drebbin.
Down in the sitting room, William Harker looked up at the ceiling, frowning. What a fuss the woman
was making! Oh, he knew it must hurt a bit, but such hysterics were too much, even for a lady. He
might have expected it from some delicate, simpering Frenchwoman, but Cathy was of good, sturdy,
Saxon stock, damn it. He certainly hoped that his son didn’t take after his mother. He couldn’t stand
the idea of breeding a weakling.
An hour later Mrs. Drebbin came to the head of the stairs and called quietly. "Mr. Harker, come and
see your son."
"A boy," William said quietly. He nodded to himself in satisfaction as he went up the stairs. Of course,
a boy. He had no objections to girls--once he had two or three sons. He was so pleased that he decided
to allow Catherine at least a year of rest before she had the next one.
There was a disturbingly strong, ripe scent in the room. William was tempted to throw open the
windows, but it was still very early spring, and almost as cold and wet as it had been in autumn. It
wouldn’t be safe to expose an infant to the cold and damp--not till he was two or three at least.
Catherine, as pale as cheese, was propped up on her pillows. He noted her untidy hair and rumpled
gown, but decided to be tolerant this time, and didn’t mention it. The midwife stood beside her,
holding a tiny, cloth-wrapped bundle. She was trying to hand it to Catherine, but his wife was shaking
her head, refusing. Her voice was peevish, "No. I’ll feed him later, but I don’t WANT to hold him
now. I’m tired and I’m sore."
Mrs. Soffle saw the father enter the room and turned to him. "Sir, here is your son. Oh, and a fine,
healthy little boy he is! A bit small, but he’ll fatten right up, I’m sure." She offered the baby to
William Harker.
He put his hands behind his back and leaned forward, looking down at the baby. "Do they all look so
squashed and red?"
Mrs. Soffle stared at him. "Yes, they do. He’s a beautiful baby."
William stiffened and said coldly, "Not beautiful, madam! I refuse to have a beautiful son! He is...
handsome."
Mrs. Soffle looked down at the baby. He was small, yes, and he had the reddened skin and slightly
pinched look of all newborns, but he had a full head of black, silky hair. And his eyes, instead of the
indeterminate, murky blue natural to most babies, were a rich brown, so dark it was almost black. He
was quieter than most babies she’d delivered, regarding the world with solemn intensity. *Bless him.
It’s like there’s an old soul in that little body. I hope so. He’ll need all the inner resources he can
muster with these two for parents.*
William said stiffly, "Well, Mrs. Harker, you’ve done quite well. We’ll have the christening as soon as
you’re able to attend."
Mrs. Drebbin knew that she needed to do something to get the mother to bond, however shakily, with
her child. "I need to go wash my hands, ma’am." Before she could protest, the midwife thrust the baby
into Catherine’s arms and hurried away.
Catherine held the baby awkwardly, away from her body. They stared at each other. William was
speaking. "The Bellamys have agreed to be godparents. We’ll name him Jonathan for my father, and
Hugo for yours."
Catherine slowly pulled the baby closer. One tiny hand waved, then settled against her gown, fingers
spread. She touched it gently, marvelling at the perfection of the minute nails. "No, not Hugo."
William frowned. "But we’d agreed."
"I’ve changed my mind."
"You were perfectly happy with Hugo as a second name yesterday."
She shrugged, letting the baby’s fingers curve around one of her own. "It doesn’t suit him."
"For... He’s less than an hour old, woman! He hasn’t GOT a personality for his name to fit. And what,
exactly, would you suggest, if not Hugo?"
She didn’t hesitate. "Nicholas." She hadn’t really known what she was going to say till she spoke, but
once she’d said the name she knew it was right. She nodded. "Yes. He’s a Nicholas."
"Poppycock. I won’t have my son saddled with such a frivolous name."
"He’s my son, too, and I say his middle name is Nicholas. I’m letting you choose his given name, so
you can do this for me."
"I won’t have it. Hugo will do him very well."
Catherine held the baby a bit closer and looked up at her husband, her usually mild blue eyes
narrowing, her generous mouth thinning. William had never seen a bit of hardness or determination in
the quiet, mild girl he’d married. She’d always been the perfect wife, compliant with all his wishes.
Her voice was firm. "Nicholas."
"Catherine, don’t be ridiculous. I am your husband, and I say..."
"I can make your life miserable in a thousand ways, every day of our married life."
He stared at her in astonishment. "I don’t understand this." She shrugged. "What in God’s name has
made you change your mind so suddenly?"
"I don’t know. I held him, and looked at him, and just knew that he had to be called Nicholas."
William threw up his hands. "Fine--flaunt tradition! I don’t suppose it makes all that much difference,
since your father is deceased. I’ll leave you to your rest."
He almost bumped into Mrs. Soffle as he left. Mrs. Soffle smiled to herself as she noticed the young
mother cradling the baby. It still wasn’t the sweet doting that she usually saw, but it was an
improvement. "How is the laddie?"
Catherine stroked the downy head. "His hair is like satin." She touched one plump cheek. "He’s very
quiet."
"Yes, well, you must remember that there will be times when he’ll cry. It’s all that babies know."
"I don’t think he’ll cry much. He’s so solemn. What’s today, Mrs. Soffle? What’s his birthday?"
*Just like one of these sheltered middle-class ladies to not even know the day of the month. Ah, well, I
don’t suppose she can help it if she was raised to be near useless.* "It’s the third, ma’am. June third."
"June third. Let’s see, that makes him Aries... no. No, that makes him Gemini." She bounced the baby.
"He almost seems to understand, doesn’t he? You’re a Gemini, Nicu."
"What was that, ma’am?"
"Hm?" She was preoccupied, opening the blanket to check the child’s feet, to see if his toes were as
perfect as his fingers.
"That name you called him."
"Nicu."
"Yes. I’ve never heard that used as a pet name for Nicholas."
"You haven’t?" she said absently. "It just seems... right, somehow."
end part 59
Back to index
Chapter 60: Chapter 60: Early Years

Fandom: Dracula
Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Status: WIP
Archive: Lists it’s sent to. May ask to have it taken down if I get a publisher.
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters were created by Bram Stoker, but I believe they are now in the
public domain. Others are original, and all are copyrighted.
Websites:
Summary: Vignettes of Jonathan’s early life
Rating: NC-17
Child of the Night, Part 60: Early Years
The Year of Our Lord, 1874-1890
London, England
Early Years
1874
William frowned in distaste, handing his son back to his wife. "Lord, Catherine, WHEN will you have
that boy trained?" He regarded the damp patch on his pants leg angrily.
"Honestly, William," Catherine took Jonathan gingerly, holding him away from her body lest her own
clothes be stained. "The child can barely walk and he’s just beginning to communicate! I believe it
will take another month or two before he can be trained to use the chamber pot."
She carried the baby upstairs to their bedroom, murmuring, "Well, Nicu, he’ll be bothering with you
even less now. You know he only wants you when you’re clean, dry, fed, and quiet." She laid the baby
on the padded table, and cocked her head, studying him. "Did you do it on purpose, little one? I know
that I try to avoid his attention as much as possible."
Jonathan Nicholas Harker gazed back at his mother solemnly, and kicked his legs. She stripped off his
gown and removed his loose pants, then unfastened his diaper. "If you ever want to get out of
petticoats, you’ll have to learn to control your bodily functions, my lad."
She quickly cleaned him and changed his cloth, dropping the wet one into the covered tin bin that had
been a present from her mother. She sighed. "Really, Nicu." She regarded her hands, frowning. "I
doubt my hands will ever be smooth and pale again after scrubbing all your cloths." Jonathan cooed at
her, waving plump arms. Her lips twitched into an almost reluctant smile. "Well, you can’t help it, can
you?" She picked him up for a brief cuddle, and the baby burrowed against her happily, enjoying the
rare intimacy. "After all," she murmured, "It isn’t your fault that your father isn’t successful enough to
hire a decent staff."
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
1876
"A book, Catherine? Or should I say ANOTHER book? The boy is only three years old. He can’t read
yet. I should think that you would have gotten him a more sensible birthday present."
Catherine stared at William coldly. "As sensible as a cricket bat that is longer than he is tall? Yes, very
sensible, William. And it won’t be long before he can read. He’s already trying to copy out the
alphabet. He’ll be a scholar."
William rolled his eyes. "Don’t set your heart on that. It isn’t as if I can afford to send him to a
prestigious school, and what good are those musty bookworms, in any case?"
"You will be able to afford the school if you will only TRY. Push yourself a bit harder at work. We
can begin setting aside the money now."
He glared at his wife irritably, snapping, "I ought to just apprentice him to some respectable
tradesman."
Catherine stood bolt upright, her hands fisted at her side so tightly that her knuckles were white. "YOU
WILL NOT MAKE MY CHILD A COMMON LABORER!"
William was taken a bit aback. "Calm down. I was only joking. Of course, he won’t go into trade.
We’ll find some profession for him. Perhaps he’ll enter the army, or navy. I might be able to save up
enough to buy him a small commission."
"No! That would be even fouler than thinking of him sweating for his bread. My boy is not meant to
be a soldier."
"Damnation, Catherine! He’s only just learned to keep his sheets dry at night. How can you say what
he is and isn’t meant to be?"
She started for the door, and paused before she left. "I haven’t noticed that hindering you from
planning his future. Besides, I just KNOW. He isn’t a warrior."
**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~
1880
Catherine was up late because her stomach was troubling her. It HAD been troubling her for some
time. Lately she had been having pains, and had begun to take a little laudanum to ease it. She kept the
laudanum down in the kitchen, believing that she would be less likely to resort to it if it was not close
to hand.
Tonight, though, she would have walked barefoot in her shift through the public streets for a soothing
draft. In the kitchen, she took one of the plates out of the stove, took the poker, and stirred the embers
until the glow dimly lit the room. She mixed the dose, measuring the medicine carefully, drop by drop.
She dipped the dropper back into the little brown bottle, and hesitated, considering it. Perhaps just
another drop? The last dosage had only dulled the pain, rather than easing it. After a moment, she
quickly screwed the lid tight and put the bottle away on a high shelf, where she was sure it would be
out of Nicu’s reach.
Catherine drank the mixture and rinsed the glass, then leaned wearily against the counter, waiting for it
to take effect. Minutes ticked by, and the pain receded only a little. Finally, she took down the bottle
again and mixed up a very weak solution. Once she downed it, she felt a little relief.
Catherine made her way back upstairs, her movements languid. She didn’t really like the floating,
disconnected feeling that the drug gave her, but it was preferable to the alternative. On the upper floor,
she paused before the door to the room she shared with William. Then she went across the hall and
opened the door to the second bedroom.
It should have been dark, but the room was lit by silvery moonlight. The shade, which should have
been decently down, was raised. Jonathan was kneeling before the window, his little chin just high
enough to be propped on the sill, gazing out the open window at the night sky.
Catherine entered the room quietly, stopping just behind him. He didn’t move. He was so still and pale
as he knelt in the moonlight that he reminded her of one of those sad little statues that the sentimental
loved to put on the graves of children. If it were not for the darkness of his hair and eyes, Catherine
would have thought him carved of marble.
"Jonathan?" she said softly. There was no response. "Nicu?"
He blinked, and looked back over his shoulder. For a moment, his gaze was far away, then he smiled
at her. "Hullo, Mama."
She knelt beside him. "Son, what are you doing? You know very well that you should be in bed. And
what would your father say if he knew you’d opened the window after dark? You know he believes
that the night air is unhealthy."
He shrugged, looking a little ashamed. "I’m sorry, Mama. I thought I heard someone calling me."
She glanced out at the night sky. "Someone out there?"
He nodded. "But they were very, very far away." He frowned, looking distressed. "Oh, Mama, he’s so
very sad. He wants me to come to him."
She stroked his hair. "You were dreaming, dear. It’s utter nonsense, you know." Her words were gruff,
but her tone was kind. *Poor child. I do what I can, but he’s so lonely.*
Jonathan shook his head again. "No, Mama. You see, this isn’t the first time I’ve heard him."
"Yes?" The laudanum made her feel indulgent. "Who is this person?"
Now he looked confused. "I don’t know, but he says I belong to him."
Catherine felt a thrill of unease. "You know that can’t be so. You have no male relatives other than
your father."
Jonathan regarded her doubtfully, then turned to look out the window again. "He says ’I miss you.
You’ve been gone so long, my love. Come back to me, Nicu.’"
Catherine suddenly felt icy. No one ever called Jonathan Nicu, no one but her. William had insisted
that she never speak the pet name before others. She stood and slipped her hands under Jonathan’s
arms, pulling him to his feet. "Come away from there, child." She quickly closed the window, locking
it and pulling down the shade. She took hold of Jonathan’s shoulders and said slowly. "You are not to
do this again, do you understand?" He nodded, eyes wide. "I mean it, Jonathan. You must give me
your solemn promise that you will not open the window again at night." She glanced nervously at the
drawn shade as she urged him back into bed and tucked the covers around him. "There are dangerous
things in the dark."
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
1881
"I don’t want to, Father."
William bent to whisper in his son’s ear. "You will NOT disgrace me like this, Jonathan! It is your
duty." He shoved the sticky clod of earth into his son’s hand. "Go!"
Jonathan, his eyes swimming walked slowly to the raw, rectangular hole. Ropes snaked up to lay
coiled on the damp grass, two on each side. The gravediggers had used them to lower the coffin. When
they were ready to shovel the great pile of earth back into the grave, they would pull them out.
Jonathan forced himself to the rim of the grave and stood there a moment. Finally, he managed to
force himself to look down. The coffin wasn’t very large. He had heard the undertaker speaking to his
assistant, and he had said that they could almost have used a child’s casket, "But the poor lady was so
wasted away at the end."
Yes, she had been wasted. At the end, she had seemed to be nothing more than sticks, pale skin, and
huge, over-bright eyes. When he was tiny, he recalled, his mother had smelled of sandalwood. Before
she died, she had carried the sickly-sweet medicinal smell of laudanum, and the bright coppery tang of
blood.
He felt a sharp poke in his back, and he let go of the clod. It thumped hollowly on the casket’s lid,
rolling to fall into the shadows beside the box. Jonathan looked at his father beseechingly. William
Harker pulled the flower from his buttonhole and dropped it on the casket. When Jonathan didn’t
move, he snatched the boy’s carnation and threw it after his own, grabbed his hand, and jerked him
along toward the waiting carriage.
In the hansom he stared coldly at the huddled, sniffing boy. "For heaven’s sake, Jonathan, be a man!
Do you want your mother to look down from heaven and be ashamed of you?"
Jonathan shook his head, pulling out a tiny, clean handkerchief to wipe his nose. His voice low he said,
"No, Father. I want her here, with me."
William sighed in exasperation. "You’ll have to face reality, boy. The dead do not return--it’s just a
fact of life." He was silent for a moment. His voice grudging, he said, "She was a good enough
woman, but she was far too soft on you. You’re through being coddled. I’ve made arrangements for
you to board at the East Wyndham Anglican School. Usually they do not take pupils under the age of
ten, but they are willing to make an exception since I am an alumnus, and your mother is gone." He
nodded to himself. "They’ll put a bit of steel in your backbone."
"I’m going to live there?" Jonathan asked quietly.
"Of course you are. Aren’t you grateful? There are many poor boys who would do anything for such
an opportunity."
"Yes, sir. But I’m to live there all the time?"
William shifted. "I’ll be getting a housekeeper now that your mother is gone, and it will be difficult
enough to get one who is efficient and affordable without requiring her to take care of a small boy as
well. I suppose," he said reluctantly, "you can spend holidays at home, at least occasionally."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Jonathan looked out the window, watching as the buildings seemed to roll by. He wondered if he
would be allowed to leave his window open at night when he was at school.
**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
1882
"I’m sorry that I couldn’t have you home over Easter, Jonathan. I was invited to go to the country, and
Mrs. Llwellyn wanted to spend some time with her family."
"I understand." Jonathan dipped his spoon into his soup, being careful that it did not chink against the
dish. His father scowled terribly if he made any noise while he ate.
"I’ve arranged for you to spend your summer months with a vicar in a little parish just outside
London," William continued. "He’ll help you with your Latin and Greek. You’ll get food and board,
and all I have to do is look at the parish books each quarter." He looked down at his own soup,
avoiding his son’s large, dark eyes. The boy had no cause to look so... so... He wasn’t sure what it was
about the boy, but there was just something that wasn’t quite straightforward about him. He wasn’t
bluff and hearty, like an English boy should be. He only participated in sports at school because it was
required. His teachers told William that Jonathan would spend his entire day cooped up in the library,
if he was allowed. Maybe placing him with an elderly cleric wasn’t the best way to turn him into the
sort of son he wanted.
**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~
1885
William studied the slender boy standing on the hearth before him. He resisted the urge to shake his
head. Jonathan was far too slender and pale. "Have you given any thought to what you wish to do with
your life, Jonathan?"
"Yes, sir."
That surprised William. The boy had never expressed a strong opinion on anything that he could
recall. It never occurred to him that he spent very little time with his son, and when he did, the boy was
encouraged to be quiet, so there was little chance for him to express himself. "Good. A man needs to
know where he’s going in life, so he has some purpose. What profession have you chosen?"
"I want to join the church."
"WHAT?!" William tried to collect himself. A gentleman did not make outbursts, no matter how
startled or irritated he was."
Jonathan was nodding. "Yes. I want to be a minister. I could teach, or help the poor."
"My Lord, I haven’t heard anything so ridiculous since your mother insisted on naming you Nicholas!
Don’t be foolish, boy. You know very well that I haven’t the money or influence to get you a good
parish assignment, and without that... Jonathan, do you want to spend your life dispensing pap to
country bumpkins, or risking your very life bringing blankets and the gospel to urban scum?"
"I want to help others."
"You must first help yourself! No, it’s quite out of the question. We’ll see where your talents lie this
next year, and that will direct your study. If you’re strongest in mathematics, you can be an
accountant. If you do well in languages, I might be able to get you a place as an aide to a gentleman, or
perhaps even a low level post in the diplomatic corps. If you can grasp history and economics, the law
might do."
"If I can’t be a minister, can’t I be a librarian, or a teacher?"
William stood up. "No. Unless you become a don at one of the better colleges, there’s no future in
teaching." The boy looked so sad that he found himself saying gruffly, "If you become a secretary to a
lord, you may be given charge of his estate library. Some of them are quite impressive."
The boy smiled, his thin, pale face lighting, and William’s faint sense of guilt disappeared. There was
no way that he’d allow the boy to mire himself in such a common profession, but if it made him happy
to believe there was a chance...
**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
1888
There was an arrangement between the Bridger School for Young Ladies and the East Wyndham
Anglican School. Since it was popularly accepted that all young gentlemen and ladies must have a
degree of social grace, there were parties and dances several times a year for the older students.
Attendance was mandatory.
Mina Murray, one of Bridger’s brightest, if not richest, students, called to her friend excitedly. "Lucy?
Oh, Lucy, DO stop primping! You look perfect, as you well know. Come and help me. This dress is
beautiful, but when WILL Mama learn that I do not have a maid to help me do up buttons in back?"
Lucy, a vivacious, pretty blonde, had all the wealth and social standing that Mina lacked, but still she
had chosen the other girl as a friend. She stood behind Mina, deftly fitting the tiny buttons into their
slots. "I don’t know why you are so excited, Mina. After all, it will only be the boys from the
Whyndam School. There are absolutely NO peers among their students--nothing but tradesmen’s
sons."
"Lucy, really! I know very well that you are not so unkind."
"Perhaps not. There’s nothing wrong with them, of course, but I intend to marry someone quite
distinguished and wealthy, so it’s really just a waste of my time." She giggled, squeezing her friend’s
shoulder. "Except that some of the lower class boys can be quite entertaining. They try to impress me
so hard, bless them."
"You’re quite heartless. How does my hair look? Should I use the comb that my mother gave me for
my birthday?"
"I’ve never seen you take such trouble before, Mina." Her friend laughed. "Are you trying to catch the
eye of anyone in particular?" Mina blushed. "There IS!" Mina sat on the bed, biting her lip. "Oh, Mina,
tell, tell!"
"You weren’t at the Christmas party, Lucy. It was his first time to come to one of the gatherings. He’s
so different from the other boys. He’s quiet, and thoughtful. He lost his mother when he was young,
and I think that has made him a bit shy of women, but I managed to get him to talk to me."
"Is he very handsome?" Lucy sat beside her, playfully looping her arms around Mina’s waist. "Is he
dashing? Does he make your heart thunder and your thighs tremble?"
"LUCY!" Mina gasped, her cheeks reddening even as she giggled. "Oh, you are WICKED! He’s...
he’s beautiful. His hair is as black as pitch, and it looks as soft as your sable cape. Oh, and Lucy, he
has the most enormous dark brown eyes. And they tilt at the corners, like doe’s eyes."
"Mm, he sounds exotic. Is he a Turk, or Russian?"
"Don’t be silly. You know very well that the Whyndam School wouldn’t take a foreigner. No, he’s of
good, old English stock--perfectly respectable." She leaned her head toward Lucy confidingly. "I
listened to the others talk. He’s one of their best students--an absolute whiz at languages. I overheard
his Economics teacher speaking to our French mistress, and he said that a law office has already taken
an interest in him. If he continues to do well, they’ll offer him a position when he graduates! Think of
it, Lucy. He’s only fifteen, and already his feet are set on the path to a good career."
Lucy laughed. "And you tease me about being ambitious in my matrimonial ambitions! You’ve set
your cap for him already, haven’t you?"
"I’ve spoken to him, and he’s very sweet. He’s handsome, intelligent, respectable, and he has excellent
prospects. I think he’d do very nicely."
"Oh, yes, very nicely indeed. Is it love, then?"
The dark haired girl shrugged. "I suppose it could be."
"And what is the name of this paragon?"
Mina smiled. "Jonathan Harker."
**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~
1890
William Harker’s superior had a son who went to school with Jonathan. Though he hated the idea of
the expense, William had decided that it would be good business sense to have a birthday party for the
boy, and invite Jonathan’s schoolmates, and a few girls from local families. If the parents brought the
young people around, they might be persuaded to stay for tea and conversation, and THAT would be
an excellent opportunity to make business and social contacts. Besides, Jonathan had mentioned a
girl--Wilhemina Murray.
Harker knew the Murrays. They were about on the same financial and social level as the Harkers--very
respectable. He’d glimpsed the girl, and she was presentable enough. She’d make an adequate wife for
Jonathan, he supposed, and it would be best to get the boy settled down early in life. He made sure that
Mina Murray was invited to the party.
A half dozen boys and girls, carefully chosen by William, had been invited, and all of them had
accepted. Since Jonathan was approaching adulthood, William arranged an informal dinner party, and
there were to be party games after. He knew that it would have been more fashionable to have dancing,
but he had not room large enough, and he would have had to hire muscicians.
None of the parents had time to linger. They simply delivered their children, made polite noises to
William, and went on to affairs of their own, promising to send carriages before midnight. The young
people were obviously pleased with themselves. Not many of them were yet allowed to attend parties
alone, and this was considered a treat. Disgruntled that his plans had fallen through, William turned
the party over to Mrs. Llewelyn and went out to his club.
The dinner went well. Jonathan, as the birthday boy, was seated at the head of the table. Mina sat on
one hand, and Lucy Westrenra sat on the other. While Jonathan knew that a gentleman paid attention
to both of his dinner partners, he had been hoping to spend most of his time talking to Mina. He wasn’t
allowed. Lucy had decided to charm him.
By dessert, Mina was almost fuming. *The poor thing seems bewildered by Lucy’s attention. How
dare she flirt with Jonathan? She knows very well that I like him.*
Mrs. Llewelyn came to the table when the guests were idly picking at the nuts and bon bons. "Can I
speak to you, Master Jonathan?"
"Certainly." He got up and followed her back into the hall.
Once away from the guests her deferential manner faded. "Look, you. I’ve only one girl to help me
clean-up after this lot, and I don’t want to be up till dawn, so I can’t be hanging about in the parlor
acting as chaperone. You’ll be on your own."
Jonathan said, "But Mrs. Llewelyn, it isn’t proper for young men and women to be unchaperoned."
She waved her hand. "Boy, this is the modern world. It’s only for an hour or so." She smirked. "So
long as you stay out of the bedrooms there should be no problem. Just tell your friends not to mention
it to their families. I’m sure they won’t mind. They’ll be happy to be putting something over." She
bustled away to begin her clean up.
Jonathan went back to the table. He stood uneasily at the head of the table, waiting for the group to
quiet down. They payed him no mind. Finally Lucy took pity. She rapped her spoon against her glass,
scolding, "Stop talking, you inconsiderate things! Our host has an announcement to make." She turned
a bright smile on Jonathan. "There you are."
He blushed as all eyes turned to him, and said awkwardly, "Mrs. Llewelyn cannot chaperone us
tonight..." He was startled by the whoop of several of the other boys. "Ladies, if you wish to go home,
there is usually a man waiting at the corner to take messages. We can send for a carriage, and..."
"Nonsense!" cried Lucy gaily. She stood up and went to Jonathan. Much to his shock and the
amusement of all but one of the guests, she pressed a kiss on his cheek. Mina’s hand twisted in her
napkin as Lucy burbled, "What a clever thing you are, arranging for us to have a little time away from
the adults and their prying eyes."
No one was interested in leaving early. There was nothing to do but lead them into the parlor. It really
wasn’t so scandalous, Jonathan thought. The only real difference from when they were chaperoned
was that the boys and girls sat a little closer, talked a little more boldly.
They played Packing My Trunk, and there was much laughter over some of the eccentric choices,
Mina arguing spiritedly with one of the boys that he most certainly could NOT pack a hound for the
letter H because the poor beast would suffocate.
That game was perfectly respectable. Jonathan was a bit more leery of Gossip, since it involved the
participants putting their lips against the next player’s ear to whisper the chosen sentence, passing it
along.
Then one of the boys, Jamey Roswell, disappeared for a few moments. He returned bearing aloft a
bottle. "I KNEW I saw this on the sideboard! And before you faint, Harker, it’s only tonic water, and
it’s near empty. Now we can play Spin the Bottle!"
Jonathan protested. "No, really! If my father found out I allowed that..."
"What?" Jamey was clearing some knicknacks from a small table near the center of the room. "Would
he beat you?"
"He hasn’t struck me before," Jonathan said thoughtfully, "but something like this... It would cause a
scandal, and he hates scandal."
"Well, if anything is said, tell him it was my idea," said the boy cheerfully. He was a gregarious
blonde boy, the class clown. Jonathan had been a little surprised that he’d accepted the invitation. He
was one of the most popular boys in school, and he seldom had time for the quiet scholars, like
Jonathan. "Now, gather round, my lords and ladies."
"What are the rules?" asked Mina.
Several of the guests laughed. "Now, now!" said Jamey sternly. "You mustn’t tease the innocents. It’s
very simple, Miss Murray. One person spins the bottle, then they must kiss the person that it points
to."
One of the other girls gave a small, dramatic shriek. "Oh, I COULDN’T! Kiss a boy, in front of all
these people?"
"It might not be a boy," said Jamey. When there were shocked titters he said calmly, "I’m quite
serious. It makes no matter if the bottle points to a man or a woman, you must kiss the chosen. But if it
is difficult for you, we’ll say that the couple will step out into the hall for a bit of privacy. Agreed?"
Everyone agreed. Jamey spun the bottle and led a tiny, blushing blonde girl out into the hall. They
returned a moment later, the girl giggling, and Jamey licking his lips in a showy manner that sent
everyone into gales of laughter. When Lucy spun the bottle, it pointed to Mina. Mina frowned. "Oh,
what utter nonsense!"
Lucy took her hand, tugging her toward the hall. "Come, Mina, don’t be a stick. It isn’t as if we
haven’t kissed before, you know."
When the others laughed Mina protested, "But we’re friends! There’s nothing wrong with girl friends
kissing. It’s a sign of our affection for each other."
"I quite agree," drawled Jamey. His eyebrows wiggled. "I have absolutely no objection to seeing girls
kiss." Some of the older boys snickered knowingly. Jonathan felt as bewildered as the other girls
looked as Lucy tugged Mina out of the room.
They were gone for several moments. Some of the guests started giggling. Jamey leaned close to
Jonathan and whispered, "Whatever do you suppose they are up to out there?" He squeezed Jonathan’s
arm. "Should I go look? I can tell you what I see." He stared at Jamey, uncomprehending, and the two
girls returned. Lucy looked smug, and Mina was flushed. Her hair had been impeccably groomed, but
now she was smoothing errant strands back in place.
There were another two turns, and then it was Jonathan’s turn. He put his hands behind his back. "No,
I shouldn’t."
"Oh, come on, Harker!" said Jamey. "You HAVE to. You’re the HOST, you HAVE to amuse us." The
others urged him on. Before he could lose his courage, Jonathan grabbed the bottle and gave it a quick
spin.
It twirled, the glass flashing in the gaslight. It slowed, and slowed, and finally came to a stop. The girls
shrieked, clapping their hands. It was pointing directly at Jamey Roswell.
"Oh, my!" said Jamey mildly. "Dear, dear, dear." He walked to Jonathan, a slow smile curving his lips.
"Well, host of mine, we can’t very well back down after insisting that the ladies go through with it, can
we?"
"I... I think I’m a little old for this," Jonathan said stiffly.
"Too late to back out now." Jamey took Jonathan’s arm and started to march him toward the door. He
lowered his voice and whispered, "Chin up, old lad. It won’t be so bad, and if you cry off now, the
other boys will never stop teasing you about it." He pushed Jonathan ahead of him into the hall,
peeked back into the parlor, saying archly, "No fair peeking," and shut the door.
Mrs. Llewelyn must have turned down the gas in the hall. The jets showed only tiny blue points of
flame, and the hallway was dim. Jonathan said, "Jamey, this is silly. We can just wait a moment, then
go back in, and they’ll never know the difference. You don’t have to kiss me."
"Mm, I suppose I don’t. But the thing is, Harker," he took Jonathan’s other arm and backed him up
against the wall, "I WANT to kiss you."
Jonathan was dumbfounded, then smiled weakly. "Oh. You’re such a joker, Jamey."
"Yes, I am. But not now." Though he was still smiling, his blue eyes were serious. He reached up,
stroking Jonathan’s hair, then sinking his fingers into the soft mass and gripping. "I’ve wanted to kiss
you for some time now. I’m leaving school at the end of this term, so I think I’d better go ahead and
make the most of this chance." He started to bend toward Jonathan.
"Jamey, don’t..." The other boy’s lips came down on his, pressing firmly. Jonathan’s eyes snapped
shut at the touch, and his whole body stiffened. He waited for Jamey to pull back, but he didn’t.
Jamey’s mouth moved on his, lips nibbling gently. Jonathan felt the other boy press against him, his
body warm and hard against Jonathan’s own. Jamey bit his bottom lip gently, then sucked it.
Jonathan had never kissed anyone, aside from the childish pecks he’d given his mother each night.
This was blindingly different, and he found to his near horror that his body was responding. He felt a
wave of heat wash over him, seeming to pool in his groin.
Jonathan gasped, and Jamey quickly took advantage, licking eagerly into the younger boy’s mouth.
Now Jonathan moaned at the hot, wet invasion. His knees went weak, and it was a good thing that
Jamey was pressing him against the wall, or he would have slid to the floor.
Jamey muttered against his mouth. "Yes, I knew you’d be sweet." He humped against Jonathan, and
the other boy moaned again, feeling a firm prod at his thigh. "Oh, damn. I wish we had more time.
Why didn’t I suggest Seven Minutes? I could have dragged you into a closet then, and had my way
with you." He humped again. "I can do it that quickly, sweetheart." He chuckled darkly. "Of course,
it’s better when I do it slow."
There was a knock at the parlor door. They heard Lucy call, "What’s keeping you two?" There was
laughter in her voice. "Have you decided to set up housekeeping together?"
Jamey moved against Jonathan once more, then again, his hands tight on the other boy’s arms.
Jonathan whispered, "Jamey, please."
Jamey sighed. He didn’t release Jonathan, but he took a step back. He studied his blushing host
shrewdly. "You’re still a virgin, aren’t you?" When Jonathan’s blush deepened, he shook his head
regretfully. "Oh, if I’d only thought of this while we were boarding on the same floor." He released
Jonathan’s arms and patted his cheek. "They’re sending me to the Continent. Perhaps when I come
back we can see each other, eh?"
Jonathan looked down, murmuring, "I don’t know."
Smiling wickedly, Jamey pressed his hand quickly to Jonathan’s crotch, molding his hand over the
warm firmness he found there. His voice was soft. "You know, Harker. You know." He opened the
parlor door and went inside, lifting his voice. "Oh, I’m a wicked, wicked man! But I swear, getting a
quick peck from him was like trying to wrest the virtue from a cloistered nun." There were horrified
screams of laughter.
Jonathan leaned weakly against the wall, staring blankly at the carpet as some of the heat drained from
his cheeks. His thoughts were a swirling muddle, only barely coherant. *That wasn’t right. He’s not
the right one. I don’t belong to him.*
end part 60
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 61: 61: Entering The World

Fandom: Dracula
Pairing
Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com
Sequel/Series:
Archive: Lists I send it to, but I may ask to remove it if I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: Major recognizable characters were originally created by Bram Stoker (now, I believe, in
the public domain). Others are the author’s original creation. No profit was made from this.
Summary: Jonathan has finished his formal schooling, and is about to enter the ’real world’.
Terms: Solicitor - This is the British word for an attorney. Barrister - An attorney that would represent
you in lower court, and handle civil legalities.
Notes: The events from here on take place four years earlier than specified in the Coppola movie. Oh,
well. :) I have started an alternate storyline involving the character Jamey Roswell, who was
introduced in part 60. It is called Not the One, if you wish to read it. It does not affect this story at all,
and should be completely ignored as to character development and plot. In other words, in this world,
it doesn’t happen.
More notes: Jonathan carries a parcel of food because paper bags were possible, but not common.
They had to be pasted together by hand, and were by no means a secure way of carrying things.
Part 61: Entering The World
London, England
Entering the World
"Well, Jonathan, you did quite well." William Harker’s voice was dry, almost grudging. "I’d have been
happier if you’d taken more interest in the manlier activities at school. It would have been nice to have
a few athletic ribbons or trophies to put up beside my own."
Jonathan didn’t reply--no reply was needed. His father had always been a great believer in the theory
that children should be seen and not heard. He continued to eat, being careful not to clatter his utensils
or drop a crumb.
"Yes, I suppose physical achievements wouldn’t be that much of an advantage in your chosen
profession." William sounded as if he didn’t really believe that, but was willing to try to convice
himself.
*He says that with no irony whatsoever,* Jonathan thought. *As if I actually chose the law.*
"I had told you that there was no place for you in my firm, since they don’t care to take on any but the
most promising young men as clerks, one’s they feel sure have the potential to become barristers.
Well, I have good news for you. Due to my long standing service, they have consented to give you a
position." Jonathan’s hand tightened on his fork, and he paled slightly. As usual, his father didn’t
notice. "You can start Monday. Normally they’d pay three pounds a week, but since they are doing
this as favor to me they will start you at two. I’ll only require two shillings a week for your keep. If
you work hard you’ll most likely have a bit of a raise in a year, and if you’re frugal," he looked at
Jonathan sternly, "as I expect you to be, you’ll be able to begin saving." He sat back, obviously
waiting for Jonathan to express his pleasure and gratitude.
Jonathan took a sip of water. "It might have been better if you’d spoken to me before accepting on my
behalf, Father."
William blinked. "What do you mean--better?"
"I’m afraid it may be a bit embarrassing for you to tell them that I won’t be accepting their generous
offer." If anyone else in the world had spoken that same words they would have been sarcastic.
Jonathan just sounded a touch apologetic.
"Won’t be...? What do you mean, ’won’t be accepting’? Surely you don’t expect to just laze about and
let me support you? I won’t have it, boy!"
"No, sir. You needn’t worry about that. I already have another place. I’ll be starting as a junior clerk in
the office of Hawkins and Thompkins next week. They have offered me four pounds a week."
William opened his mouth, then closed it slowly. It was a better salary than he’d had the first two
years of his own employment. As much as he’d emphasized becoming financially responsible,
William couldn’t complain about Jonathan’s job choice without looking foolish. That made him even
more angry.
"Congratulations," he said coldly. "They are quite a reputable firm." He cleared his throat. "Since you
will be earning more, it’s only fitting that you contribute more to the household. Four shillings a week
should be sufficient, for now at least."
Jonathan wiped his lips neatly, then folded his napkin. "I couldn’t continue to be a burden to you, sir,
now that I can become self-supporting. I have located a house near my future place of business--
owned by a pleasant couple named Hallifax. They have offered me nice room, with linen once a week
and two meals a day for two shillings a week," he smiled, "and Mrs. Hallifax offered to pack me a
lunch for only a few pence a day, if I choose."
William sat back, feeling a bit stunned. He had expected to have Jonathan under his close control for
several more years--at least until he married, and quite probably afterward. Many young couples lived
with their parents when they began life together. William had spend the last nineteen years seeing that
his son was not underfoot, dealing with him only enough to assuage any feelings of guilt about
neglect. Now Jonathan was removing himself from William’s sphere of influence, and instead of
feeling relieved, William found that he resented it. How dare the boy take control of his own life
before William was ready to relinquish it?
"Very well," he said coldly. "But I warn you, Jonathan, not to expect to come creeping back here when
you find that the world is a cold, hard place."
He was startled when the boy stood up abruptly, his chair scraping on the floor. There were spots of
color high on Jonathan’s cheeks, and his wide mouth was uncharacteristically pinched. His voice low,
he said, "Sir, I did not need to leave this house to find out what a hard, cold place the world can be."
He gave a stiff little bow and left the room. His father, for once in his life, was stunned speechless.
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
"Here you are, sir." Mrs. Hallifax ushered her new boarder into the room. "I AM sorry about the trunk,
but Mr. Hallifax simply isn’t up to heavy lifting, and our maid is a wispy little thing. Oh, she’s energy
enough for two, but she simply doesn’t have the brute strength to..."
"Please, Mrs. Hallifax, it’s no trouble. I’m sure the trunk will be fine in the storage closet, and it would
have been underfoot up here. It won’t take me long to carry my things up," Jonathan assured the
landlady. He set his case on the bed and looked around at the small, neat room. His voice held
satisfaction. "This is lovely. It’s very nice of you to give me a room that looks out on the garden."
"Of course. You’re a nice young man, and we want you to be happy here." She watched as the young
man opened the window, sniffing appreciatively at the cool, scented breeze that wafted in. He’d had
excellent references from his headmaster and the vicar with whom he’d been rooming, and she had
heard of the firm for which he’d be working. It would be nice to have a young man in the house,
especially such a steady, polite one. "I’m just afraid that you won’t be with us for long." When he gave
her a questioning look, she smiled. "Your age, you know. You’ll be finding yourself a girl and
marrying soon, then you’ll want a place of your own." She saw a faint blush rising in his cheeks, and
thought, *Ah! There’s already someone. Too bad. I think he’ll make a good boarder--it will be a
shame to lose him.*
It had been arranged that Jonathan was to take breakfast and dinner with his landlords. By the time
dinner was over he’d so charmed them with his genuine respect and attention that he’d been invited to
take tea on the afternoons he was at home, and Mrs. Hallifax had decided that there really was no need
to charge him extra if he cared to bring a bit of lunch with him each day.
The next morning he breakfasted well and was sent off with his new job with a parcel of cold chicken,
bread, cheese, and pickles. The Hawkins and Thompkins offices were only a dozen blocks away, and
Jonathan rather enjoyed the walk through the brisk morning air. The streets were bustling with vendors
making their morning rounds, servants on errands, and men hurrying off to their jobs.
Hawkins and Thompkins were located in a substantial three story building, with the partners located
on the ground floor, the law library on the first, and the clerks’ offices on the second. The front room
had several chairs and settees, and a desk. A young man, a few years older than Jonathan, was seated
there, using a typewriting machine with near frightening efficiency. He looked up as Jonathan entered,
his expression neutral, but courteous. "Yes?"
Jonathan took off his hat. "My name is Harker. I’m to report to Mr. Thompkins."
"Oh." The neutrality shifted to subtle, but definite, hostility. The man’s voice was cool. "You’re the
new clerk, then." He stood up. "Mr. Thompkins is out. He told me to take you to your place, and
Renfield should be able to get you started." He went to the door and pulled a key, one attached to a
chain that draped his belly, from his pocket. When he noticed Jonathan’s look he said, a bit snappishly,
"I can’t very well leave the door unlocked while I’m away from my desk, can I?" He gave Jonathan a
disdainful look as he led him back toward the stairs. "There’s no telling what might wander in off the
street."
They trudged up the stairs, Jonathan thinking that he wouldn’t have to worry about getting exercise
while he worked here. There were four doors on the upper hallway--two on each side, and the clerk led
him to one in the front right corner. He didn’t bother to knock, but just pushed the door open and
looked in. "Renfield, you get the new boy--Harker."
Jonathan heard a slightly peevish voice from inside, "Corliss, can’t you give him something to do?"
"Don’t try to fob him off on me. You knew very well you were getting a trainee when they put that
second desk in."
"Yes, and just about pushed me through the wall with it. There’s scarcely room to breathe in here
now."
"Complaints, complaints, complaints. At least YOU’RE a clerk now. I’M still stuck as a secretary."
Jonathan’s spirits were sinking as he listened to the snappish conversation. He’d been so looking
forward to this job, hoping that his efforts would finally be appreciated. Now it seemed that no one
here really wanted him.
"I’m far too busy to be babysitting right now," the unseen Renfield said.
"Don’t try to push him off on me, Renny! I have my own work to do. Just give him some drudge work
till you’re ready to show him the ropes."
"Oh, all right! Send him in."
The secretary, apparently named Corliss, sourly jerked his head toward the door. "That’s your place.
Do whatever he tells you to." Without waiting for a response he went back downstairs.
Jonathan hesitated out in the hall, reluctant now to enter the office where he so obviously was not
wanted. An impatient voice called, "Well, don’t lounge about in the hall all day! Come in."
Jonathan stepped into the room. It was indeed small, not quite as large as his room with the Hallifaxes,
and it was crowded. There were two battered desks crammed into the room. The empty desk was along
the back wall, and the other was along the right wall, both facing into the room. With the book case
and filing cabinet there was barely room to ease around each desk to reach the seats.
The right hand desk was occupied by a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. He had light brown
hair and a pale face, which was at the moment pinched with irritation. He didn’t look up as Jonathan
entered, continuing to make notes as he glanced at a sheet of paper covered with figures. His jacket
hung on a wall hook nearby, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, though his collar was still
tightly buttoned.
Jonathan waited patiently. Finally the man, not looking up, said, "Harker, is it?"
"Yes, sir. Jonathan Harker." The other man looked up, and Jonathan smiled at him hopefully.
~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**
"Jonathan Harker."
The voice was soft, but not the nervous tremble Renfield would have expected from a schoolboy fresh
to his first job. Renfield looked up and suddenly found his gaze captured by dark, liquid eyes--eyes
that seemed to tilt just a bit at the corners. After a moment he realized he was staring, never a good
idea, and blinked quickly. He noticed other features--the heavy, dark hair, the almost smooth cheeks...
*He can’t have been shaving for more than a few months. Good God, they’ve hired a boy.*
He stood up and offered his hand. "I’m sorry--I didn’t intend to ignore you. I’m R.M. Renfield." They
shook hands, and the young man’s grip was smooth, but firm. Renfield took in Harker’s long, slender
body, realizing that Jonathan was a half-head taller than he. No, that wasn’t a boy’s body.
The smile was genuine, and relieved. "I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I’m sorry to interrupt your work. If
you’ll just set me a task, I’ll try not to bother you."
"You’re not a bother, young man. I suppose I must have sounded terribly rude when I was speaking to
Corliss." Jonathan shrugged, a little sheepishly. "Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. There never seems to
be enough hours in the day to get the work done, and I’m afraid that occasionally I’m not the most
pleasant of people. Just let me make a few more notations and I can take a little time to show you
about the building and explain how things work."
"Thank you, sir."
Renfield indicated the empty desk. "That will be yours. Why not get acquainted with it?"
Jonathan went and sat behind the desk. Renfield went back to his work, but found his mind only half
on the task at hand. His attention was drawn continually to the other desk as Harker explored it,
openeing each drawer, familiarizing himself with the pencils, pens, blotter, ink well. Finally he opened
the bottom drawer and placed the brown paper parcel he’d been carrying in it, closing it and sitting
back with a look contented look. It was the look of someone who was marking a place as their own.
When he’d found that he was to share his office, Renfield had resented it mightily. He found that
resentment seeping away.
He finally finished the work and put it away. "Now, then, come along and I’ll introduce you to the
other drudges." He introduced Harker to the two other clerks who worked on the top floor--Burrows
and Danvers. Both greeted the new employee with guarded politeness. The staff of Hawkins and
Thompkins was not particularly close, and the clerks tended to view each other with suspicion, as
rivals for an eventual partnership. The partners liked to set them against each other in competition to
see who could do the most work, make the greatest profit for the company, holding advancement over
their heads like the carrot used to tempt a donkey to greater efforts.
When they left the last room, Jonathan said quietly, "Mister Renfield, may I ask you something?"
"Certainly. How can you learn if you don’t ask?"
"It’s not about the law, it’s just..." he hesitated. "Is there any reason why Corliss should be mad at me?
I only just met him."
Renfield snorted. "That’s his usual demeanor, unless he thinks you can do him either good or harm,
and yes, there’s a reason." He smiled, not very nicely. "He’s been here two years, and he believes that
he should have been advanced into your position."
"Oh, no!" Jonathan looked distressed.
Renfield shook his head. "No, Harker. If it wasn’t you it would have been someone else. They’re never
going to promote him to clerk-- he just doesn’t have the stuff. He’s good at following directions,
typing reports, and keeping things tidy, but he hasn’t the brains or the talent to make a success in law."
"Talent?"
"A successful solicitor has to have some skills in dealing with people, Harker. Corliss can’t seem to
speak to anyone without fawning, stuttering, or being vaguely offensive."
He showed Jonathan the miniscule washroom (really a great concession for this day and age), then the
law library on the first floor. He watched Harker’s face light up as he prowled through the rooms,
running long, elegant fingers respectfully over the leather bindings. *He looks at home here--like he
belongs among books.*
Jonathan noted his look and smiled. "I would have liked to be a librarian, but my father would never
have allowed it. I notice that they have a great many books besides law volumes. May we read them?*
Renfield was a little taken aback. "I suppose so. I’d almost forgotten that Thompkins stores part of his
library here. You’ll have to be careful, though. Anything damaged will have to be replaced."
"Of course, but I’ll take good care of them." Jonathan had taken one, a book of poetry from the looks
of it, and was gently turning the pages. He looked up at Renfield with shining eyes. "I’m careful of
nice things."
Renfield found his mouth going dry, and his voice was a little hoarse when he replied, "Yes. Yes, I can
see that."
end part 61
Back to index
Chapter 62: Chapter 62: Fascination

Archive: List archives I sent it to. I may ask to have it removed if I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters were originally created by Bram Stoker. I derive no profit from
this work.
Notes: bubble-and-squeak: mashed potatoes and cold greens (cabbage, mustard greens, etc.), mixed
together and fried. The name supposedly comes from the sound it makes cooking.
Rating: NC-17
Part 62: Fascination
London, England
The room was quiet, very quiet. Renfield was used to silence when he worked, aside from the muffled
tapping of typewriter keys from the ground floor, but now there was something else. There was the
quiet scratch of another pen, the occasional rustle of paper, and, if he was still and listened very
carefully, quiet breathing. But what he waited for was...
There was a quiet hum, the soft noise lifting slightly at the end, as if in question. Renfield continued
writing, but he was waiting. There was another rustle of paper, then a sigh. He carefully kept his eyes
on his papers, but he was aware... Oh, yes, he was aware.
Just at the corner of his vision there was a slight movement that told him that Jonathan had lifted his
head, and was looking at him. *Now he’ll pause, because he doesn’t want to disturb me. He’ll look at
the problem again, trying to decide if he can’t solve it himself. Ah, he’s scratching his head. This must
be a poser. And he’s frowning. Oh, so serious.*
Finally there was the muted scrape of a chair being pushed back and soft steps. Then Jonathan was at
his elbow, saying, "Excuse me, Mister Renfield?"
Renfield purposefully finished writing a line, then put down his pen and looked up at Jonathan. "Yes,
Harker?"
"I hate to bother you, but I’m having a little problem with the tax tables. I’m supposed to estimate the
rates for some Staffordshire properties, and there seem to be two different listings."
He held out his hand. "Let me see." He took the paper and scanned it. "Here’s your problem. Look
here." Jonathan could have seen it easily enough, but now he bent closer. Renfield could feel the
younger man’s breath against his cheek. He fought the urge to close his eyes and bask in the warmth,
and pointed to the paper. "This only applies to properties that are owned by private individuals, this
applies to jointly-owned properties, and THIS refers to corporate properties. You see?" He turned his
head to look at Jonathan.
Jonathan’s eyes lit up in understanding. "Oh, yes! Thank you, Mister Renfield."
Renfield allowed himself a small, tight smile. "We’ve been working together for over three months. I
believe you can call me Robert when we’re in private."
The boy’s pleasure was unfeigned. "Thank you! Please, call me Jonathan, also." Renfield nodded, and
Jonathan went back to his own desk, studying the paper.
Renfield watched as he sat, then turned his attention back to his own work. *Another step closer.
Another small intimacy. God, why do I do this to myself?*
He should have known, should have known from the moment that he looked up into those dark, tilted
eyes. *Why didn’t I ask Danvers to take him on? I could have claimed that I had too much to do. I
know that Danvers has charge of fewer accounts than I do, it would have been plausible.*
Renfield shook his head minutely, knowing himself a little better than that. He never would have
turned Jonathan over to another supervisor; it was foolish to think that he might have. Especially not
Danvers--the man was cold and snappish with anyone he saw as a subordinate. He wouldn’t have
wanted to leave Jonathan to Danvers’ tender mercies.
Jonathan noticed Renfield shaking his head, and felt his stomach drop. *Oh, no--I’ve annoyed him. I
should have been able to figure that out by myself. He must think I’m a terrible dolt. He’s so patient
with me, and I keep bothering him.*
They worked in silence for another hour, then Renfield began to gather his papers. "Luncheon,
Jonathan."
Jonathan continued writing. "Yes, sir. Soon."
Renfield regarded him. Jonathan was bent industriously over his work, a lock of hair falling in his
eyes. Renfield felt a compelling urge to go over and gently brush the hair up, smoothing it back into
place. When he spoke, his voice was a bit sharper than he’d intended. "Now, boy. You’ll be of no use
if you become faint with hunger this afternoon."
Jonathan stopped, blushing, and put his papers aside. "Yes, sir."
"Oh, for heavens sake! I’m not scolding you, Jonathan. Your industriousness is commendable, but you
mustn’t push yourself so." *What will I...* "What will we do if you make yourself ill?"
Jonathan looked slightly puzzled for a moment, then gave a small laugh. "You know, I think someone
else once said much the same thing to me. It’s odd, but I can’t quite remember who, or when." His
expression, for a moment, was almost sardonic. "It certainly wasn’t my father." Then he brightened.
"Do you have any plans for lunch, Robert?"
"Oh, nothing unusual. This it Thursday--they’ll have bean soup and bubble-and-squeak." He grimaced.
"They make it too far in advance, and it gets a bit cold and greasy."
"Could I entice you into sharing my lunch? Mrs. Halifax always sends too much, and today..." He
smiled. "I guess I must have been looking particularly thin lately. She outdid herself. I have fresh
bread, baked ham, and good Cheddar cheese... Oh, and she sent an absolutely huge slice of plum
cake!" His expression was as animated as a child’s, discussing an expected treat.
"How can I turn down such a generous offer? I’d be happy to join you."
Jonathan retrieved a sizable paper-wrapped bundle from his bottom drawer and opened it on his desk.
He shared out a good portion of the food to Renfield, and they started to eat.
They talked as they ate. Jonathan would have been surprised to find out that Renfield was considered
by most people to be a rather cold and distant man. The older man wasn’t quite as casual as some
might be after working with someone for over three months, but he wasn’t unfriendly, and Jonathan
found that he liked the man quite a bit.
Jonathan stood up rolling his head from side to side to ease the tension that had started to stiffen his
neck. "I hope you don’t mind, but I need to move around a bit."
"Of course not." Renfield gestured with a small wedge of cheese. "You need to stretch those long legs
of yours." Renfield
quickly took a bite of cheese, berating himself for speaking so familiarly. Jonathan didn’t seem to
think the remark unusual, but comments about another man’s physical appearance were not a general
part of conversation, at least not among other men.
Jonathan paced the room, munching a piece of bread. He paused, leaning against the wall. "I wish we
had a window here. It would be nice to see the sky." He smiled; looking at the bread, not noticing the
way Renfield watched him. "I like to look out a window when I eat. I have done ever since I was little.
My mother used to ask me why." His eyes grew distant. "I told her it was because you could see the
most beautiful things, looking down from a window."
*It’s almost as if he’s gone into himself.* "What, Jonathan? What sorts of things?"
His expression was dreamy, and Renfield had the oddest feeling that the boy wasn’t aware of who he
was speaking to, or what he was saying. "People. Sometimes... sometimes you can see your destiny. I
always thought that I’d see the person I would marry from a window."
Renfield felt a sour stab of annoyance. His voice was clipped. "Was that how you first saw Miss
Murray?" Last week Jonathan had told him that he had become engaged to a Wilhelmina Murray. He
had shown the older man a miniature daguerreotype. She was a fairly pretty girl, with eyes and hair
almost as dark as Jonathan’s. It had been all Renfield could do not to hiss with jealousy.
"Hm?" Jonathan blinked, then seemed to focus. "No. It was at the first social I was allowed to attend. I
was delegated to help the ladies with their wraps." He smiled. "I had my arms full already, and her
friend Lucy decided to tease me. She draped her cloak over my head. I thought I was going to either
suffocate or trip and break my leg. Everyone was terribly amused, but Mina had pity on me and took
the cloak off. That’s when I first saw her. So, the first thing I knew of her was a kind act."
Renfield suppressed a derisive snort. He knew that young ladies, even well bred young ladies, often
amused themselves by tormenting shy young men. It wasn’t unlikely that one who was being simply
decent would seem to be a paragon of kindness. "I suppose it was love at first sight?"
Jonathan hesitated. "I..." he thought some more, then said slowly, "I’m very fond of her. We have a
common background, and she likes the same things I do. I think we’ll get on very well together." His
voice trailed away almost doubtfully.
"But you DO love her?"
"I’m fond of her," Jonathan repeated.
*And that’s the most you believe you can hope for, because that’s the best that you’ve seen,* Renfield
thought. He looked at the boy’s slightly melancholy expression. *God, he deserves so much more. I
almost wish I wasn’t such a coward, but I could never say anything to him. He wouldn’t hate me, I
know that. I don’t think he’s capable of hate. But if I saw pity in his eyes, I think it would kill me.* To
distract the boy, Renfield pointed toward the remaining food. "You haven’t had your dessert."
Jonathan came back to the desk and began to divide the cake. "No," Renfield said. "No, thank you."
Jonathan frowned slightly, obviously not able to understand why anyone would turn down dessert.
"I’m not used to rich foods. You have it."
"If you’re sure." He was looking longingly at the cake.
"I am. Please, you’ll do me no favor by pushing it on me. Though I’m sure it is excellent cake, I’m just
as sure that my digestion would keep me awake tonight if I indulged." He watched as Jonathan bit into
the dark, dense cake, and couldn’t hold back a thin smile when the boy groaned quietly with pleasure.
"That good?"
Jonathan spoke with his mouth full. "Heavenly!" He suddenly realized what he was doing and gulped.
"Oh, I’m sorry!"
"Don’t be. It’s good to see such honest enjoyment."
Jonathan shrugged sheepishly. "I can’t help it. I’ve always been too fond of sweets. Father said that I’d
become fat, and my teeth would fall out." He looked thoughtful. "You know, I believe he’s
disappointed that neither of those things have happened." His expression darkened a little, and he
sighed. "That’s nothing novel. He’s been disappointed in me all my life."
"Many people feel that way, Jonathan."
Jonathan finished the cake, dusting crumbs from his hands. He looked decisive. "Well, I don’t have to
worry about pleasing him anymore." He straightened his vest, smiling.
Renfield regarded him shrewdly. "So now you will please your Wilhelmina."
Jonathan blinked, seeming surprised by this. He said, "Mina is proud of me." There was a hint of doubt
in his voice. But then his jaw firmed and he said more steadily, "She says there aren’t many young
men my age who have managed to get a position of responsibility in such a well established firm."
"That’s so. You’re doing quite well for someone of your age," Renfield agreed. "Tell me, does
Wilhelmina have experience in running a household?"
Jonathan sat back at his desk. "I’m not sure. She has spent most of her time at school these last few
years. I suppose her mother has been training her."
"Good, good. She’ll need to be frugal to make a home on your salary. But I’m sure she won’t mind
doing without new dresses and hats for a few years."
"She doesn’t really care about those things," Jonathan protested. But he was thinking of Mina’s friend,
Lucy, and the way the privileged girl was always lending Mina her finery, taking her to the parties that
she might not have been invited to on her own. Could it be that Mina was developing a taste for
luxury, one that he would in most likelihood never be able to satisfy?
"Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right. Has she spoken yet of when you become a partner?"
Jonathan didn’t quite gape. "Yes, she has--the last time I took tea at her mother’s house. She seems to
think that I could become a junior partner in two or three years. I tried to tell her that it was quite
unlikely--that in situations like this an employee could spend his entire career working for wages."
"And she said she believed in you."
Jonathan sat back, eyeing him. "Robert, how did you know that?"
Renfield smiled. "Brides-to-be have not changed much down through the centuries, Jonathan. Most
women are ambitious, and since our society does not endow them with power, they seek it through
their husbands." He saw the troubled look on the boy’s face, and he almost felt guilty for raising such
doubts about the girl Jonathan had chosen to marry--almost. "Thank you for the luncheon, Jonathan,
but we’d best get back to work."
"Oh, yes. Of course." Jonathan turned back to his papers, but it was several minutes before the
wrinkles smoothed from his forehead.
The hours ticked by, and the work day came to an end. Renfield donned his hat and coat, calling to the
still working Jonathan, "That’s enough for today, boy. You can’t win your promotion all in one day,
you know."
Jonathan sighed, pushing away from the desk. Renfield handed him his hat, then held Jonathan’s coat
for him. Jonathan accepted the courtesy without thought, and didn’t notice that Renfield’s hand
smoothed over his shoulders as he shrugged into the garment.
Renfield pulled back, mentally cursing himself for his foolish boldness, but there was no
condemnation in the younger man’s eyes when he turned back to him. Then Jonathan frowned, and
Renfield stomach squeezed in apprehension. "Are you all right, Robert? Your cheeks are flushed."
Renfield touched his own cheek, feeling the heat of the blush that had risen there. "It’s a bit close in
here."
Jonathan nodded. He put his hand on Renfield’s arm, guiding him down the hall to the stairs. "You
should be all right once you get outside and get a bit of air." At the stairs he paused, looking
concerned, and his grip on Renfield’s arm tightened. "Are you sure you’re all right? Now you’re going
pale." Renfield swallowed hard. The feel of those long, slender fingers, firm on his arm, were making
his knees weak. "You ARE ill!" Now Jonathan gripped his other arm. "Let me help you back to the
office. I’ll get you some water..."
*Oh, God! I can’t be alone with him now!* "I’m fine!" Renfield broke away from Jonathan and
hurried down the stairs, calling back, "You’re right, I just need air."
Jonathan hurried after his friend, ignoring the arch look that Corliss tossed him. He found Renfield on
the street, standing a few yards down from the building. He was leaning against a lamp post, breathing
a little raggedly, but his color seemed to be more normal. Renfield offered him a weak smile. "There,
you see? I’m quite all right now. I spend too much time indoors."
Jonathan nodded. "Indeed you do. I was planning on taking Wilhelmina to the park next Sunday for a
picnic. Why don’t you come along, too?"
Renfield shook his head. Yes, he wanted to spend time with Jonathan, but not if it meant keeping
company with the silly girl he was going to tie himself to. "Thank you, Jonathan, but you’ll want to
spend some time alone with your fiance." Jonathan was silent. "Won’t you?"
More silence, the Jonathan smiled. "Yes, of course. It’s just that... Well, when we are married, we’ll
have our entire life to be together." He glanced around at the people who were hurrying around them,
headed for home. "Are you certain you’ll be all right? I could help you back to your flat--perhaps sit
with you for awhile till you are sure."
Renfield thought about it. He thought about drooping a bit, letting Jonathan wrap his arm around his
shoulder. He thought about leaning on that straight, strong body as they made their way to his flat.
Thought about having Jonathan in his rooms, alone. Perhaps he could lie down, ask the boy to bring
him a cool cloth... perhaps sit beside him?
*And then what, Robert? Pull him down? Kiss him? Ask him to hold you, touch you, take his pleasure
of you? How do you think he would react? Do you honestly think that such a young, beautiful creature
would welcome your advances? The only question is whether he would react with horror or merely
disgust.*
"No," Renfield said slowly. "No, Jonathan, I thank you."
"Well," he studied Renfield’s face, then nodded. "But really, Robert, if you need help, you must not
hesitate to ask for it. Remember," he patted Renfield’s arm again, "if I can help you in any way, you
have only to ask. I’ll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Renfield watched the boy disappear into the crowd, and he sighed. "I have only to ask.
Oh, God."
end part 62
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 63: Chapter 63: Stagnation

Pairing: None this chapter
Archive: Only to lists.
Website: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles
Disclaimer: Some characters originally created by Bram Stoker. Should have entered public domain in
1982.
Warnings: None
Summary: Rill and Simion try to rekindle Draculea’s interest in life.
Rating: NC-17
Part 63: Stagnation

Castle Draculea, Transylvania
"Rill?" The dark haired young vampire hesitated, his hands creeping behind him as he put his back to
the wall, and gave Simion a wide-eyed look. "What have you been up to?"
Rill’s eyes darted. "I was just... I was looking for rats downstairs."
"Ah. And did you catch one? Is that what you have behind your back--a particularly plump one?"
Simion studied his younger lover. Yes, he’d eaten recently, because a faint pink tinge climbed in his
cheeks, his stolen blood raising a blush. Simion held out his hand. "May I see it?" Rill bit his lip.
Simion’s voice became stern. "Rill?" Reluctantly, Rill pulled his hands from behind his back. He was
holding several cleaning cloths--some dusty, some smeared with dark stains. Simion took them and
sniffed one. He sighed. "You’ve been cleaning again. AND you’ve been in the treasury." Rill liked to
play with the coins, polishing the gold, silver, and copper--stacking the coins neatly, only to topple
them again.
Rill’s eyes brimmed with red tears, and Simion put an arm around his shoulders, giving him a
comforting squeeze. "It’s all right, love--you aren’t in trouble. But I’ve told you before, you’re not to
clean any but the few rooms we use on a regular basis."
"Why, Simion? I don’t understand why the prince lets his castle be so... so neglected. Sinn says he
could command a dozen or more of the Rom to tend the castle, and keep it as clean and comfortable as
any in the land."
"So he could, dear heart."
"But why DOESN’T he?"
Simion sighed. "I think that it’s mostly that he’s very sad, Rill. When you’re sad, you don’t want to be
around brightness and gaiety."
Rill cocked his head and said doubtfully, "I suppose so. It’s been such a long time since I’ve really
been sad that I’ve forgotten." Simion smiled softly. This was what he’d tried to achieve all these years
here at Castle Draculea. Rill’s life was mainly untroubled, though Simion or Draculea occasionally
had to whip a little consideration into Rock.
"Simion? What’s wrong with Prince Draculea? I mean, I know he’s sad--he’s been sad ever since I
knew him. But lately..." he frowned. "I think it’s been going on for a long time, but I’m not sure how
long." He gave his lover an apologetic smile. Rill had a very simple understanding of the nature of
vampiric life, and Simion was sure he’d be rather surprised to learn that he had been dead for close to
two hundred years. Rill frowned. "He’s getting OLD, Simion. I thought we weren’t supposed to get
old. I haven’t, nor have you, or Sinn, or Rock."
Simion sighed. "I know, and I don’t understand it, either." The look his young lover gave him said
clearly that if SIMION didn’t understand it, it was probably unfathomable. "I think it is partially that
he will not take the nourishment he needs. It has been many years since he last supped from a mortal,
and he takes only enough blood from the beasts to survive."
Rill looked distressed. "I’ve brought him rats--good fat ones, but he won’t eat. He just pats my head
and tells me to have them. He says it does him good to see me eat. But Simion, NOTHING seems to
do him good. He doesn’t even ride anymore--the gypsies must exercise the horses. All he does is roam
the rooftop or the underground, or sit in the library--sit and stare. Sometimes he doesn’t even hear me
when I speak to him." Rill looked down, full bottom lip trembling. "I’m afraid. What if he dies? I
mean, REALLY dies?"
Simion took Rill in his arms, and the vampire snuggled against him, burrowing his face against
Simion’s chest. Simion and Draculea were the only love and security he’d known in this world, and he
clung to them. *Poor child. He’ll be devastated if anything happens to the master.* His arms tightened
unconsciously, and Rill made a small, pleased sound, reaching up to put his cool lips to the side of the
older man’s throat. *Simion, Simion. You speak of Rill’s distress. What of your own? What would
you do without Draculea?* He sighed softly as he felt the familiar, sweet sting of Rill’s fangs piercing
his skin, then the gentle suckling. *Yes, I would still have my Rill, but what would become of us?
We’d be left to the tender mercies of those others, and I cannot be sure that I’d be able to do for them
before they hurt us. Already Rock has grown more bold, more careless of how he treats his brother. If
Rock should ever see Draculea as weak...*
He felt a little light-headed, and realized that Rill had been feeding for some time. He gently squeezed
the boy’s shoulders. "Enough, child." Rill stopped immediately, licking the holes he’d made till they
began to heal. When he looked up at Simion there was a healthy pink flush in his cheeks. He looked
more alive than he had when Simion had first seen him, all those long years ago in Budapest. "The
prince is in the library. Let’s go to him. He may not speak, but I think that it comforts him a bit to have
us there."
They made their way to the library, passing through the dusty, dimly lit cavern of the great hall. They
had long ago ceased to maintain most of the rooms of the castle. Only the ones occupied by Simion
and the brides were kept and cleaned--that, and the library.
The library was well lit, with many candles, and a good fire in the fireplace. A great chair was drawn
close before the hearth. All that could be seen of the chair’s occupant was one hand, resting on the
arm. It was still big, but the knuckles were a bit swollen, and the skin had taken on the thin, transparent
look of tissue, lightly dusted with tan age speckles. Simion felt a tinge of sorrow, seeing it. Draculea
had always seemed so young and powerful. Draculea had embraced his curse long before the period
when Simion would have seen the first sign of weakness and age. Once Draculea had become undead,
Simion had thought that he would never have to witness the natural deterioration that came to all flesh,
and it saddened him.
He patted Rill’s shoulder, and the boy went to the chair. He knelt beside it, looking up at the man who
had brought him over to his present existence. He knelt like that for a long moment, quietly waiting to
be acknowledged. Finally he bent his head, reached up, took the pale hand, and settled it on the back
of his head. The hand lay there for a long moment, so motionless that it might, indeed, have belonged
to a corpse. Then there was a tiny movement, the long fingers sinking deeper into the boy’s soft curls.
After a moment Draculea was slowly stroking the boy’s dark hair, the gesture absently affectionate.
Knowing that Draculea was at least a little aware of the world outside his own brooding, Simion
approached.
Simion studied the figure that sprawled in the chair. Draculea had lost none of his bulk, Simion knew
that, but still there was a subtle sense of... He wasn’t sure how to put it. Of wasting away--decay. He
was still a handsome man, but his features had become more gaunt, almost stark, the cheeks slightly
hollowed. He had long ago lost patience with his toilet, and Simion had to coax him to be allowed to
occasionally trim the thick mustache he’d begun wearing some time ago. It was snow white--the same
color as the hair that spilled over his shoulders to trickle down his back, almost to his waist. He’d
stopped trimming his nails, also. The fingers of the hand that combed idly through Rill’s hair were
tipped with nails almost an inch long--ivory colored and strong, like claws. The only thing that hadn’t
changed was the eyes--they were still the pale, chilly blue of a winter morning. But now they were so
often distant, or blank. The fierce heat of life that had always burned there had been absent for a long
time. The eyes were lifted, directed above the fireplace. Simion did not have to look to know what his
master was gazing at so raptly, but he still he looked.
It was the portrait of Nicolae that Signor Vittelli had completed so long ago. Draculea’s portrait hung,
dust-shrouded, over the long cold fireplace in the great hall. Elizabeta’s rested somewhere in the
castle. Draculea had found it, years after his first death. It had not survived that meeting intact. Simion
had taken it and hidden it away, intending to burn it at a later date. Then they had gone on their travels.
He had quite forgotten where it lay, and disdained to expend any energy to find it.
Simion studied the picture. Vittelli had been a genius--it was strange that he had never found the fame
that he so richly deserved. The expression in Nicolae’s eyes, the soft smile... The artist had captured
the look of someone gazing at the one they loved, and Simion remembered the long hours that
Draculea had spent standing behind the painter, watching as the love of his life posed.
Simion looked back to Draculea. "My lord." There was no response. Simion waited another moment.
"Lord Draculea."
Draculea did not look around. "Yes, Simion?" His lips barely moved, his eyes never wavered.
"You have not eaten for a great while, my lord. You do not thrive, and I fear that you are actually
falling away." There was an almost inaudible grunt, and one shoulder lifted a fraction of an inch as if
to say ’so?’. Simion shook his head. "It isn’t right, my lord. If you let yourself fail, then you fail
others."
Draculea’s other hand made a small, vague gesture. "You are all well cared for. The businesses still
bring in ample funds. The gypsies remain loyal. The local people will not come to this place, so you
are safe."
Simion made his voice stern. "Lord, you have abandoned us while never leaving this castle." He took a
breath and said something that would have been hazardous in years past. "I never knew you to fail in
your duties before." Draculea’s eyes lifted to his. For a moment, Simion hoped. There was a flash
there, a spark of the old fire. Then Draculea’s eyes, once again distant, drifted back up to the portrait.
For the first time in his long life with Draculea, Simion felt truly helpless.
"Master?" Rill’s voice was timid, soft. There was no response. The boy took hold of the hand
rummaging slowly through his hair, and pressed a kiss into the palm. "Master?"
"What, pet?" Draculea’s voice was as distant as his gaze.
"Have you stopped loving him?"
The simple question brought a reaction where Simion’s words had not. There was a sudden flash of...
not anger--perhaps pain, in Draculea’s eyes. He looked down at the boy. His hand turned, engulfing
Rill’s more slender hand, and Simion tensed. It would be nothing for Draculea to crush bones, but the
grip did not tighten, and Draculea said quietly, "Rill, why do you ask me that?"
"You never speak of him anymore. I used to like to hear you talk about him. I have never met Nicolae,
but I feel as if I know him--as if he were my friend, and now I will never meet him, because you have
stopped loving him."
Draculea reached over with his free hand, touching the boy’s cheek. For the first time in years, it
seemed that he was truly SEEING someone else. "Rill, I still love Nicolae. I will ALWAYS love him,
and I WANT you to meet him. I think you two could be great friends."
"But how can I ever meet him, my lord, if you will not go find him?"
Draculea closed his eyes. He whispered, "I searched so long, little one. So long."
Rill pressed his hand over the one that rested on his face. "Too long? What is too long when you seek
the one you love, master?"
Draculea shuddered, a fine tremor passing through his body. Simion fought the urge to reach out and
snatch Rill out of the older vampire’s reach. *Why did I let him turn Draculea’s mind back to Nicolae?
If I have placed him in danger’s way...*
But Draculea’s touch remained gentle, and he opened his eyes. For the first time in many years, a faint
smile graced Draculea’s stern visage. "You shame me, Rill."
"I did not mean to, prince."
"I know, child." He patted his leg. Rill, face lighting with joy, scrambled up and seated himself on
Draculea’s lap. He drew Rill’s head down to lie on his shoulder, then looked up at his friend. "Simion,
your sweetheart can see things more clearly than most men."
Simion nodded. "I believe it is so, master."
He is right--there is no time too great to wait for one you truly love. I should search again."
"Yes, lord. Have you an idea of where you would like to seek?"
"Hm... we thoroughly covered Europe, and I’m loathe to return till other possibilities are exhausted.
There’s the orient, India... I understand that they’ve even managed to civilize most of that great
continent the Spanish explorer found."
"America, lord."
"America? Odd name. We’ll try there. I think that travel might even be easier than it once was. The
old beliefs may not be as deeply rooted there." He thought. "Ah, I almost forgot. I suppose I ought to
try Britain first. It will take awhile to cover the entire country. I won’t want to neglect Scotland,
Ireland, or Wales." He smiled. "I understand there’s still a bit of wild country in the north. I rather look
forward to that." He patted Rill’s knee. "Would you like that, boy? Would you like to travel again?"
Rill nodded eagerly, then ammended, "So long as I am with you and Simion, lord."
"Good. I know Sinn will be overjoyed with the chance to practice his wiles on a fresh audience. I only
hope that Rock will have enough sense to behave himself. I’d rather not have to keep him in his box
the entire trip." He frowned. "He becomes quite abusive after a few weeks."
"If I might suggest, my prince, that you begin your journey in London? The port has grown to
remarkable size. London itself is one of the great cities of the world, and it should be easy to establish
yourself there. Then you could explore the surrounding country at your leisure."
Draculea nodded. "Wise advice, as always, old friend. Do I own any properties there?"
"No, lord, but I have had dealings with certain people in that city, through your interests in Europe.
We have exported a fair amount of goods to the London market. There is a certain firm that has been
instrumental recently in obtaining permits. I believe they would also do to find the properties you
desire."
"Very well. Up, boy." Rill stood, and Draculea rose slowly, pushing up from the chair. "I’ll write to
them and request that they send an agent with information about suitable properties." He went to a
table that was stacked with books, several sheets of parchment strewn on the polished surface, and a
neat tray of quills set beside a pot of ink. Draculea paused at the table, staring down at it, and ran his
hand caressingly across the back of the chair drawn up before it.
The desk was exactly as Nicolae had left it, after penning the heartbreaking note that he had taken to
the river. When Draculea had recovered from his first madness, he had come here and sat for long
hours, gently touching the items that his lost love had last handled. He gave orders that the library was
to be meticulously cleaned, but otherwise unchanged. The desk was dust free, but the parchment sheets
were brittle and yellowed with age, and the ink had long ago dried to a fissured crust.
Simion watched apprehensively, worried that the prince would once again sink into his ennui. But
Draculea sighed, and moved over to sit at a second table. He trimmed a quill, dipped the tip in ink, and
drew a fresh sheet of parchment forward. "Tell me the name of this firm, Simion."
"Hawkins and Thompkins, lord."
end part 63
Back to index
Chapter 64: Chapter 64: Delegation

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer: Based on original characters created by Bram Stoker. Copyright covers
material for seventy years past the author’s death. Bram Stoker died in 1912, and thus Dracula came
into public domain in 1982.
Summary: Renfield is assigned to go to Transylvania, and can’t resist the temptation to take a
memento of Jonathan.
Notes: daguerreotype--an early photograph produced on a silver or a silver-covered copper plate
Rating: NC17
Part 64: Delegation

London, England
Randal Thompkins read the letter once again. *Odd. I haven’t seen paper like this, except in some of
the older documents I studied at university. And he used sealing wax instead of a gummed envelope.
Well, he belongs to one of those old, decaying lines of European royalty, so I suppose he’s entitled to
his eccentricity.*
"Well?"
He looked up at Clarence Hawkins, his long time partner. "It’s an excellent opportunity--if he’s
serious."
"I believe he is." Hawkins reached out and tapped the parchment with one long finger. "We did some
business with his aide a few years ago, arranging import from a winery he owns in Italy. I’ve bought a
case of it myself--it’s quite good."
Thompkins frowned. "A merchant?"
Hawkins laughed softly. "You old snob. As if we don’t get a goodly portion of our living from
merchants. No, not a common merchant. I believe he truly IS a prince, though the line has become
obscure, and I doubt if anyone except a few decrepit retainers swear fealty to him now. But," he held
up a finger, "he’s rich--quite rich. He has land holdings in Italy, France, Transylvania, Germany,
Spain... Probably some others that I’m not aware of. He owns commercial property in Budapest, Paris,
Hamburg... His income from them alone must be substantial."
As Clarence had spoken, Randal’s eyebrows had climbed. "Well, it certainly SOUNDS as if it would
be worthwhile to pursue his business." His eyes gleamed. "This is a fat order--half a dozen good sized
properties in and around London. The commission would make us both quite comfortable. And even if
it isn’t completely a cash transaction..."
Hawkins was nodding. "We might arrange to take some of his foreign properties in trade. I know of
several people who are looking for properties in Paris, and the choice there isn’t exactly abundant. We
could make a substantial profit on resale..."
"Don’t start counting the coin yet, old friend," cautioned Thompkins. "He has asked us to send a
representative, but it’s by no means assured that he’ll be an easy sell. I don’t mind telling you, I don’t
want to let this slip through our fingers. I’d go myself if it wasn’t for my health."
His partner nodded. "If it were someplace nearer, like Paris, or a bit more civilized, like Italy, I’d go
myself, but... In any case, I have work here that I can’t leave unattended. So, whom shall we send?"
Thompkins sighed. "There isn’t much of a choice. Most of the clerks we have now are competent
enough for domestic matters, but this is going to require a more thorough knowledge of the
international aspects of the title transfers. And they’ll be dealing with royalty--we can’t send anyone
too common."
"As I see it, there are only two options--Renfield or Harker."
Thompkins frowned. "Yes, I can see why you mention Renfield. He’s a bit of a cold fish, but
wonderfully efficient. The man seems to have no life outside his work--an admirable trait in an
employee." He gave a small, cold smile. "And he’s ambitious. He’s not as vocal about it as some of
the others, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. But Harker? He’s not much more than a boy, and he
hasn’t even been with us a year."
"Yes, but he’s proved himself marvelously clever already. The boy has a quick mind. I don’t think
he’s really oriented toward business, though, and that’s a shame. He’s forever borrowing from the
library--poetry and histories, of all things, but he’s already proved that he knows a good opportunity
when he sees it, and besides, he speaks Hungarian, and I think a smattering of some of the other Slavic
languages. He’d likely be more at ease on the necessary journey."
Thompkins snorted. "Not that his comfort is of such great importance, but the more at ease he is, the
more confidence he shows, the more likely we will strike a good bargain. Still..." He thought, then
shook his head. "No, he’s simply too young. The prince is likely to think us cavalier, not giving his
affairs the proper attention and respect. I think that Renfield is our best bet."
"Agreed. I suppose that we’ll have to advance him some funds to cover expenses. He should be able to
leave quickly." Hawkins took another drink. "After all, it isn’t as if he’ll have a great deal to settle
before he leaves."
*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~~******~~~~~*****~~~~~
Jonathan had gone out at lunchtime, and was unnaturally evasive when Renfield questioned him as to
where he was going. Renfield stared discontentedly at the piece of cheese he’d been eating. He just
didn’t have an appetite without Jonathan here. *It isn’t like him. He’s so open about most things. What
could inspire such secrecy? It’s almost as if he’s sneaking off to see a lover.*
It was the faint pattering sound that brought him out of his reverie. He found that he’d squeezed the
cheese so hard that it had crumbled, and the bits were dropping on the paper that held the rest of his
modest lunch. "Damnation." He took out his handkerchief and cleaned the smears from his fingers.
*No, that isn’t it--CAN’T be it. I’ve seen that milk-white ninny he’s gotten himself engaged to. That
one won’t let him touch bare skin till he’s tied to her, all legal and proper, not till she’s absolutely sure
that she has him. Cow.* The door opened, and Jonathan entered. He took off his coat, then his hat,
hanging them on his allotted hook. The gaslight gleamed off the sleek darkness of his hair, and he
tossed Renfield one of those casual, but genuine smiles--the kind that made his heart beat a little faster.
"You weren’t long."
"No--it wasn’t far. I’ll have time for my lunch, if I hurry." Jonathan went to his desk and pulled out his
own lunch, eyeing the remains of Renfield’s. "You weren’t hungry? You have to eat, Robert, to keep
up your health."
*When was the last time someone worried over my health?* Because he knew it would please his
friend, Renfield finished the food, and was rewarded with another smile. As they were putting away
the wrappings, he said, "Are you going to tell me about your mysterious errand?"
Jonathan laughed. "Was I being mysterious? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It isn’t you I’m keeping a
secret from--it’s Mina."
"Oh?" This was interesting. What could he be hiding from his fiancee? "Do tell."
"Well, it’s a present."
"Oh." His voice was flat. When Jonathan looked at him curiously, Renfield said, "What’s the
occasion?"
"No real occasion. Now that we’re engaged, it’s all right for us to exchange gifts, but her parents are
very proper, so it couldn’t be anything too..." He grimaced. "Well, of course clothing is out of the
question, and jewelry should wait till we’re married. Things like books and stationery are a bit too
impersonal."
"You’ve piqued my curiosity, Jonathan. What CAN you have gotten her?"
His smile was shy, pleased--but he was beginning to blush. "I’m afraid it’s a bit vain. I got her a
photograph of myself."
Renfield was silent for a moment. *God, does the damned woman KNOW how lucky she is?*
There was a hint of doubt in Jonathan’s voice as he looked at Renfield. "You don’t think it’s too
egotistical?"
"No, Jonathan. I think it’s... sweet." Jonathan blushed even more deeply. "I’m sorry, but it isn’t meant
as sarcasm."
"I know. You wouldn’t be so nasty, Robert."
The door opened, and Corlis stuck his head in. "Harker, there are some papers for you to take to Lord
Carbury. Renfield, the partners want to see you." He left, shutting the door a little more vehemently
than was needed.
"Hm, cheerful, as always," said Renfield dryly. As they started for the door, he said, "Jonathan, aren’t
you going to take your coat and hat?"
Jonathan sighed. "Oh, bother. I just got out of them, and really, it’s hardly cool enough to justify the
extra clothing. Still, this IS Lord Carbury, even though I’ll probably only see his secretary. Perhaps
just the hat." He took it from the hook, and they went downstairs together, Jonathan going to the front
of the building to collect the papers from Corlis, and Renfield going back to where the partners had
their personal offices. The door to Thompkins’ office was standing open, so he went there first.
His employers were seated, Thompkins behind his desk, and Hawkins in a plush chair, conversing in
quiet voices. They looked up as he entered. Was it his imagination, or was there more than the usual
weighing in their eyes? "Ah, Renfield." Thompkins waved to him. "Come in, come in, and close the
door. Corlis might be lurking about, and I have no doubt that there are keyhole marks on his ears."
Renfield closed the door without comment and stepped closer to the older men, waiting expectantly.
He knew better than to take a seat without being expressly invited to, and he also knew that he would
NOT be invited. Therefore he was surprised almost into being stunned when Thompkins gestured
toward the empty chair and said, "Sit." He did, perching uncomfortably on the edge of the seat.
Hawkins handed him a sheet of thick, creamy paper, which was covered in aggressive, spiky writing.
"Read that." Renfield scanned the missive, quickly but thoroughly. Then he looked at his employers
questioningly. "What do you think of that?"
*Good God, he can’t POSSIBLY want my opinion.* "I think that it’s an almost unbelievably good
business opportunity. You gentlemen could make enough off this one venture to... well, if you liked, to
retire comfortably, though I doubt if either of you could bear to stay out of the game for long, no
matter how fat your bank accounts were."
Thompkins laughed shortly. "A backhand sort of flattery, Renfield, but true enough. You’re tactful
when it’s best, but blunt where it will do more good. There isn’t a scrap of nonsense in your nature.
That’s one reason why we’ve chosen you to handle this."
*I will not gape like an idiot child,* Renfield thought.
"You are, of course, our most senior clerk, and if it won’t give you an inflated opinion of yourself,
you’re one of the most efficient men I’ve ever known in handling the transfer of property," said
Hawkins. "I don’t suppose I have to tell you, Renfield, that this is the sort of venture that can make a
man’s career in one blow." Renfield nodded. "In fact," he glanced at his partner, who nodded, "if this
comes off in a satisfactory manner, a junior partnership wouldn’t be out of the question. How would
Hawkins, Thompkins, and Renfield sound?"
*It would sound like I would be taking on a great deal more work and responsibility for precious little
money, and a title that won’t impress anyone with half a grain of business sense. No one except...
perhaps Jonathan. Yes, he’d be happy for me, and proud, I think. And I might have the power to
choose my own assistant. I could do things for him, assign some of the better clients. He might even
be grateful.* "I’m honored, sir. I’d be pleased to take care of this for you both."
"Good," said Hawkins. His tone said ’as if we expected anything less’. "The prince is eager to make
the transaction. How soon can you leave?" Again the tone said more than the words, warning Renfield
that his time had best be at the firm’s disposal.
"I can leave as soon as I have the necessary papers and information, and passage to Transylvania," he
assured them.
"Excellent. It won’t take more than, say, a week to gather everything we need. We’ll book passage for
you, and make arrangements for transportation, and lodging along the way. I understand that both the
roads and the carriages are rough in that area, so we’d best count on at least a week for you to make
your way there." Hawkins stood up, offering his hand. As Renfield shook it, he said, "Delegate your
current responsibilities as quickly as possible. Is there anything pressing at the moment?"
"No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary."
Thompkins stood and leaned over the desk to shake hands also. "Perhaps young Harker could take
some of them, then. I’d rather like to see how he deals with added responsibility. Well," he cleared his
throat. The next words almost seemed to pain him. "Why don’t you go on and take the rest of the day
off? I’m sure there are, er, personal matters you’ll need to clear up before you leave. After all, you
might be gone for three weeks, perhaps as much as a month."
"Thank you, sir." *They ARE serious, if they’re giving me a half-holiday.* "You won’t be
disappointed."
They were still smiling, but there was a glint of warning at the back of both the men’s eyes. "Yes, I
hope so," murmured Hawkins. "I truly do."
~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~~******~~~~~*****~~~
Feeling a little numb, Renfield made his way up to his office. Sure enough, Corlis had been lurking in
the hall when he’d exited the office, and he’d given Renfield a disgruntled look that told him that he
was already aware of what had been decided.
The office was empty, Jonathan still on his errand. *Not surprising. When we go to the nobility, we
await their pleasure, and most of them are quite convinced that we have nothing more important to do
than clutter up their hallways--or a parlor, if they’re feeling generous.*
Renfield leaned back against the door, trying to take it all in. Travel--travel to the far off, exotic
sounding Carpathians. Travel into a world where the hold of the less civilized past was still strong.
He’d only been outside London a handful of times in his life. The prospect was both exhilarating, and
frightening.
*Travel.* He frowned. *Away from Jonathan, for as much as a month.* The young man’s coat hung
on its hook beside the door. Renfield reached out and touched it gently. He stroked the length,
imagining that Jonathan was wearing it, that he could feel the firmness of that long, strong back
beneath his palm. Then he noticed the bulge in the pocket. *The picture.* It had to be.
Renfield was not normally a curious man, but where Jonathan Harker was concerned it was a different
matter. *He could be back at any moment,* he thought, even as he reached into the pocket. *I’ll have
to hurry.*
~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~~
Jonathan hummed cheerfully to himself as he entered the office building. Lord Carbury had turned out
to be a very pleasant man, who had ordered tea for him while he looked over the papers. Jonathan tried
to observe everything without seeming to stare. Mina would want every detail the next t time he saw
her. Her fascination with the upper crust worried Jonathan a bit. But surely she’d settle down and
accept their station in society once they were married.
Corlis looked up from his typewriter as Jonathan came in and snapped, "And just what do YOU have
to be so cheerful about?"
Jonathan blinked in surprise. Yes, the man was never pleasant, but he was seldom so openly hostile.
"Nothing in particular. It’s just a nice day, is all."
Corlis sniffed. "Oh, yes, nice for SOME people! And I wager they won’t even let me try my hand at
any of Renfield’s duties when he’s gone."
Jonathan felt his stomach plummet. "Gone?" *That’s right, they wanted him. Oh, please, no!* "He
hasn’t been sacked?"
Corlis looked up sharply, then gave Jonathan a shrewd smile. "Oh, I couldn’t say--they don’t confide
in me. But I believe I DID hear something about him leaving by the end of the week."
"Damn!" True, it was a mild swear, but it still left Corlis looking shocked as Jonathan sped up the
stairs. His long legs made short work of the two flights, and he was scarcely breathing hard when he
reached the upper floor. He raced down the hall and threw open the door to his office so briskly that it
thumped against the wall. Renfield shut his desk drawer with a snap, giving Jonathan a startled look.
"It isn’t true, is it?"
"I... I was just..."
Jonathan went to him quickly and bent over his friend. Part of him was scolding that he was acting
with far too much familiarity, but the possibility of losing one of the few friends he’d ever had
overwhelmed it. "It can’t be true, Robert! You’re worth two of any of the others. They’d be cutting off
their nose to spite their face if they let you go."
"Let me go?" Renfield had an odd expression on his face. "Boy, what are you talking about?"
Now Jonathan was confused. Renfield looked a bit agitated, but not as upset as he would think a man
who’d just lost his job would be. "Your position. Corlis said that you’d be gone in a week."
Renfield’s eyebrows lowered. "Oh, he DID, did he? Why, that poisonous little toad! I’m going to have
a few words with the bosses about office gossip before I leave--see if I don’t."
Jonathan put his hand on Renfield’s shoulder, trying not to grip too hard, though he was beginning to
feel desperate. "Of course I know you’d have no trouble finding another position, Robert, as fine a
clerk as you are, but it just isn’t fair..." Renfield couldn’t refrain from a small shudder at the feel of
those long, graceful fingers gripping his shoulder, and of course Jonathan misinterpreted it. "Why are
they doing this? You haven’t made any mistakes, I KNOW you haven’t. They..."
Renfield put his hand over Jonathan’s, allowing himself the touch. "Calm yourself, Jonathan. I’m not
being dismissed."
Jonathan drew in a sharp breath. "But Corlis said you’d be leaving in a week."
"And so I shall, but not to seek employment elsewhere." He patted Jonathan’s hand, then gently
removed it. He didn’t dare allow the contact to go on any longer. "And Corlis is a jealous snake. He
phrased his words precisely to upset you. I’m going to Europe on business, Jonathan." He allowed
himself a small smile. "I’m being entrusted with a very important transaction."
Jonathan leaned back against the wall, head tipped back and eyes closed, and took a deep breath. He
couldn’t see the light in his friend’s eyes as he watched. "Oh, thank heavens! Robert, I was so
worried."
"Yes, I could tell. But why, Jonathan?"
"Why?" Jonathan looked at him, truly puzzled. "I’d miss you."
Renfield’s voice was very quiet. "Would you really?"
"Of course. You’re very important to me, Robert. You’re my first adult friend, and I most certainly
don’t want to lose you."
"That won’t happen. But AM I your first adult friend? What about your Wilhelmina?"
Jonathan frowned a little. "Oh, yes. Yes, you’re right. I’d almost forgotten. I wonder why?" He
brightened. "Oh, let me show you the present!" He went and reached for his coat pocket. "I’m terribly
pleased with how it turned out. You can’t really smile, you know, since it takes so long for the picture
to be exposed, but at least I don’t look like I’m sucking a lemon drop." His hand was in the pocket,
rummaging. He frowned, turned the coat, and felt in the other pocket. Renfield watched silently as he
continued to search the garment, with increasing anxiety. "It’s not here. I don’t understand, I had it
safe in my pocket when I left the studio."
"Perhaps it fell out on the way back?"
Jonathan looked doubtful. "I suppose it COULD have, but I don’t see HOW. I’ve never lost anything
like that before." He searched the pockets again, and his shoulders drooped in defeat. "I don’t believe
it."
"Can’t you get a copy of it?"
"I suppose so, and it should be less expensive, since he already has the plate, but still... It’s going to be
several weeks before I can save up enough money for another one. Drat." He sighed. "Well, I have to
make a quick trip to the washroom."
"I’ll say good day then. I’ve been give the rest of the day to start getting my affairs in order." He
snorted. "How long does it take to speak to a landlady?"
"When it’s mine? Quite a while. She’s a talkative soul. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?"
There was a touch of apprehension in Harker’s voice that touched Renfield. "Yes, yes. I told you, it
won’t be for a week yet." When Jonathan had gone out, Renfield opened his desk once again and drew
out a flat, paper-wrapped parcel. He quickly slipped it into his coat pocket and donned his coat and
hat. Downstairs he paused at the front desk. Corlis tried to ignore him, but Renfield waited patiently
till the other man looked up, expression sour and questioning. Renfield leaned down. "Corlis, if you’re
going to listen at keyholes, you’d best learn to report your gossip with more accuracy. That was a petty
trick you pulled on Harker."
Corlis shrugged, but smiled nastily. "Was the poor thing upset? Dear, dear."
"Watch yourself, Corlis. If you give him any more trouble, Hawkins might learn why his last bottle of
brandy tasted weak. Really, if you’re going to refill what you drink with tea, you ought to restrain
yourself. It gets a bit noticeable after the third glass." He watched as what little color the secretary had
drained away, then left without another word.
In his rooms he locked the door and removed the package from his coat, laying it on his bedside table.
Then he studiously ignored it as he changed out of his work clothes. He removed the starched collar
and cuffs with impatient jerks, dropping them carelessly on his dresser, then tossed his tie next to them
instead of hanging it carefully. He chose his most comfortable trousers and a loose shirt, and didn’t
bother to put on his slippers once he’d removed his shoes and socks.
Finally he went to his wardrobe and removed a bottle of whiskey. He regarded it critically. How long
had he had this, anyway? Yes, it had been a present from a grateful client one... no, two Christmases
ago, and it was still more than half full. He carried it to his bed and poured an inch in the water glass
he sensibly kept there. After a moment’s thought, he added another inch, and placed the bottle on the
nightstand, instead of putting it away again.
Renfield sat, arranging himself comfortably on the bed, and took up the drink. He sipped slowly,
hardly noticing the smooth bite of the liquor. He didn’t really enjoy alcohol, aside from an occasional
beer or glass of wine, but he needed this now. He wasn’t by nature a devious person, and he had just
committed his first act of theft.
As he drank, he eyed the parcel. He hadn’t opened it. After he’d taken it from Jonathan’s coat, he’d
just sat at his desk, holding it and staring at it. In fact, he’d almost gotten up and replaced it, losing his
nerve. Then Jonathan had burst in, and there’d been no chance. He couldn’t bear to have the boy know
that he’d violated his implicit trust by taking something from him, even though he knew that Jonathan
would have just marked it off to friendly curiosity, then unwrapped it to show it off.
*I really AM unused to drink,* he told himself as he set aside the empty glass. There was already a bit
of lightheadedness. *I must remember to be careful while I’m in Transylvania. Those Europeans are
very free with their wine, and it wouldn’t do for me to become drunk in the presence of a client." He
reached for the parcel. *I’ll bring it back tomorrow. I’ll tell him that I found it in the street, and he’ll
be so pleased.* Renfield unwrapped the parcel slowly. The crumpled paper fell to the floor, unheeded
as he stared at what he had revealed.
It was small, not much larger than his palm, and it had been prepared nicely in a plain frame, with
glass in front. *That cost him extra,* Renfield noted absently, *but he wouldn’t go half-measures--not
on a present for someone he cares for.* The gaslight cast a sheen on the glass, showing nothing but a
white expanse. Then Renfield tilted the picture, and the glare faded.
Renfield made a soft, unconscious sound. There was Jonathan, in his neat business suit. He was sitting
in a velvet chair--straight, but not stiff, his hat held on his knee. He gazed out at the world, and
Renfield almost felt that he could actually see him. He thought that there was a smile about to break
through that grave expression. Despite the sepia tones of the picture, you could still tell the fairness of
his complexion, the black gloss of his hair, and the rich darkness of his eyes.
"No," he breathed. "Oh, no. I can’t give you up, Jonathan. You’ll have to forgive me, dear boy, but I
need this far more than your little lady friend." He reached out and touched a fingertip to the glass,
delicately tracing the lines of Jonathan’s face. "I need YOU. God, you’re so beautiful, and so
innocent."
Renfield feasted his eyes on the image, drinking in every detail, reminding himself of what he looked
like in real life. It would be so much better if Jonathan were here beside him, warm and breathing, but
since that was impossible, this was the next best thing. He let his touch trail down the center of the
image, stroking over the pictured Jonathan’s chest, wishing that he dared do the same thing to the real
Jonathan.
Jonathan’s hands rested quietly on his thighs, his knees slightly spread. Renfield wet his lips, and
slowly drew his finger down till it touched the shadowed vee of Jonathan’s crotch. There was a tiny
corner of his mind that railed that he was being ridiculous, pathetic, but it didn’t matter.
He rubbed slowly, imagining that it was warm, cloth covered flesh he touched instead of hard, cold
glass. "Jon," he whispered. *I could be good to you, sweet. I could give you as much pleasure as that
bitch to whom you would tie yourself--more. I wager she’d be reluctant to give you her mouth. I
would do that for you, Jonathan. I would make a feast of you, and draw such ecstasy from you that you
would know, you would know with whom you belonged.*
With one hand he opened his breeches, reaching inside. He moaned as his hand closed over the heated
mound of his erection, and he began to squeeze rhythmically. Now he used his thumb to stroke the
picture, while he caressed himself with the other. "Oh, Jonathan, Jonathan." He lifted his hips, roughly
pushing his breeches and his drawers down his thighs. His cock rose from the thicket of his pubic
bush, rigid and eager. He stroked himself slowly, sliding the skin over the firm core, then peeled his
foreskin back, baring the deep rose head. Already a clear bead of fluid was oozing from the tiny slit,
and it dribbled down as he began to masturbate. "Do you see? Do you see what you do to me?"
He turned on his side, propping the picture carefully against the headboard, so that he could still look
at it, but have his hands free. His cockhead was weeping freely now, and he smeared the fluid down
his shaft, slicking his flesh. Then, as he continued to massage his hard-on, he reached behind himself.
He bent one knee, putting his foot on the mattress, and spreading his own buttocks. He shuddered as
he trailed his moist fingers over the pucker of his asshole. He didn’t close his eyes, unwilling to lose
sight of Jonathan’s image even for his own fevered imaginings. *Touch me, Jonathan. Yes, like that.*
A moan broke from his lips as he slid one finger deep into his own body, and began to saw it in and
out. Both hands moved more quickly and strongly. He imagined a long, warm body moving up behind
him, pressing against him, a hand reaching around to push his own away, to caress him. His touch
would be gentle, tender, caring. *But strong. Yes, so young and fine and strong.* He pushed deep into
his back passage, twisting and probing. There was a spot... If he could just reach it.
His fingertip glided over a small bump, firmer than the rest of the soft, clinging flesh, and he cried out
with pleasure, his eyes finally closing. He rubbed firmly, his body arching with the sensation, and he
shoved deeper, moaning, "Take me, Jonathan. Fuck me, please, oh God. Anything for you, anything..."
His release washed over him, and he thrust back onto his own impaling finger as his seed spurted,
coating his hand. Eyes still closed, he raised his hands to his lips and licked away the bitter droplets,
thinking, *His. His.*
He lay like that for a moment, then pulled his finger from his now aching ass. When he regained his
breath, he went to his washbasin and cleaned himself, then went and lay back down. He made a small
sound when he noticed the pearly drop that had spattered on the glass, resting just over Jonathan’s
right hand. Renfield got a cloth and carefully wiped it clean, polishing the glass, thinking that he
couldn’t return it to Jonathan soiled.
He sighed. *Oh, Robert, stop it. You’re not going to return it--you know that.* He bent forward, for a
moment resting his forehead against the glass. *If I’m lucky, you’ll never know, sweet Jonathan.
You’ll never think me more than a friend, and I won’t have to see the unease in your eyes, I won’t
have to watch you become uncomfortable in my presence. I wouldn’t cause you a moment of distress,
Jonathan.* He carefully placed the picture on his nightstand, giving it one last, lingering touch. *This
will have to be enough.*
end part 64
TBC
Back to index
Chapter 65: Chapter 65

Author’s Notes: Summary: Renfield is off to Transylvania.
Notes: During this time, ’queer’ did not have the same connotation that it does today--that of
indicating homosexuality. Back then it simply meant odd. I had very little luck finding reference
material on travel, particularly train travel, during the Victorian era, so I just estimated as best I could
when it came to time. If anyone has more precise information, I’d welcome it. The Grand Tour was an
extended tour of the Continent that was formerly a usual part of the education of young British
gentlemen. The Bible quotation is from Mark 8:36
Translations: These are from online translations, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some
mistakes. Don’t bite my head off if there are. :) Corrections would be welcome. Nagyanya, azért ne
harapd le a fejemet!--Grandmother, don’t bite my head off. Nézd csak!--Just look.
Biztos vagyok benne alapjában véve jó ember--I am sure that at heart he is not bad. Dumnezeu a
proteja pe el--God protect him.
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don’t own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I
mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.
Part 65: Abroad

In Transit from London to Transylvania
Renfield stepped out of his lodging house, and the door snapped shut behind him, almost quickly
enough to catch the tail of his coat. Well, he couldn’t blame his landlady too much for her irritation.
The woman was no sluggard--she rose with the sun each day to tend her home and boarders. Asking
her to get up even earlier so that she could let him out and lock the door again behind him had been a
bit of an imposition. *Though one might think her irritation would be moderated by the fact that I’ll be
paying her for the time I’m not occupying my room,* he thought sourly.
Renfield paused, looking about. He heaved a sigh. "Good God--pea soup." Even though there was a
streetlamp nearby, he couldn’t see more than a few feet in either direction. He’d known there would be
fog--it had begun creeping in before dusk, filling the streets and bringing on dark early. He hadn’t
realized how thick the fog had grown, since his room had no window and, even had he desired to sit
under his landlady’s jaundiced eye, the curtains in the front parlor would have been decently drawn.
Renfield put down one of his cases and pulled his coat collar a bit higher, then picked it up again and
started for Victoria Station. He had almost an hour before his train left for Dover, and he’d need all of
it, what with this fog. If he took a wrong turn he’d be hopelessly lost, miss the train, and spoil all the
travel plans that had been so meticulously laid out. It might not be irreparable, but it would definitely
be a bad start to an effort that he hoped would assure his career.
The streets were not entirely deserted--they seldom were in a city the size of London. In some
neighborhoods there would have been any number of workers hurrying to Covent Garden or the docks,
but in this neighborhood such traffic was limited to an occasional dairy or baker’s wagon, making
deliveries to sleepy scullery maids and cooks.
He’d only gone two blocks when he heard footsteps. Renfield paused, gazing about suspiciously. Who
else would be walking at this hour, in this mess? Likely no one who was up to any good. The steps
were behind him. His first instinct was to hurry on, but haste in this fog would probably get him
hopelessly lost. If he took a wrong turn into a blind alley or bad area, then whoever was pursuing *IF
they’re pursing* would have the advantage. It was better to show no weakness in a situation like this,
so he gripped his cases tighter and waited, wishing that he had one of those weighted walking sticks
that the nobility had favored a few years back. They made passable weapons.
The steps came closer, and he could barely discern the figure approaching. It was a man--tall, but not
big. Still, Renfield knew that he’d better hope he meant no harm. He was moving at such a clip that
Renfield knew he’d have little chance of outrunning him. Then he heard them call, "Robert! Wait,"
and he relaxed, an unconscious smile breaking out.
Jonathan approached out of the fog, slightly breathless and flushed. "Oh, thank heavens I caught you!
I’m sure I’d have never been able to find you if you’d gotten to the station. It scared me half to death
when your landlady said that you’d gone." He made a face. "She isn’t always that sour, is she? I can’t
imagine it’s very pleasant there if she is."
He found himself wanting to laugh. "No, she’s generally a good sort, but she’s irritated when her sleep
is disturbed. She wasn’t best pleased with having to get up early to lock up after me."
"Really? My landlady is ever so obliging. When I told her what I had planned, she insisted on getting
up early to make breakfast for me, and to fix this for you." He held up a sizable parcel.
Renfield examined the neat package, with its glazed paper and carefully knotted twine. "What is it?"
"Well, she said that in her experience, young men seldom got up early enough to have a good meal
when they were traveling, that the food on trains was abominable, and she wasn’t even sure if they
HAD refreshments on the boat crossing the channel. We had a lovely ham and veal pie last night, and
she sent a good third of it, along with some cheese, bread, biscuits, a couple of apples, and I believe
she tucked a bottle of ginger beer in with it."
Renfield was shaking his head, but his expression was fond. "Well, come on, then, or I’ll miss the
train." They both set off through the fog, walking close together. "I appreciate this, Jon, but really,
you’re too reckless, coming out like this."
Jonathan frowned. "But weren’t you expecting me?" Renfield said nothing, and Harker’s expression
was a little hurt. "You didn’t. But Robert, this is what friends DO."
"I’m sorry, Jon. It’s through no lack on your part, I assure you. It’s just that, well, I haven’t had a great
deal of experience with what friends do and do not, and sometimes you take me by surprise."
"Really?" He seemed to like the idea. "Pleasant surprises?"
"Very pleasant." They walked for a few more moments, and Renfield couldn’t resist teasing the boy.
"Tell the truth, Jon--ALL the food was your idea, wasn’t it?"
He was blushing, and Renfield’s heart caught at the sight. "No, really! She wanted to do it. She’s..."
Renfield was giving him a skeptical look. Jonathan sighed. "Yes, I know, I’m a dreadful liar. All
right--I suggested it, but she agreed wholeheartedly. And the biscuits WERE my idea alone. She was
just going to send the apples, and I’m very fond of fruit, but they just don’t count as sweets to me."
Now Renfield did laugh. "You and your sweet tooth."
Jonathan insisted on taking one of the cases. "I’m stronger than I look," he assured Renfield. The street
traffic increased as they came closer to the station. There was always plenty of activity at Victoria
Station. Even if there were no passengers arriving, there were boxcars to be unloaded. They found
Renfield’s train easily, with several minutes to spare.
Jonathan boarded the train with Renfield. When they found his seat, he helped his friend settle his
luggage, and arrange himself comfortably for the trip. "There’s one good thing about taking such an
early train--you can spread out as much as you like." Then he looked worried, "But you won’t have
anyone to keep you company, and train journeys can be so tedious if you haven’t a companion." He
sighed. "I only enjoyed the first few trips I made too and from the country when I began spending
summers there. There’s only so much scenery a child can enjoy, though I’d love to see new lands
now." He smiled at Renfield wistfully. "I wish I were going with you."
*With me. He said with me, and not instead of me. God bless you, boy, but you will break my heart.*
For once, Renfield dared to speak at least a little of what he truly felt. "I wish that, too, Jon. I’d love to
have you travel with me." The answering smile was like a reward, and he couldn’t help continuing, "I
think that you are what I’ll miss most about England."
As he said this, there came the call of the porter, "All aboard! All who are not passengers please leave
the train. Departing in two minutes. Please, leave if you are not a paying traveler."
Jonathan’s eyes were shining with happiness at Renfield’s confession. More than anything in the
world, the boy wanted a true friend, and now he felt that he’d found one. He lifted his hands. For one
mad, terrified, hopeful moment, Renfield thought that the boy was going to embrace him. If he did,
he’d be lost. He knew that he would sink into those arms, melt against that strong young body, and
turn his face up for a kiss that would surely never come. Instead Jonathan clasped his arm firmly with
his left hand, and took Renfield’s right hand in his own. He gave a firm shake, but did not let go,
holding the smaller hand as he said, "I’ll miss you, too, Robert. I’ll have no one to make me laugh
when Corliss gets snippy. Please take care, and hurry back, and... and..." he hesitated, biting his lip.
"What is it, Jon?" Renfield was grateful to hear that his own voice was steady.
"I know it’s asking a lot, but... but could you write to me while you’re gone? I know the posts must be
dreadful over there, but I could write you, also." He smiled nervously. "Keep you informed on the
firm’s gossip. Tell you all the exciting details of my daily round of mad socializing."
"I’d like that, Jon. I’d like that very, very much." *And God help me, I’ll probably keep the letters tied
with a ribbon, and they’ll find them, all dusty and faded when I pass away, and think of what a queer,
pathetic thing I was. But I don’t care. I’ll have something of you.*
*****
The parcel of food was very welcome during the trip. As Jonathan’s landlady had surmised, Renfield
hadn’t bothered with breakfast, other than a piece of bread and butter and a cup of weak tea, fixed by
his own landlady with an air of martyrdom. As he munched the rich meat pie, noting the flaky crust,
tender meat, and savory gravy, he wondered idly if Mrs. Hallifax could find room for another boarder,
but that’s all it was--fantasy.
He didn’t give it serious consideration for one reason--it would mean living under the same roof as
Jonathan, and he wouldn’t be able to bear being so close without eventually making some
slip--touching him too intimately, or making some careless remark that would bring suspicion into
those gentle brown eyes. It would kill him.
The train arrived on time, the boat left on time, and Renfield managed the crossing with no upset to
digestion or nerves. He was surprised to find that he seemed to be a good traveler--at least so far.
There was a long journey ahead, and he had steeled himself for discomfort and annoyance. He
operated on the theory that it was best to prepare for the worst. If it didn’t come, then one could be
pleasantly surprised.
Renfield had to wait several hours in Calais before he could catch his connecting train to Paris, and it
was evening when he arrived. The driver who took him to his small hotel tried several times to
recommend this club or that cafe ("Very gay, M’sieur. Many ladies, and some," he had winked, "no
better than they should be."). Renfield had turned him down coolly, and then the man had suggested
slyly that there were usually a few BOYS who were, perhaps, naughtier than those he was likely to
find in England. He’d received such a frosty look from the stiff Englishman that he’d quickly
subsided, and concentrated on getting him to his destination.
At the hotel, Renfield had written a short letter to Jonathan, letting him know that he had arrived
safely. He almost wished that he HAD gone out for a bit of entertainment, so that he would have
something cheerful and interesting to relate. But his humble lodgings were near a much more elegant
hotel, and from his window he could watch the rich carriages that picked up and deposited the
fashionable men and women. *If nothing else, he will have a bit of tittle-tattle to interest that chit
who’s snared him,* Renfield thought sourly. But he handed the letter over to the clerk, along with the
exorbitant price of postage. Jonathan WANTED him to write, and so he would.
He continued to write, from every overnight stop he made. When he stayed on the train for an
extended period of time, he would hurry out at a station and post a letter before rushing back to take
his seat. More than once he almost missed his connection, running to catch the train as it began to pull
away, but he wouldn’t stop. He kept picturing the way that Jonathan’s face would light up when a
letter came in the mail. It was worth whatever risk there was. There was finally someone thinking of
Renfield, wanting contact, and he wasn’t going to deny him. Every night Renfield took Jonathan’s
photograph from his luggage, tenderly unwrapping the cushioning tissue, and spent long moments
studying it. More often than not he caressed himself, imagining Jonathan’s slim, elegant fingers
stroking him, piercing the small pucker of his asshole with gentle passion, then Jonathan possessing
him in a long, sweet joining.
The days passed, the miles rolled away. Bern, in Switzerland, Budapest in Hungary, and then... then
into country that seemed not to have changed for centuries. It had taken him ten days to reach the
border. Perhaps a first class passenger would have arrived sooner, but Renfield had no complaints.
Even the enforced stay-overs and delays in waiting for a connecting train had been welcome. By the
time he reached Budapest he was exhausted--a greater pace, with no chance to rest might have brought
him to the point of collapse.
In Transylvania, the railway came to an end, and he moved on by coach, deeper and deeper into
increasingly rough land. The towns dwindled to occasional villages, and the villages became smaller
and smaller.
The roads became more rutted, less maintained, and the accommodations were simple in the extreme.
Near the end of the journey, Renfield was forced to share a room with a fat, snoring man--a clock
seller who insisted on demonstrating his cuckoo clock, near driving Renfield to violence. He was sure
that the only thing that saved his sanity was the fact that this was the last time he’d have to use public
accommodations for a while. He gathered that Prince Draculea lived in a genuine castle, his ancestral
home dating back to the thirteenth century.
*I’ll have to remember to take notes. That will interest Jonathan to no end. He’s always reading
histories about these wild regions,* Renfield thought as the carriage stopped for an early dinner at a
small tavern.
They had been driving through increasingly hilly country, and now the mountains proper were
looming just down the road. There were several people at the tavern, waiting to board the coach for its
journey through to the next village, and they all sat down to dine together.
The dining was communal, something that Renfield did not particularly enjoy. He was seated next to a
rather pretty young girl, no more than eighteen or nineteen, who was accompanied by a dour woman in
her sixties. Judging from the protective, glaring look the crone gave any man who glanced at the girl,
Renfield guessed her to be a grandmother, or other relative, acting as chaperone.
When the meal was served, the others at the table, had bowed their heads, muttering their way through
what seemed to Renfield to be a very lengthy prayer, spoken in their native tongue. Out of courtesy,
Renfield refrained from helping himself to any food, even dipping his head a little in respect. The girl
noticed this. When the grace was over and the diners began to help themselves to food, she turned to
Renfield and said shyly, "You do not pray?"
Renfield gazed at her in near shock. It was terrible manners to mention religion to a complete stranger.
But there was no condemnation or hostility in the girl’s manner, so he replied. "Not often, no."
The elderly woman gripped the girl’s arm, muttering fiercely in Romanian as she glared at Renfield.
The girl shook her off, saying sharply, "Nagyanya, azért ne harapd le a fejemet!" When the old lady
looked offended, the girl sighed. Her voice softening, she gestured to Renfield and said, "Nézd csak.
Biztos vagyok benne alapjában véve jó ember." The woman grunted, giving Renfield one last,
suspicious glance, then turned to help herself to potatoes. The girl smiled charmingly at Renfield. "I
am sorry, sir. My grandmother is an old-fashioned woman. She would have me speak to no man save
my blood relatives until I am married--and then I should speak only to my husband or a priest." She
rolled her eyes. "I try to tell her that this is almost a new century, but old people..." She shrugged.
"Yes, quite," he said dryly.
"I know good English, but I wish to improve. You will speak to me, please? Help me to practice."
There was no way to turn down the plea without being unutterably rude, so Renfield found himself
making polite small talk with the girl as he made his way through his dinner. When they were done,
there was still a few moments left before, and the company sat on the rough benches before the tavern,
enjoying the cool, late afternoon. Renfield was glad that he hadn’t packed his coat away--it would be
chilly in a few hours.
As the coach, harnessed with fresh horses pulled up, they rose to their feet to board. The girl was
telling him of how she was returning from her stay at a girl’s school, ready to take up a position as
teacher in her village school. "And you, sir? You are on vacation, yes? You decided to see more of
Europe than what they show on the Grand Tour."
Renfield’s smile was a bit sardonic. "I’m afraid not. It’s just business for me. I’m to arrange some
rather extensive property sales for a Romanian nobleman."
The girl brightened considerably, and even the old lady looked interested, making Renfield think that
she wasn’t quite as ignorant of English as she pretended. "How exciting!" the girl exclaimed. "Who is
it?"
"I believe he is from a minor branch of the royal line," Renfield found that he was enjoying the
implied respect that his announcement had brought. "His name is Prince Draculea."
The reaction startled him. Besides himself and the women, there were two other men in the coach. All
his fellow passengers froze, then all but the girl quickly crossed themselves. She just stared at Renfield
with round eyes. "What is it?"
"I... I have heard that name," she said faintly. "When I was a small child, my mother told me that I
must not go outside after sunset, or Draculea..."
Her grandmother grabbed her arm, and this time her grip was harsh. She hissed to the girl in rapid
Romanian. When the girl started to protest, the old woman shook her and muttered, "Nosferatu!"
The girl turned even paler, and Renfield asked, "What is it, Miss?" If there was some local rumor
about his client, it might be helpful to know the details.
The girl shook her head. "It is nothing, sir. Only superstitions, and old wives’ tales." She smiled, but it
was weak. "We are modern, yes? We have no use for such stories." But she became very quiet after
that--they all did. Renfield, who usually passed through life unnoticed, experienced the discomfort of
being the focus of attention.
The sun was low, near sinking behind the mountains, when the coach drew to a stop. Renfield looked
out and frowned. It was a crossroads. One fork led to the east, the other to the north. He knew that the
next stop on the route was to the west. Why were they stopping here, in the middle of nowhere?
He was startled when the driver called, "You, Englishman."
He opened the door, leaning out to look up at him, and the man was unstrapping his luggage. "I say!
You mustn’t do that till we reach my destination."
"Here you stay." The man had one case loose, and was working on the other.
Renfield looked around. There was nothing there, no sign of life. Nothing but a weather beaten sign
pointing down the eastern path that said BORGO. "I’m to be dropped off at the Borgo Pass. It was
arranged."
The man shook his head. "No. This is as far as I take you."
"But... Dash it all, it’s only a few more miles. What’s the sense of...?"
The driver pointed North with his whip. "We not go Borgo Pass. We go that way to next stop."
"That doesn’t make any sense. It will take you miles out of your way." The man offered him the cases,
and Renfield said stubbornly. "I paid for the full trip."
The man dropped the suitcases to the ground. Renfield scrambled out with a protesting cry, hurrying to
examine them, happy when he saw that they seemed undamaged. When he looked up to protest again,
the man flung a few coins at his feet. "There. Paid."
Renfield’s tiredness and nerves added anger to his indignation, and he moved close to the coach. "I
won’t stand for this! It’s not only wrong, it’s insulting."
The driver waved him away. "Back." Renfield scowled. "Back, Englishmen! I do not want to hurt you.
Sunset approaches, and I will not be here when the light is gone! I will go over you if I must!"
"I don’t understand this! It would only take you a few minutes to take me to my proper destination. It
will be difficult to walk there with my cases. They aren’t scheduled to pick me up till late evening,
anyway, and they may not be able to find me if I’m not there."
The man’s voice was flat. "He will find you, Englishman."
"Sir?" The girl was leaning out of the door, her face anxious. Her grandmother was clutching at her
dress, speaking to her frantically, but the girl shook her off. Renfield stepped closer. The girl said, "Sir,
come with us to the next village. Tomorrow you can hire a wagon and go to the Castle Draculea, if you
must. But do not go tonight."
There seemed to be genuine concern, and Renfield was baffled, but gratified. "I’m sorry, but I must.
My whole career may rest on this, you see." The grandmother muttered something. "What did she
say?"
"She quoted the Bible, sir. ’What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his
own soul?’. Must you go?" Renfield nodded. The girl sighed, then lifted a thin silver chain from
around her neck and held it out to Renfield. A tiny silver crucifix dangled at the end. "Then here--take
this."
"Oh, really--I’m much obliged, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be..."
The old lady leaned over her granddaughter’s shoulder. Her small, dark eyes were no longer hostile,
but looked concerned, and almost... pitying? In thickly accented English she said, "Please. Wear it for
your mother’s sake."
Stunned, Renfield accepted the necklace. The two women watched intently as he slipped it around his
neck, dropping it beneath his shirt. The old lady nodded, and gently pulled the girl back to her seat
while one of them men shut the door. Renfield stepped back as the driver slapped the reins on the
horses’ backs. Above the thud of hoof beats and the rumble of the coach wheels he still heard the old
lady say, "Dumnezeu a proteja pe el."
end part 65
TBC
Back to index

Author’s Notes: Summary: Renfield arrives at the castle, and meets his host.
Translations of Romany (caution: taken from online dictionary. May have some mistakes): Si tut
bocklo?--Are you hungry?, ’Chavaia!--Stop!, Guajo--non-gypsy, chavo--boy, kushti--good, fine, nice,
all right. Misto--well, all right, mooi--mouth, odjus--lovely, beautiful, mic--little (this is Romanian. I
can’t find it in Rom), hai shala?--do you understand?
Rating: NC17
Part Sixty-six: Meeting

Borgo Pass, Transylvania
Renfield stared after the departing coach, stunned into immobility. *Good Lord, I’ve been abandoned.
Of all the bloody cheek!* The coach disappeared around a curve, and Renfield sighed, looking around.
As he surveyed the area, his annoyance began to give way to apprehension.
The area was thick with trees and shrubbery, the plants creeping up to the edge of the road. It made
Renfield nervous to have that thick vegetation at his back. He was a city man--the little parks scattered
here and there in London were quite enough for him. Here the only signs of humanity were the badly
rutted road and the sign he stood beside. Other than that the area might have been virgin, untouched by
man.
Renfield shivered. Dusk was drawing on quickly, here among the mountains. He looked up the road
that led to Borgo Pass. The trees almost met over the road, and the shadows were gathering thickly
beneath them.
*They’re expecting me at some sort of stop IN Borgo Pass. If I’m not there, will they think to come
here to look for me?* He sighed in frustration. *And if they do, it will STILL look bad. It will reflect
on my ability to get things done if I couldn’t get a coach driver to take me where I’d paid to go in the
first place. Well, it shouldn’t be too far. If I start now, perhaps I can reach the agreed upon place
before they arrive.* He buttoned his coat up to his throat, picked up a case in each hand, and began to
walk up the road to the east.
It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t pleasant--the road was on a distinct uphill grade. It wasn’t that Renfield
was unused to walking--since he had little money for cabs, he had to walk anywhere he wanted to go
in the city, but there it had been over smooth sidewalks. He stumbled on the deep ruts, and cursed,
wishing that he’d invested in a pair of sturdy boots. *But then I didn’t know I’d have to be hiking the
last few miles of my journey,* he thought sourly.
Renfield felt more tired than he ever had in his life. He’d been jounced and rattled for days on end, the
foreign food had not been kind to his digestion, and the sleeping accommodations had been less than
ideal. He literally ached with weariness. *I only hope the prince takes this into account when I arrive,
and doesn’t expect me to be at my chipper best. I’ll need at least a day before I’m myself again.* He
grimaced, thinking, *And I wish I could have a bath before I meet him. The one I managed in
Budapest was far from satisfactory--expensive, cold, and scanty, but at least thorough. I’ve had to tend
myself from a basin the last few days, and I can’t be too fresh and appealing by now.*
The road became steeper, and darker. Renfield came to what he considered must be the proper meeting
place--a small cleared area by the side of the road. He was grateful, as the last rays of sunlight had
finally melted away, and the moon had not yet risen. It became quite, quite black.
There was a rock cliff backing the space, with several boulders scattered before it, and Renfield chose
a conveniently sized rock to perch on. He carefully put the cliff at his back, because he’d begun to hear
noises in the surrounding forest. He told himself over and over that it was no more than rabbits and
squirrels, perhaps a fox or stoat. He told himself that, but even his untrained ears could tell that they
were made by something much larger, and probably not nearly as harmless.
The moon rose, fat and silver, illuminating the land with its pale rays, but it didn’t ease his worries.
He’d never found the magic in moonlight that some people did--to him, London looked prosaic under
any light. But here... He looked around nervously. *It’s almost as if it’s a different moon--a wilder,
colder moon.* He shook his head quickly. *God, I mustn’t get fanciful now. This is the land of
folktales and legends. If I let my mind ramble here, there’s no telling what strange ways it may
follow.*
The sounds moved closer--furtive rustling and snapping. Renfield saw yellow glints in the forest
across the road--moonlight reflecting off eyes. Even a city man like Renfield knew that. And the glints
were distressingly high over the ground. They didn’t belong to any low-slung weasel or fox. He grew
tenser by the second, and wondered which would be most effective--trying to run, or scrambling up on
the rock? He had no confidence in his own speed, especially over rough, unfamiliar ground, in the
dark. But though a nearby boulder was higher, almost as tall as he, there was no guarantee that he’d be
able to get on top of it, or that it would be safe if he did.
Just when he was ready to attempt the climb, he heard the sound of approaching horses. Relief washed
over Renfield, then, for a brief second, he worried that they might not be coming for him. Then he
dismissed that. *Who else would they be looking for at this time in this lonely place?*
He dared to get off his perch and walk to the edge of the road, peering east. Nothing, and then,
suddenly... a light. He realized that the carriage had come around a bend in the road, appearing from
behind a screen of trees, or the hillside. The light separated into TWO lights as it came closer--lanterns
set on either side. For a long time that was all he could make out. The carriage was only a quarter of a
mile away before he could make out the least detail.
It was a tall, old-fashioned closed carriage, and it was as black as the night that surrounded it. It was
pulled by two blacks, and two grays--husky horses that still moved with eerie quiet. The thud of their
steps was muffled, almost as if their hooves had been padded for silence’s sake, and the usual rattle
and jingle of tack was subdued. Renfield began to think that there was something suppressive in the
air, something that muted all normal sounds. For a moment brief, half-formed memories of whispered
stories flitted through his mind--stories of ghost carriages, rolling down endless night roads on
journeys that never ended. He shook his head quickly. Yes, it would be easy to let his thoughts turn
fanciful in the strange, old land.
As it drew near, slowing, Renfield saw that there were two men sitting on the high driver’s bench. The
driver was a blond man of early middle-age, stocky and sturdy. His companion was much younger,
hardly more than a boy. When Renfield saw him, saw his dark eyes and hair, he felt a sudden pang
of... not quite recognition. No, the boy was like Jonathan in only the most superficial way, but
Renfield was missing his young friend terribly, and he seized on every likeness. He had the precious
photograph tucked carefully in the small leather case that held the descriptions of properties and legal
papers that he was bringing to Draculea.
The carriage drew to a stop, and the driver looked down at him, eyes shrewd and assessing. The
younger man peeked around him, almost like a child hiding behind his parents when confronted with a
stranger, but his expression was friendly. The driver said, "You are Mister Renfield, of Hawkins and
Thompkins?" Renfield nodded. "Well met, sir. I am Simion. Prince Draculea sends his regards, and
apologies that he did not come to meet you himself. He seldom leaves the castle these days."
"Yes, no trouble." Renfield picked up his cases and stepped toward the carriage.
"Sir, one moment, and I will help you with those."
The dark haired boy laid a hand eagerly on Simion’s arm. "Simion, can I? Please?"
"I thought that you’d rather hold the reins. I know you like the horses."
The boy nodded. "Yes, yes, I love them. But Simion, someone NEW! Please?"
The man looked at his companion for a moment, and Renfield thought that he almost smiled. "I
suppose you want to ride with him, too?" A full bottom lip was nibbled. Simion gestured. "Get on,
then. But Rill," he held up an admonishing finger. "No nonsense."
"Simion!" The boy boy sounded indignant.
"I know, I know. I was teasing you, child." He patted the boy’s shoulder in apology, and Renfield felt
an odd twinge as the hand lingered a moment more than was necessary.
Rill leapt lightly down to the ground, landing with careless grace and hurrying around to Renfield
(though he paused to stroke the noses of the lead horses). He came to Renfield and hesitated, smiling
shyly, and bobbing his head in greeting. Despite his weariness, discomfort, and tension, Renfield
found himself answering the smile. "Hello."
The boy beamed, "Hello! Here, let me help you with those." He reached for the cases.
"You only need take one. They’re quite..." Rill took one of the cases from Renfield, handling it as if it
were empty. He watched in surprise as the boy opened the coach door and stood on the step, settling
the case on one of the seats. Then he held out his hand for the second, and Renfield had no excuse not
to relinquish it. He shook his head as the boy stowed it. "I thought my arms would be torn from their
sockets with the weight of those the last few miles, and you handle them so easily."
Rill looked back at him in surprise. "You had to walk?"
"Yes, the fool of a driver took the northern route, and refused to bring me here. I had to walk from the
last fork."
Rill turned questioning eyes on the driver, and the older man frowned, "Well, it isn’t as if it was
unexpected. Your pardon, sir, but the peasants hereabout are a superstitious lot."
"You must be very tired," Rill’s voice was sympathetic. He extended a hand to Renfield. "Let me help
you into the coach."
Some other time Renfield might have stiffly declined the offer, but he WAS tired, and aching, and the
boy seemed genuinely concerned. He reached up, setting his foot on the high step. Rill’s grip was
shockingly cold, and very firm. Renfield found himself pulled up and forward so quickly and strongly
that he stumbled, falling against the young man. They both tumbled back into the carriage, and he
found that the boy, half fallen and pinned against the seat by Renfield’s body, was laughing. "I’m
sorry, young man."
They sorted themselves out, and Rill said, "Oh, no! I should have told you I was going to do that." Rill
had taken Renfield’s arms to help him up, and he moved the older man over onto the empty seat.
"Sometimes I’m too..." His brow puckered. "I..." He was searching for words.
"You do things a little TOO strongly?" Renfield supplied.
The boy’s forehead smoothed, and he nodded. "Simion says, ’moderation, Rill’. That means not too
little, not too much." He shut the door and rapped on the roof, then sat beside Renfield. The carriage
lurched and began to move, swaying as Simion circled in the small cleared area, turning to go back up
the road.
The windows of the carriage were down, letting in the moonlight. Rill was almost as pale as the
moonbeams, except for the dark of his hair and eyes, and the surprising redness of his lips. A cold
wind blew through the window, and Renfield remembered the chill of the boy’s hands when he’d
helped him. *Of course, it’s the cold.* While the driver had been wearing a coat and gloves, Rill wore
neither, and his clothes looked more suited to mild weather. The older man seemed to care for the boy.
Why was he allowing him out in this weather without proper clothes? "You’re cold."
Rill blinked, looking down at his own hands, as if puzzled. "I’m sorry. Yes, I am cold. I mean, I FEEL
cold." He made a sound of exasperation, displeased with his explanation. "I feel cold to OTHERS."
Renfield started to unbutton his coat. "Here, boy. You need this more than I."
"Oh, no! No, sir." He pushed Renfield’s hands aside and did up the few buttons he’d opened. Renfield
sat still, surprised by the boy’s intimate action. "You need this, not I. You see, the cold doesn’t bother
me. It did once, but I’ve become more used to it."
Renfield regarded Rill, and came to a conclusion--the boy was a little slow. But like many who were
truly slow, and not just stupid, he seemed to have a sweet nature. Renfield felt himself relaxing a little.
"So, Rill, are you Prince Draculea’s man, also?" The boy bit his lip again, lifting one shoulder, but said
nothing. "You work for the prince?"
"Um, I clean some. I help the gypsies with the horses."
"He employs you? Pays you?"
Rill studied him in silence, then looked out the window. "There are wolves in the forest, did you know
that? The coach driver should not have left you there alone in the night. It isn’t safe."
*He’s trying to distract me.* Renfield thought this, and knew it was true, but it worked, nonetheless.
"Wolves?"
Rill nodded. "The come around the castle sometimes. The gypsies want to kill them--their fur is
valuable, but the master says not to. He says that they belong to the land as much as the gypsies, and
this is their home, too."
"Ah, a conservationist." Rill gave him a blank, puzzled look. "The prince protects everything under his
care?"
The boy’s smile was brilliant. "Oh, yes! He takes care of Simion, and I, and Rock, and Sinn, and the
gypsies, and... and..." his eyes flickered, "and the peasants."
Had there been a bit of hesitation there? Renfield had read his history, and knew the feudal attitudes
toward the lowborn. It wasn’t hard to believe that they had survived to the present day in this
out-of-the-way place. *Perhaps the prince helps himself to a maiden now and then,* he thought
cynically.
Renfield had been given the impression that Prince Draculea was a bit of a recluse, so the list of people
’in his care’ rather surprised him. *Still, I suppose someone of his rank would have a few retainers.
Simion was obviously one of those. Rill... He looked at the boy again. With Rill, it was harder to tell.
His clothing, though simple, was richer than Simion’s.
A howl rose, wavering on the still night air. It was close-by. The animal couldn’t have been more than
a few yards from the roadway, hidden by the shadows and undergrowth. He tensed as the shrill cry
faded. Rill noticed, and patted his arm comfortingly. "Don’t worry. We have strong gates at the castle.
They will close them before you leave the coach. Sometimes they come right to the gates." He turned
his eyes toward the window, saying almost absently, "Sometimes they come closer."
"Good God, aren’t you afraid?"
Rill seemed to puzzle over this. "No. No, not really. They wouldn’t hurt me."
Renfield stared at Rill. *I didn’t think he was THAT ignorant. But the driver is protective of him. I
suppose that he is the boy’s keeper.*
Rill bounced lightly on the seat, apparently too pleased to remain still. He said excitedly, "I was
allowed to clean another room, just for you!"
"You were ’allowed’, were you?"
He nodded. "I like it. I don’t want to just sit around like Sinn, or..." his voice trailed off. "Rock has...
has other interests, with Sinn, or sometimes the gypsies." From the tone of voice, Renfield had some
idea of what those interests might be, and he expected to see a blush rise in the boy’s cheeks. He was
rather surprised when it didn’t. Rill was continuing. Voice proud, he said, "The master even lets me
clean in the library now."
"That’s a privilege?"
"Oh, yes!" Rill’s voice was sincere. "Usually he tends it himself, but I have been very, very careful,
and he finally let me help, under his supervision." He sighed. "It took years and years and years to
convince him. I think that Simion persuaded him. He wanted me to work with the master, so he would
not be alone so much."
"So you are his companion?" Many well-to-do people indulged themselves by hiring companions.
These people lived with their patrons and were provided room and board, and usually a small salary.
In return they were at the whims of their employers. Their days were usually spend fetching and
carrying, performing any tasks the patron deemed too important to be allotted to a lower servant.
Generally these positions were held by impoverished young ladies, dancing attendance on widows and
dowagers.
Rill considered this carefully. Renfield waited patiently. *You can almost see his mind working. Every
emotion flits across his face. God help him if he ever tried to be deceptive.*
Finally the boy nodded once, firmly. "That’s a good word. Yes, I’m his companion."
In his own world of London, Renfield would never have done what he did now. The rules of polite
social conversation, what was and was not done, were too deeply ingrained, but things were so
different here. This was a strange, wild place, and he found himself broaching a subject he would have
never dared back in ’civilization’, no matter how delicately he could have worded it. "What of Simion,
Rill? Are you his companion, too?"
The boy smiled, eyes shining. Then he bit his lip, lifting one shoulder in an eloquent shrug as he
dipped his head, then slid another shy glance at Renfield. *He knows very well what I mean,* Renfield
thought. *He isn’t as slow as I thought--not about some things.*
Renfield was considering asking another question when the boy said suddenly, "The castle." Renfield
looked out the window, and blinked in surprise. How far had they travelled? How was it that he was so
unaware of the distance and time? Both must have been considerably more than he had estimated, for
the structure looming before him was massive.
He heard a rushing sound, and realized that there must be a great river nearby, running beyond his
scope, somewhere in the darkness. He saw that the castle was sitting before a steep drop, and thought
that the river must run below. *A good position,* he thought. *Easily defended in the ancient days.
But my God, the thing is huge!*
It was surrounded by a great stone wall, and the coach drove through an open gate, entering the
courtyard. On eather side Renfield could see heavy wood and iron gates, each as thick as a stout man.
He was just thinking that they would be difficult to close when the coach cleared them, and they began
to swing closed. In the moonlight, Renfield could see two men at each door, pushing them shut.
The coach came to a halt, and two of the gypsies came to the coach. Renfield sat back a little as one of
them opened the door and stood on the step, leaning in. He cast a brief smile at the boy, then turned
shrewd, curious eyes on Renfield. Renfield found himself shrinking back a little, but the gypsy only
reached over and took one of the cases, passing it out to his compatriot.
He took the second case, and gave Renfield another measuring look. Then he smiled at Rill, jerking his
head toward Renfield. "Kushti mic Guajo." Rill nodded. The gypsy studied the now apprehensive
clerk more closely, then smirked. "Odjus mooi." There was something insinuating about his laugh. "Si
tut bocklo, chavo?"
Rill frowned and said sharply, "’Chavaia!" He spoke rapidly the words running together so swiftly that
Renfield couldn’t follow. Then he said, "Hai shala?"
The gypsy shrugged, and his tone was amused. "Misto, misto." He turned and hopped down,
disappearing from sight.
"What was that all about?" Renfield asked.
Rill was apologetic. "I am afraid that the gypsies aren’t used to dealing with outsiders. He just needed
to be reminded that you are a guest, and to be treated with respect. He will warn the others."
"Boy!"
Rill looked up alertly, face lighting at the sound of the driver’s voice. "Coming!" He turned to
Renfield. "I will alight first, yes? Then I can help you down."
"Really, I’m not..." The young man was out of the carriage and reaching up toward him, his expression
so openly friendly that Renfield let the rest of the sentence die, taking the boy’s cool hand and
allowing him to assist him down.
The gypsies were nowhere in sight. The driver was leaning over watching his passengers. "Rill, come
help me get the horses situated. Mister Renfield, the beasts must not be allowed to stand in the cold
while they are so warm from exercise." He pointed toward a set of shallow stone steps, which led up to
a massive door. "You may enter through there." As he spoke, Rill quickly clambered up to sit beside
him. Simion slapped the reins, and the horses began to move toward a nearby stable. He called over
his shoulder. "Please go inside. The master is most eager to greet you."
As the carriage rolled into the dim outbuilding, Renfield pulled his collar tighter about his throat and
walked slowly to the foot of the steps. He gazed up at the door, undescided. *I can’t just walk in
unannounced. Perhaps I should wait for them to return?* He stamped his feet, which were beginning
to feel uncomfortably numb from a combination of weariness and cold. *I hate the thought of ringing a
bell or knocking at this time of night. The prince is supposed to be elderly, I think. It isn’t good to
disturb the rest of older folk, and...*
His thoughts were interrupted by a low creak. The door was opening, swinging ponderously on its
thick hinges. Renfield stood still as it inched its way open, absurdly fascinated by the almost stealthy
movement. *Stealthy? What nonsense, Robert.*
The open door way was filled with shadows, darker than the outside night. For a moment, Renfield
had the chilling thought that there was no one there, that some ghostly hand had swung open the door,
trying to lure a poor mortal inside. The someone stepped out onto the narrow landing.
Renfield blinked, knowing that he was staring rudely, but not able to help it. The man, carrying a
candlestick with flickering taper in one hand, was dressed in a long, red silk robe, the sort that
Renfield imagined a high ranking nobleman would affect when he was feeling too ill to dress, but still
needed to receive visitors. But on this man, it did not look affected--it looked right and proper, as if
this were his normal costume.
His hair was so white that it glimmered in the moonlight, and Renfield saw that it had been pulled
back into a braid that fell far down his back. He was still handsome in a grizzled manner, the thick
moustache unable to hide what must have once been strikingly handsome features, now blurred by
age. Even with the slight stooping of his shoulders, the master of Castle Draculea was still a head taller
than Renfield, still a most impressive man.
Renfield, gaze fixed on the man who had to be his host, put his foot on the bottom step, then froze.
Those eyes... For a split second they had seemed to burn yellow. Then the moment passed, and he
realized that it was only that they were such a pale blue that they seemed silver in the moonlight. Yes,
that was it.
The man smiled. He extended his free hand toward Renfield in a graceful and gracious gesture of
welcome. "I am Draculea. I bid you welcome."
Apprehension fading a bit at this courtly greeting, Renfield went up to stand beside his host on the
landing. "Prince Draculea--I am Robert Renfield, from the firm of Thompkins and Hawkins."
Draculea inclined his head in a not-quite bow, then indicated the open doorway. "Enter freely, and of
your own will, traveler."
A ring flashed on Draculea’s finger, catching Renfield’s attention. It looked like an old fashioned
signet ring--broad and thick, with an intricate design. But it was the hand itself that Renfield really
noticed.
It was a big hand. Though slightly disfigured with age, Renfield could readily imagine it handling
reins, perhaps weilding a weapon... *or stroking firmly over smooth flesh* He blinked, wondering at
that sudden image. Why had he thought that? This man was obviously long past the age of youthful
rutting. He glanced quickly at the prince, hoping that he had not been rude, and was surprised by a
smile that could only be described as knowing.
Draculea’s voice was soft. "Why do you hesitate, young man? Inside there is warmth, wine, a soft
bed... many kinds of comfort await you." He took hold of Renfield’s arm. The young clerk saw the
nails, thick and long, almost like talons, and his shudder was not only because of cold. But when the
prince tugged gently, he followed him into the deep shadows of Castle Draculea, and the door swung
shut behind them.
Renfield chose to ignore that the quiet thud of its closing carried, somehow, an air of finality.
end part 66
Back to index
Chapter 67: Chapter 67: Novelty

Pairing: Rock/Sinn
Archive: The WWOMB. Otherwise, ask, and I will ask for removal when I get a publisher.
Disclaimer: Bram Stoker, the original creator of the recognized characters, died in 1912, and copyright
expires 75 years after the author’s death. Therefore the work entered the public domain in 1985, and I
have used the characters in this fiction, along with original creations. The whole is copyrighted by
myself. I mean nothing but respect for the actors and actresses who were chosen for the ’cast’ gallery,
and there is no understanding, legal or otherwise, with them.
Summary: Rock and Sinn react to the new arrival at Castle Draculea, both seeing possibilities.
Notes: Sinn is more or less content with his life at Castle Draculea--Rock is still chafing under
Draculea’s control. ’Childre’ is the collective term for a vampire’s blood born offspring.
Rating: NC-17
Part 67: Novelty

Sinn stretched as best he could with his hands tied to the headboard. He wondered idly, not for the first
time, if Rock realized that the restraints were symbolic only--that he’d have little trouble snapping the
leather straps. Now, the chains in the dungeon--those were another matter. He was always a bit
nervous when Rock wanted to play down there. That was part of the allure, of course, but Sinn didn’t
trust Rock to keep it to play. The boy was quite, quite unbalanced--it was one of his great
attractions--so Sinn was careful to pretend great enthusiasm for the chains and the rack. Rock was less
inclined to want to use whatever he thought gave Sinn the most pleasure. Sinn, knowing this perverse
streak, could easily manipulate him into performing almost precisely the rough games and
humiliations that he most craved.
He’d spent the last hour or so with his knees lashed to the headboard above his bound hands, bent
almost double, as Rock fucked him with vicious abandon. The older vampire had managed to tear
some of the tender internal tissues, withdrawing his prick decorated with dark, gelid blood instead of
the shit he might have expected from a mortal partner. Sinn could even now feel the healing, like a
vague, itching tickle, deep in his bowels. It was so familiar that he hardly noticed it anymore.
When he’d finished (Sinn had managed his own orgasm before Rock spilled himself--he knew from
experience that if he didn’t, he’d be left hanging), Rock had slapped him a couple of times to express
his displeasure in Sinn disobeying him by climaxing without his permission. Then, to further bring
home Sinn’s transgression, he’d left him tied while he went off in search of one of the gypsies for a
quick meal. Draculea had finally given him permission to do so--if he could persuade the men to do it
willingly. Sinn chuckled, thinking of some of the favors Rock had to exchange if he wanted to drink
from a vampire’s most natural prey--a human.
Sinn stretched his legs luxuriously, working out the last kinks. Before Rock had left, Sinn had pleaded
to be allowed to remain strapped in his uncomfortable, legs-up position, giving Rock doe-eyes, and
telling him that this position made him feel so SECURE. Rock had cut his legs free immediately.
He sighed. Poor Rock, so predictable. Oh, he was reliable for a good, hard fucking, but there was no
subtlety in the man--no finesse of cruelty. *No real power.* Sinn missed the days when Draculea took
him to his bed. Not that the master vampire had ever been deliberately cruel to him, but he was so
magnificent in his self-assurance and casual strength. Vlad Draculea was clearly meant to be a master
of men in every realm--political, physical, and sexual.
*Even now that he is finally aging,* Sinn thought. *Even with the wrinkles and white hair, he is more
exciting than Rock at his most virile.* But it had been decades since Draculea had sought the embrace
of any of this little clan. Sinn had stopped trying to seduce him after a few years, after meeting with
blank indifference that was more cutting than violent rejection. Rock was relieved to be free of
Draculea’s carnal demands. He’d never really let himself enjoy being taken, clinging stubbornly to his
resentment of any sign of possession.
Sinn knew that Rill still tried, or had up until Draculea had entered his deepest, and most profound
darkness of the soul. With Simion’s permission, even encouragement, the boy had gently tried to coax
Draculea into intimacy. The elder vampire had allowed it, almost like letting a favorite puppy bumble
about him, lavishing him with clumsy affection. He’d let the boy sit on his lap, caress him, even kiss
him. But when Rill’s hands had moved to his crotch, Draculea would push him away gently, sending a
bewildered and sorrowful Rill to Simion to be comforted.
Sinn knew about Nicolae, of course. They all knew of the lost love of Draculea’s life, though Draculea
himself would never discuss him with his two youngest childre. Sinn had seen the portrait in the
library, had read the reams of parchment, all carefully preserved, that were covered with the elegant
script. Sinn had always been very skeptical of the concept of pining away for love, but now he wasn’t
so sure. It seemed he was watching it.
Simion didn’t trust him, but since he’d never tried to use or hurt Rill, he treated the French vampire
with much more courtesy than he showed the recalcitrant Rock. He would even spend time with Sinn,
talking and playing chess or cards while Rill watched in rapt fascination. Sinn had gradually worked
out the entire strange history of Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea--his cold childhood, his bloody reign, his
reluctant decision to seek a bride, and his fateful meeting with Nicolae Calugarul, the Little Monk.
Sinn had to smile, remembering that. The truly pure were so much fun, so tempting. Corruption of an
innocent had to be one of the most delightful recreations. That was one reason why he was so hopeful
about this upcoming visitation. The clerk was to be an Englishman, yes? He’d heard from the gypsies’
gossip that in recent decades the English had become a singularly prudish people, very repressed and
horrified by anything they viewed as perverse, or even ’not normal’. It had been a long time since Sinn
had been able to practice his seduction techniques. He was quite looking forward to it.
He found himself tapping his fingers against the headboard, feeling the first stir of impatience. Where
was that pigheaded peasant? He wanted to have a little time to freshen himself before he met this
intriguing unknown. After all, first impressions were so important.
*****
Rock had finished with his sketchy cleansing. Now he paced in his room, a cup of wine almost
forgotten in his hands. He still enjoyed the taste, but he’d never become used to taking normal food or
drink, not like Rill. The boy had accustomed himself to the discomfort that followed each such meal,
simply for the pleasure of enjoying the things he’d liked when he was mortal. Simion clucked over
him on the occasions he took too much and became nauseous, or got a belly ache, but he continued to
indulge the boy, knowing how much he enjoyed the treats.
It infuriated Rock, and he had no real recourse to relieve the rage and hunger that boiled up inside him.
Oh, not the physical hunger--that physical need was met. He still had to take the majority of his meals
from the beasts in the forest that surrounded the castle, but now it was supplemented by true
nourishment. At least once a week he managed to cajole one of the gypsies into allowing him to feed.
More often than not he had to pleasure his prospective meal before he could eat, but he’d gotten
proficient at that, and it was always over quickly. He planned to slaughter every one of the grinning
animals some day.
Rock stared at the wine, then made a sound of disgust and threw it into the fire. It hissed, tart-scented
steam rising as it struck the flames, and he tossed the cup negligently on the table. He’d always
dreamed of living in a fine house, wearing fine clothes. Now both wishes had been granted, but at a
cost that galled him. He was not his own man--he was Draculea’s creature. He wasn’t even his
pet--Rill held that favored position, and Sinn (up until Draculea’s recent decline), had been a
companion to the prince, conversing with him on subjects that Rock knew little of, and cared less
about. Rill was Draculea’s pet, Sinn his companion, and Simion his friend. And Rock? Rock was still
his bitch--nothing had much changed from the first night of his unlife, when Draculea had taken him
with the same sort of brutal indifference that Rock had usually shown his own bed partners.
*Too long, too fucking long.* How long had it been since he’d been able to REALLY have someone?
He considered it. There was Sinn, of course. //But he’s of no consequence. Hell, he ENJOYS it. I think
if I fucked him to death he’d just smile. There was that stable lad...//
Rock smiled cruelly in fond remembrance. He’d been delectable--barely old enough to scrape the fuzz
from his cheeks, so terrified... Rock hadn’t meant to kill him. Well, he hadn’t STARTED OUT to take
his life. He only wanted his blood, and his ass. He’d been hunting away from the others when he’d
come upont the boy, sleepily relieving himself behind a bush near the stables of a manor house where
Draculea had been visiting, trying to decide which memeber of the thoroughly charmed family he
would select for his own delectation.
Rock had stunned the boy with a quick blow, then carried him deep into the forest, knowing that he
must be well away from the others if he was to have this treat. Then he’d awakened the boy before
taking him. What was the use in fucking an unconscious body? No sport there.
The blood lust had mingled with the fleshly lust, and he hadn’t tried too hard to curb his nature. He’d
torn the boy’s throat out as he raped him, gorging himself on blood made sweet by terror and pain. He
hadn’t hidden the body well enough, and Draculea knew immediately what had happened. It was one
of several times in this twilight existence that Rock had believed he was finally going to meet true
death, but it hadn’t happened.
Even that one incident... It had been a lashing out, taking whatever he could, hardly by choice, so
could it really be counted as an act of his will? So that would mean what? "A hundred and ninety-four
years," he whispered. Unlike his brother, he was aware of every year that had passed. "A hundred and
ninety-four years of being the taken, instead of the taker. Well, it has gone on long enough."
He stalked to the window. This was one of the outer rooms--the windows had not been boarded up,
and he could enter it only at night. He had caught the distant sound of a carriage. He stood at the
window, watching the courtyard, showing no more life than a carved statue.
He still didn’t move when he heard the carriage approaching. He stayed still during the long moments
while the rumble of wheels and stamp of hooves drew nearer. *He’s coming closer--the outsider. He
isn’t of Draculea’s blood, he isn’t one of those under his hereditary protection.* The carriage entered
the courtyard.
He watched as the gypsies went to meet it. Simion was alone on the driver’s seat--that meant that Rill
had ridden inside with the new arrival. Yes, he would. Rock snorted softly. *He’s like a puppy,
friendly with everyone who doesn’t kick him aside.*
The gypsy lingered for a moment on the carriage step. He was laughing, shaking his head when he
jumped back down and took the baggage to the castle with his companion. Rock tensed a little,
waiting, but it was Rill who emerged next. Then his brother turned, reaching up toward the open
carriage door. Again Rock tensed, and this time he wasn’t disappointed.
He was a small man. *He’ll barely come up to my chin.* He was wrapped in one of the heavy,
muffling coats so beloved of the city dwellers. Words were exchanged, and Rill leaped back up to sit
beside Simion as the retainer drove the coach to the stables, leaving the visitor alone at the foot of the
steps that led to the great door.
The Englishman looked at the castle, his eyes traveling slowly up the building. Rock knew that he was
seeing more than the mortal was, because he was seeing with vampiric eyes. It was unlikely that this
Renfield would see him, but he could see the mortal very clearly.
He was pale in the moonlight. *So pale that he might be one of us,* Rock thought. The face... It wasn’t
feminine, but it was fine boned, almost delicate, and there was a nervous, melancholy droop to the
well-formed mouth. Even he couldn’t tell the eye color at this distance, but they were large and, he
thought, intelligent. *Yes, he’ll have a mind--they wouldn’t send a stupid man. So much the better.*
His fingers flexed, but he was unaware of the deep pricks that his nails made in his own arms. *The
stupid ones are too easy to break.* He rubbed his chin, watching as the man started up the stairs. He
felt his fangs pricking at his lips, and thoughtfully sucked at the tiny wounds, nursing the tiny trickle
of thick, cold blood. He smiled as the young man disappeared from view. "This could be very
interesting."
*I’d better go release Sinn. He’ll want to make himself pretty, and he’ll drive me mad with pouting if
he isn’t satisfied with how he looks the first time this Renfield sees him.* He started back to the room
in which they’d been trysting.
*****
Sinn had finally lost patience and decided that he was tired of waiting for Rock. He’d started twisting
and testing his bonds, considering the quickest and easiest way to snap them. He’d almost settled on
his plan when he heard Rock approaching the room. "About time, cheri," he murmured. He blinked
rapidly, forcing his eyes to moisten. Before Rock reached the room he’d managed a single bloody tear.
Satisfied that it looked suitably decorative trickling down his cheek, he began to pretend to struggle
with his bonds.
Rock shook his head as he entered. "Sinn, when are you going to learn?" He went over and sat on the
bed beside the younger vampire, who stilled, watching him with damp, pleading eyes. Rock captured
the single bloody teardrop with his thumb, then licked it clean. Again he ran his thumb along one of
Sinn’s high cheekbones, then slapped him lightly. "I ought to just leave you here for a day or two. Rill
wouldn’t come in if I asked him not to."
Sinn struggeld with his annoyance. *And Simion would most CERTAINLY come looking for me.*
"Rock, please. You know that the prince will want to present us ALL to this clerk. I don’t want him to
be angry with me if I’m not ready." He gave Rock a significant look. "I just don’t know what I’ll say
when he wants to know why."
Rock scowled. The style for wearing concealed weapons had passed long ago, but what did a vampire
know of current styles? He kept a short dagger, the blade no more than three inches long, strapped to
his forearm, under his sleeve. He drew the weapon, and sliced the staps that bound Sinn to the bed.
Sinn sat up, and examined his wrists, hissing in annoyance. "Cheri, please--the next time use the
broader straps. The skin is cut near to the bone. La, I look like I’ve been trying to make away with
myself. I’ll have to wear close-fitting, long sleeves."
"You’d best make up your mind quickly," said Rock sullenly. "He arrived a minute ago."
"Merde!" Sinn sprang up, snatching his clothes from the floor. He cursed in French as he hastily
wriggled into them. "Thank God that I had narrowed the selection of my attire down to a mere dozen
choices! I may even be able to make myself less than hideous before I am presented." He was out of
the room before Rock could do more than blink.
He shook his head. *I don’t care how long he exists, he will always be a vain little flirt. Well,* he got
up and headed for his own room. *I’d best do something. If Draculea thinks that I’m not taking care to
put forth a good face for his new pawn, I’ll suffer for it.*
As he changed, he thought, *He looks like a tasty enough morsel--in many ways. Perhaps not quite as
young and tender as he might be, but I think he has possibilities. The thing is, am I willing to share
with Sinn? He’s going to be after the man like one of the wolves after a wounded rabbit.* He
smoothed his hair, knowing that Sinn would seek out either him or Simion for a final opinion on his
appearance. Vampires had a lot of advantages over mortals, but there was one thing they couldn’t
do--they couldn’t check their reflections.
Rock was still dressing in the style of his mortal life, stubbornly clinging to the last element of a time
when he’d been a free man, answerable to no one. As he smoothed a wrinkle out of his hose, he
thought, *Yes, you’ll be after him, won’t you, Sinn? Well, we’ll see who fares the best with this little
rabbit.* He smiled cruelly, fangs glinting, *the snare, or the hunting hawk.*
end part 67
Back to index
Chapter 68: Chapter 68: Household

Rating: NC17
Summary: Renfield is introduced to the household.
Archive: Lists and WWOMB, but I will ask for removal when I find a publisher.
Sequel/Series: No
Disclaimer: Copyright extends for 75 years after the author’s death. Bram Stoker died in 1912, and
thus Dracula is public domain.

Transylvania
Castle Draculea
With the moonlight cut off by the closed door, it was darker inside than it had been out. The only light
came from the candle that Draculea carried, and its illumination was both dim and fitful. It did not
penetrate more than a foot or two from its source. Indeed, Renfield found that his lower limbs were
lost in shadow, but he sensed that the room was large. Judging from the outside it was probably huge,
even by the standards of England’s manor houses. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, speaking of distant
stonewalls and ceiling.
*Footsteps?* As Renfield followed slowly after his host, he found himself straining his ears. There
must be some trick of acoustics, because he could detect only his own footfalls. The fact that Draculea
moved so smoothly that he seemed to glide added to the eerie effect.
Renfield stumbled over something. He would have fallen, but Draculea turned with the speed of
thought and caught his arm, holding him steady. "Be careful, my friend. I’m afraid that I’ve neglected
the upkeep of my ancestral home. The way is not as smooth as it might be."
"Yet you walk as confidently as if it were high noon, with a clear path," Renfield remarked.
"Yes, well, you must realize that I have lived here a long, long time. I am used to it--I know it well."
"I can understand that. I can move about my own room in London quite easily without light. But
this..."
Draculea shrugged. "I actually see better with dim light than I do with bright--a peculiarity of my age
that I have decided to view as a blessing, rather than a curse." Renfield found that they were standing
before a tall, heavy door. "It isn’t much farther now. We have only to go through the great hall. I’ve
had a smaller room readied to receive you. It isn’t so grand, but it is much cozier."
As he reached for the door handle, Renfield said, "Please, sir, allow me." He had no desire to see
Draculea struggle with the door, and thought that it would only be right for him to help the other man,
as he was not only his elder, but his host.
He thought that he saw a hint of amusement in Draculea’s expression as he said, "How gracious. Yes,
if it pleases you."
Renfield took hold of the handle and pulled. The door didn’t budge. Not only was it massive, but the
hinges were stiff with age and disuse. He gripped the handle with both hands and pulled harder,
feeling embarrassed when a grunt escaped him before he could contain it. And still the door had
moved only a scant few inches. He paused. It went against his grain as an Englishman, and his own
personality, to be seen to struggle.
"There is a trick to it," Draculea said quietly, brushing Renfield’s hand away. "Please, I know the
eccentricities of my home." He opened the door easily, the hinges giving a low moan of rubbing metal
that made the hair prickle at the back of Renfield’s neck.
There was another trek through chill, echoing darkness, and they came to a much smaller door.
Draculea opened it, and there was suddenly light, and dry warmth. The room he was ushered into was,
indeed, rather cozy--at lease compared to the cavern they’d just crossed. It was about the size of a
parlor in a middle-class English home--small enough to be well warmed by the great fire crackling on
the hearth. But unlike the fashion that was becoming popular in his native land, the room was not
crammed helter-skelter with overstuffed furniture and decorative bric-a-brac. The furnishing, though
heavy, was sparse, and the objects of decoration were few, but rich with antiquity.
"I say," murmured Renfield, relieved. "This IS nice."
"I will convey your thanks to Simion and Rill. The child was quite beside himself, preparing this little
place, and your room." Draculea placed the candle on a small table that had been drawn up to one side
of the fire, then went back to where Renfield still stood, beside the door. "You must remove that
muffling garment, Mister Renfield. The room is quite warm, and you will make yourself ill if you
become overheated."
"Yes, of course."
Robert began to unbutton the coat as Draculea moved behind him to shut the door. He finished
slipping the last button from its seat, and was startled to feel Draculea’s hands on his shoulders. An
even greater startlement was the prince’s voice beside his ear, saying quietly, "In my ancestor’s days
this place teemed with servants, ready to satisfy every need and whim of the royal family. Alas, my
family’s power in this world has diminished." Draculea was easing the coat from Renfield’s shoulders.
"Now I have only a very few retainers, and most of them..." Renfield turned to see Draculea folding
the coat over his arm. The older man shrugged. "They are a fiercely loyal people, but...
unfinished--rough." He smiled as he laid the coat on a sideboard.
"Oh, you needn’t explain anything, sir. This is most pleasant and inviting. Now, if I can show you..."
He made a sound of disgust. "Dash it! I left the case of papers in my baggage!"
Draculea waved his hand dismissively. "I had heard that the English were a brisk, efficient race, and
you would seem a prime example. Not tonight, Mister Renfield. There is plenty of time." His eyes
seemed very old. "Believe me--I know this. There is ALWAYS time."
Again Draculea settled a hand on Renfield’s shoulder, and began to steer him toward the table.
Renfield thought that he had never in his life been so aware of anything as he was of that. *No, I must
be honest. Jonathan--I am aware of him. His mere presence can set my nerves tingling--but not like
this.*
The touch was not heavy, but it was firm, and not to be denied. "Truly, sir, my lands are not what your
countrymen would consider civilized, but I do what I can. You must be tired from your journey, and
hungry. Please, accept this hospitality."
*I can’t very well refuse,* Renfield thought. He looked at the table, and saw that a simple, but very
appealing, meal had been laid out--cold roast chicken, ham, fresh bread, butter, cheese, and fruit. *And
I don’t want to refuse.* "Yes, thank you. This looks splendid." He took the seat that Draculea pulled
out for him, surveying the food with anticipation. "Oh, but there’s only one place laid. Surely you’ll be
joining me?"
"I will most surely sit with you." Draculea took the chair across from Renfield, settling with ease that
Renfield would not have expected, given his age. "But as to the food--no." He made a gesture. "I’m
afraid that my diet is rather limited--quite specialized. It is so with most of my household, but I enjoy
watching others appease their appetites. Please, do not hesitate."
Renfield reached for the cheese, then paused, remembering how grace had been said at every
communal meal he’d taken since he had come to this country. "I don’t usually pray before my meals."
Draculea chuckled. "Believe me, sir, you will find no offense here in that matter. Please, eat." He took
a bottle of wine and leaned across, filling Renfield’s glass. "Yes, this is a land of superstitions, but that
of The Carpenter’s church do not have a strong foothold in this household. Speaking of my people,
you’ll have met young Rill and my man--Simion."
"Yes." The cheese was of an unfamiliar sort, but very good, and Renfield found that he was hungrier
than he’d thought. He helped himself to several slices of chicken and ham. "I must say they were a
welcome sight. That blasted coach driver left me by the side of the road. I was sure that I’d end my
days in the belly of some great wolf."
"No," Draculea said, almost negligently. "There was no danger of that--the wolves would not have
touched you. Not tonight, in any case, but I cannot vouch for your safety if you should leave the castle
unescorted in days to come."
"I don’t want to doubt you," Renfield said slowly, "But how...?"
"You are a civilized, educated man, Mister Renfield," said Draculea softly. "But some things cannot be
quantified, nor explained scientifically--they simply are."
Renfield didn’t know how to respond to this pronouncement, so he merely took another sip of wine. It
was excellent, much better than he had ever been able to afford. He reminded himself to drink
sparingly. It wouldn’t do to become addled.
He heard something--a faint brush of sound, like the rustling of leaves outside a window, and he
looked toward the door. The noise resolved itself into quiet voices, whispers, but still there was
something so detached about the sound that it was hard to believe that it was human. The soft tap on
the door was almost a shock.
"That will be the rest of my household, come to view you." Draculea’s tone was amused. He raised his
voice. "Enter."
Renfield wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Not any of the conventional servants--butler,
housekeeper, footmen, maids... Surely the prince himself would not have come to the door if he’d had
these domestics? In Renfield’s experience the nobility never performed such mundane tasks
themselves, and royals...
Two young men entered--dark and light. The fire and candlelight struck glints off the strawberry blond
hair of the taller one, and the smaller one, the one more his size, had the greenest eyes Renfield had
ever seen. Both approached the table and gave small bows to the prince, while keeping their gazes
fixed on Renfield. Robert felt the urge to fidget. Never before had he been the subject of such
concentrated study.
Draculea gestured. "Mister Renfield, allow me to present Rock and Sinn. Rock, Sinn--Mister Robert
Renfield, of Hawkins and Thompkins."
Rock, the blond, grunted a greeting, but Sinn, the dark-haired one, greeted him with a bright smile and
an outstretched hand. Rill’s hands had been cool, but Renfield hadn’t thought much of that, since the
boy had been riding on top of the coach. Draculea’s chill flesh he had put down to his age and health.
But Sinn’s hand was cold also, and he was young and
healthy. Robert didn’t have time to think of it much, though, because Sinn was squeezing his hand
gently, and it felt... yes, it felt as if his thumb was stroking Renfield’s palm. "Mister Renfield, so
pleased to meet you!" He let go, then shook a finger teasingly at Renfield. "You are going to be a
breath of fresh air in this gloomy old place--I can tell."
Sinn went to sit on his right, while Rock sprawled in the chair on his left. Renfield hesitated, looking
down at his plate, and Sinn said, "No, no--finish your meal, please. We’ve already eaten," he smiled at
Rock. "Haven’t we?" Rock smirked, nodding. Sinn poured himself a glass of wine. "Though I will join
you in a small drink, just to be sociable." Renfield resumed eating. He felt a little uncomfortable, but
he was still too hungry to forgo the rest of the meal.
Sinn propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand, and said, "I need your opinion,
Mister Renfield. I try to keep abreast of fashions, but out here..." he waved his hand vaguely. "Any
papers or gazettes we receive are MONTHS, if not years, out of date." He gestured at himself. "What
do you think of this ensemble? Is it too terribly out of date?"
Renfield swallowed, confused at being asked to render an opinion on the fashions of the upper crust. "I
couldn’t say, sir. I’m afraid that I have very little to do with the fashionable set."
Sinn looked disappointed. "Ah, me--and I was so hoping to pick your brain. Is there nothing you can
tell me?" He dipped his head, giving Renfield a pouting glance.
*Good God--if he were a woman, I’d believe he was flirting with me.* "I HAVE seen a few of the
firm’s clients recently. I believe that your mode of dress would fit in quite well with them. The
tailoring seems excellent."
Now Sinn smiled again. "Wonderful!" He smoothed a hand over his vest. "Though I must say that I
miss the more vibrant colors. Hellas, the thought that one must restrict oneself to black, brown, and
gray!" He made a face, then sighed. "When I look so nice in bottle green." Rock snorted, and Sinn said
archly, "Not a word from you. You have not changed the cut of your clothes in..."
There was a sharp, loud rap. Everyone looked over at the prince, who tapped his knuckles lightly on
the table, staring at Sinn. Sinn’s smile tightened, and Renfield saw him dip his head a fraction toward
the prince. Then he continued, looking at Renfield. "He simply does not change. The clothing is
replaced by the same sort, with scarcely a stitch of difference.
I would go mad if I did the same."
Renfield had noted Rock’s attire. He was used to seeing rather quaint costumes on the natives, but this
was extreme. The man could have easily walked the streets a hundred years before without calling
attention with his dress. *Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he IS a footman, and the prince has unusual
taste in livery. The knee breeches, and the hose... I’ll be damned if I don’t think that those breeches
lace instead of buttoning. How odd. And both of them... No one but the highest noble or the lowest
guttersnipe would be able to get away with wearing their hair that long in London. Or maybe they’re
part of that aesthetic movement, where every other one fancies himself an artist or poet?*
Renfield took another look at Rock. Though he was young and rather handsome, the lines of his face
were hard, and there was a sort of frustrated, smoldering arrogance in his eyes. *No, not that one.
There’s not a speck of poetry or artistry in him. He can’t be a footman--the prince is gracious, but he
wouldn’t let propriety slip that far. What on earth sort of relation are they to him?*
The door opened again, and Simion and Rill entered. Rill hurried to the table, going directly to
Draculea’s side. Renfield watched in surprise at the boy dropped to his knees beside the prince,
reaching up to clasp the chair arm, turning an eager, expectant face to the older man. Draculea smiled
indulgently, and reached down, his slightly gnarled hand caressing
the boy’s smooth cheek. "You have had an adventure, eh, little one?"
Rill nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, we had to go a LONG way!" He looked over at Renfield, and his
eyes were distressed. "Sir, they left my friend out by the side of the road. That was bad."
"Yes, Rill, very bad. But Mister Renfield is none the worse for it. So, already he is your friend?" Rill
gave Renfield a shy, questioning look, and Renfield found himself nodding. "Good. He rises in my
estimation. I’m sure that you will spend many happy hours visiting with him while he is here."
*I thought that Draculea was eager to transact this business,* Renfield thought. *He acts as if I have
arrived for a vacation. I know that sometimes the Europeans address business differently than the
English, but this is unusually casual.*
Once again he wasn’t given much time to contemplate this oddity. Sinn was leaning close to him.
"Having you here will be a boon to all of us. The master will gain his property, Rill will have someone
else to share his time, Simion can discuss business affairs with you, and I..." he shrugged. "News of
the outside world is always welcome." His voice lowered. "As isolated as we are, I sometimes fear that
my social skills will grow rusty."
Rock snorted again, receiving a sharp glance from Sinn. The glowering young man made Renfield
uncomfortable, but he knew that avoiding or ignoring the disturbing man might make an unfavorable
impression on the prince. He addressed Rock. "And how will I be able to serve you, sir?"
Sinn coughed. Rock stared at Renfield, cocking his head. Finally he said slowly, "I’m sure that there
will be occasion." Another rap from the prince. Rock hesitated, not looking at the older man, then
finished, "We’ll see. A new face is always welcome."
Rill said, "Would you like to see my soldiers?"
"Soldiers?" For a moment Renfield had a vision of how Castle Draculea had been centuries ago, the
courtyard busy with men who were skilled with bow and spear.
"His toys," said Rock shortly, his tone dismissive.
It was evident from the blond man’s attitude that Rill was not a universal favorite--Renfield sensed
Rock’s resentment and envy. *But then I could say much the same for his attitude toward all of them.
This can’t be a peaceful household.* As he thought this, Renfield took up the loaf of bread. It was the
long, crusty sort he’d become accustom to here on the Continent, not the plump, tender English bread
he was used to. Luckily they had provided a sharp knife, and he began to slice off a piece.
"Rock doesn’t play games," said Sinn. He smiled at Renfield. "Do YOU play games?"
Renfield had never experienced the subtleties of seduction, but there was no mistaking the meaning in
the young man’s suggestive tone. Any peace he’d begun to gain from the prince’s hospitality fled, and
his hand slipped. He exclaimed in pain as the knife sliced into his thumb. "Damnation!"
The pain was bright and stinging, and a thick line of blood welled across the pad of his thumb. He
heard sharp, indrawn breath, and looked up, ready to assure his hosts that the injury was negligible. He
wasn’t prepared for the response.
Simion was frowning. Rill’s reaction was the mildest, but he was staring at Renfield with eyes gone
huge, mouth slightly open. The prince seemed to be carved from marble, but once again his eyes
looked silver in the firelight. Sinn, oddly enough, was regarding him with a tiny, bemused smile.
It was Rock who had the most startling reaction. He had half-risen from his seat, leaning toward
Renfield, his expression suddenly tight and feral. He began to reach toward Renfield. Suddenly Simion
was behind Rock, hand on his shoulder, gripping hard enough for Renfield to see where the fingers
pressed into the flesh.
The room was far too still, far too quiet. Robert said, "I’m sorry. That was clumsy of me, but it’s not
so bad." He put his thumb in his mouth, sucking away the blood. Rock gave a shuddering sigh and
sank back into his chair, tilting his head to glare at Simion. Simion looked at him grimly, and gave one
final, warning squeeze before releasing him.
Sinn said quietly, "Sir, if you will permit?" He held out his hand. Not knowing how he could refuse
when the man was just trying to see to his well-being, Renfield allowed him to take hold of his wrist.
There was a thin line of blood to mark the wound. "Yes, it has almost stopped bleeding. But truly, that
is no way to care for a cut." Not releasing Renfield’s hand, he took his unused napkin, dipped a corner
in the wine, and pressed it to the cut. Renfield jerked slightly at the sting, and Sinn said solicitously,
"Yes, I know--it burns. But it is necessary, sir. If you try to treat such a wound as you did, sucking or
licking away the blood, why, who can tell what infection might settle?"
Rill giggled. "Oh, yes! It could..."
Draculea put his hand on Rill’s head. "Hush." Rill looked up contritely, and Draculea said, "We don’t
talk of such things, Rill." Draculea’s eyes *blue, just blue* flicked to Renfield. "Not before outsiders."
"I’m sorry." Rill looked at Renfield. "I didn’t mean to laugh at you. You aren’t really hurt, are you?
Simion is wonderful about taking care of hurts."
"No, I’m fine." This gave Renfield an excuse to take his hand from Sinn’s grip. He showed it to Rill.
"You see? It was shallow. I won’t even need to bandage it."
"Let me see." Simion’s touch was different from Sinn’s--brisk and efficient. "Perhaps not. We’ll leave
it open tonight, and see how it is tomorrow. I’ll bring a salve to you before you retire that will ward off
infections, and keep it from scarring." Renfield looked doubtful, and Simion smiled. "We have no
doctor here, sir, but I DO have some small skills. Trust me on this."
Robert nodded hesitantly. "Prince Draculea, I don’t want to be rude, but could I be shown to my room
now? I find that I’m more weary than I thought."
"How remiss of me. Of course, you must be near exhausted after your journey, and your final walk."
Rill bounced to his feet. "I can take him!" He looked at Renfield proudly. "I helped prepare it with
Simion."
"Rill is a good worker," said Simion fondly. "He always looks for ways to help." He gave the other
two young men a jaundiced look, as if to say ’unlike some others’. Rock smirked, and Sinn gave a tiny
shrug.
Renfield stood. "Well, I’d best retire. I’m sure you’ll want to get an early start reviewing the properties
tomorrow, and..."
"Not at all," Draculea interrupted. "I am afraid that there are a few eccentricities you must
accommodate, young man. This is a nocturnal household--we sleep during the day. My line suffers
from a peculiar sensitivity to the rays of the sun, and we avoid them wherever possible. You need not
bend to our ways, but only Simion and the gypsies are about during the daylight hours. It might be
more fruitful for you if you school yourself to sleep in the day while you are here."
"I won’t be here long enough to make that great a difference, will I?" Renfield protested. "How long
do you anticipate it will take for you to make your decision?"
Draculea waved negligently. "Who can say? There is no hurry, Mister Renfield. I have been waiting
for this opportunity for a long, long time--longer than you could imagine. This venture will be quite
profitable for your firm--I’m sure they will spare you as long as it takes."
"Perhaps," said Sinn, "he has someone anxiously awaiting him. Have you a wife, Mister Renfield?"
His voice lowered teasingly. "A lover?"
"Sinn." The single word from Draculea was firm.
"No, it’s all right, prince. In fact, I’m at your disposal. As long as the deposit I left to hold my rooms
lasts, my landlady will not pine. Aside from that, I have only a friend at the office. I wanted to ask you,
is there a way to get mail out? I’d like to write him."
Renfield did not notice the looks exchanged by Rock and Sinn at the word ’him’. Draculea said, "Yes,
certainly. Any time you need to post a missive you have only to give it to Simion. He will have one of
the gypsies bring it to the nearest village. In fact, it would be good if you would write to your friend
and employers tomorrow, assuring them of your safe arrival. Take the opportunity to say that you will
be with me here for some days, perhaps even weeks."
"Weeks?" As careful as he was of etiquette, Renfield could not keep the hint of dismay out of his
voice.
"I will, of course, explain this to your employers--and compensate you for your time. I wish you a
restful repose, Mister Renfield. Should you be awake and about before evening, you are welcome to
explore the castle. Go where you will--if a room is off limits, it will be locked. Two places only are
forbidden--the lower levels, and the roof. Both are dangerous, in their own way. You could easily
become lost in the bowels of this old place, and there can be no attraction for you there. The rooms
below the castle have seen much suffering and blood. The atmosphere there is unpleasant, at best, and
the roof..." his voice faded, his gaze going distant, and full of pain. He was silent for a moment, and
Simion went to him, touching his arm. The prince blinked, then said, "I apologize, Mister Renfield.
You see, I lost someone very dear to me in a fall from the roof. It is my desire that no one goes there
now."
Renfield stood, and the prince stood also. Again Renfield was struck by the elder man’s height. So
many big men diminished with age, but Draculea seemed to have lost little of his stature--he was still
an impressive man. "Rill, take our guest to his quarters--I need to speak with Simion."
"Come," Rill said, his voice excited. "It isn’t the grandest room, but it’s very nice. I cleaned it very
carefully, and I was allowed to choose any furnishings I liked from the rest of the castle."
He opened the door, and Simion said, "Rill, the candle. Mister Renfield doesn’t know the castle as you
do--he will need the light." Renfield made his goodnights while Rill took the candle, and they left.
The door closed, and the men left in the small room were silent for a moment, listening to Rill’s
chatter, and Renfield’s quieter responses as they faded. Finally Draculea said coolly, "Will I have to
restrict you two to your rooms to ensure that your loose talk does not alarm our guest?"
"Does it matter?" said Rock. "It isn’t as if he can depart without your leave."
"I need this man co-operative, fool."
"You could compel him easily enough."
"Aye, I could enslave his mind, though it might cost his sanity. And he must communicate with the
solicitors in England to make the transaction. There can be no hint of anything amiss in his letters.
Though he has told us that there are none who would be troubled by his disappearance, we have no
way of knowing if this is so. This is too important to me to risk it through your carelessness." His
voice was hard. "Or your lusts."
"But Master," protested Sinn. "A bit of cosseting might bend him more fully to your cause."
"Oh, I wasn’t speaking of you, Sinn," said Draculea dismissively. "I know where your tastes lie, and
there’d be no likelihood of you damaging the man. Seduce him, if you wish--I know that you yearn to
exercise your wiles on a fresh subject." Sinn’s face lit up. "But you, Rock--I know your inclinations as
well. You’re to keep your hands off him, at least for the time being." He looked at Simion. "Though I
doubt that he could get into any mischief during the day, it might be better if Mister Renfield adjusted
himself to our schedule quickly."
Simion bowed his head. "Yes, lord. When I bring the salve I will also bring him a bedtime glass of
wine--fortified with something to, um, help him sleep."
Rock pushed Sinn’s foot with his own. "I suppose you’ll spend the time till sunset tomorrow plotting
your conquest."
"Do not pout, cheri. You are quite attractive when you are sullen, but pouting? It does not suit you."
He sighed happily. "It has been a long time since I had someone so untried to seduce."
"And what makes you think the Englishman is untried?"
Sinn’s voice was disdainful. "One has only to observe, cheri. I don’t say that the delicious Mister
Renfield has never enjoyed the pleasures of the bed, but really..." he chuckled. "I only hope that I will
be able to coax him into performing." He stood, stretching lithely. "Ah, well. If I must, I can strip him
down, tease him into fullness, then mount and ride him like a stallion." He smiled. "I think I’d like
that."
end part 68
Back to index
Chapter 69: Chapter 69: First Night

Transylvania
Castle Draculea
Part 69: First Night
Rill and Renfield were passing through the Great Hall, very slowly, in Renfield’s case. Rill moved
before him chattering brightly, gesturing to items that Renfield could not see in the gloom, and relating
their stories and histories.
"And that tapestry there--the one with the unicorn? It was embroidered by the prince’s own mother,
years and years ago. Simion said that she wanted to remain a unicorn catcher all her life, but had to
marry the elder Draculea." Rill’s voice was puzzled. "Simion wouldn’t tell me what you had to do to
be a unicorn catcher. He just laughed, and said that no one at Castle Draculea had possessed the
necessary asset for a long time."
Rill’s keen ears caught a small, muffled thud, and a nearly inaudible curse. He turned quickly,
hurrying back to where Renfield was rubbing his toe. The clerk said ruefully, "I’m sorry, but I didn’t
expect a chair to be sitting so far out in the room." He looked around doubtfully. "We are in the center
of the room, aren’t we?"
Rill shook his head. "What kind of host am I? Wait a moment." He hurried over to the wall and pried a
candle loose from its sconce, easily wresting it from its thick bed of wax drippings. He went back to
Renfield, lit the taper with his own candle flame, then offered it to Renfield. "Just hold it tipped
forward, so that the hot wax doesn’t drip on your hand." He’d begun to turn, but now he hesitated.
"Unless you like that?"
Startled, Renfield said, "Good lord, no! Who enjoys being burned with hot wax?"
Rill shrugged. "Sinn calls it a different kind of kiss. We go up these stairs. I was going to put you in
the room that the princess once slept in, but the master said that you’d probably have nightmares. I
don’t think he liked her very much."
With the second candle, there was just enough light for Renfield to pick his way safely after Rill. The
boy kept up a running commentary. As they mounted the stairs, he told Renfield of how the hall rug
had once been stained with the blood of the Turkish diplomats who had been foolish enough to offer
insult to the crown of Wallachia. Renfield shuddered as Rill described the punishment they had
received; marveling at the matter-of-fact way the boy related it. "But you can’t see the blood now. The
princess was angry about it, so they had to change it. Simion called it foolishness, worrying about
household decorations when the land was on the verge of war."
They were making their way down a corridor that was so dark it almost seemed like a tunnel. "You
learn your history from Simion?" Renfield asked.
"Yes! It’s just like hearing stories when he tells it."
"Almost as if he witnessed it himself, eh?"
"Oh, but he..." Rill stopped abruptly, casting a worried glance at Renfield.
There are too many abruptly ended sentences in this place, Renfield thought. "Yes?"
"Here is your room." Rill opened the door, ushering Renfield in.
Renfield stopped just inside the door, looking around. "Oh. Oh, my." If this was one of the less grand
rooms, what must the staterooms be like? There was huge bed--easily big enough for a family to sleep
comfortably, and it was piled with pillows and soft, thick spreads. A heavy desk of dark, carved wood
sat at one wall, with a well padded, leather chair before it. A small table, with an equally comfortable
chair, was nearby, decorated with a small vase of flowers. The desktop held neat stacks of paper and
envelopes, pens, inkwells... Everything Renfield might need in his work. There was a fireplace, with a
cheerful blaze leaping behind the screen, and the floor was covered with a thick rug, its pattern woven
in rich, muted colors.
"Do you like it?" There was pride in Rill’s voice, but also a hint of anxiety.
"I... I hardly know what to say. It’s quite magnificent, Rill. Thank you."
Rill’s smile spread to a grin of satisfied relief. "Do you like the flowers?"
"Yes, they’re very pretty. I don’t believe I’ve seen them before."
"They only bloom at night. I picked them just before we went to fetch you."
Renfield spotted his bags sitting at the foot of the bed, and almost drooped with relief. "There they
are!" He hurried to them, hefting one up onto the bed, and opening it.
Rill followed him over, peering into the opened bag curiously. "I can help you unpack."
Renfield started to demur, but then thought there’d be no harm in it, and it would make the boy happy.
He handed over a small bag. "Here, these are my shaving things. You can put them over on that
dresser, by the basin, if you wish." Rill took the bag and went to the dresser, while Renfield put the
second bag on the bed and opened it, looking for his case of documents. He heard the quiet clatter and
click of the boy setting down his various shaving supplies--then there was a gasp, and the sound of
shattering glass.
He turned quickly to see a small pile of glittering shards near the boy’s feet. The look Rill gave him
was apologetic, but somehow opaque. "I’m sorry. It startled me."
"Startled you?" repeated Renfield, bewildered.
"It’s been such a long time since I saw a mirror. We don’t keep them here at Castle Draculea." He
noted Renfield’s puzzled expression and shrugged, smiling. "Sinn is always complaining. I think that
he used to really enjoy looking at himself. He’s always fishing for compliments. If you really want
him to like you, flatter him. He’ll think that you’re doing it for some personal reason, but he’ll like it."
The boy may be simple, but he seems to have an instinct for some things. "Thank you, Rill."
Rill toed the glass shards. "Simion will clean this up. I don’t like to touch them." He went over to the
bed and peered into Renfield’s case with childlike curiosity. He was so blissfully unmindful of
whatever offence this could cause that Renfield hadn’t the heart to be annoyed. Rill pointed into the
bag. "What’s that? It looks important."
"It is indeed." Renfield lifted his case out and brought it to the desk. There he unfastened the latch,
opened it, and began to unpack the papers inside. "This is all the information about the properties I
want to recommend to the prince."
Rill poked at one of the pages. "Are they in the city? I don’t like big cities much."
"Some of them are, but there are others that are outside London. Most have enough land for you to
keep horses, if you wish. I have pictures of them all. Would you like to see them?"
"Yes, please!"
Renfield reached into the case, feeling for the packet of pictures. It seemed to have gotten wedged into
a corner at the very bottom, and he unloaded everything, trying to make enough room to get a good
grip on the packet, so he could pull it out without risking a tear in one of the photographs.
There was another gasp from Rill, but this one sounded more wondering than startled. "Oh!"
"What is it?" Renfield followed Rill’s gaze, and felt a sudden flash of embarrassed guilt. It was
Jonathan’s photograph. Rill reached toward the portrait, and Renfield felt the urge to grab his wrist,
keep him from touching it, but the boy stopped short of contact.
"How did you get a picture of him?"
Now it was Renfield’s turn to be surprised. From the way the boy spoke, one would think that he
knew Jonathan--but that was impossible. "He gave it to me," Renfield lied. "Just before I left
London--as a remembrance till I returned."
Rill cocked his head, turning his gaze from the photograph to Renfield. "He’s your friend?"
"Yes."
"Is he your close friend?"
Renfield stared at Rill. "What... are you asking me, Rill?"
"You know."
Renfield was spared the mortification of answering, or the effort of evading. There was a polite tap at
the door, and Simion entered, carrying a glass of wine. "How do you find your room, Mister
Renfield?"
"It’s marvelous. I feel like visiting nobility rather than a poor clerk," said Renfield gratefully.
Simion caught sight of the broken mirror and made a tsking sound. "I see there’s been an accident. I
hope there were no injuries. No? Good." Simion set the glass on the table. "The prince has sent this
final glass of wine from his special stock, to ease your sleep after your journey, and Rill, leave off
tugging at my sleeve. I’ve seen the mess, and I’ll take care of it."
Rill had hurried to Simion, and had been insistently tugging on his shirtsleeve, demanding attention.
"Not that, Simion! Come see." He pulled Simion toward the desk. Simion gave Renfield a
commiserate look, as if to say, ’What can we do but humor him?’ But Rill snatched up the picture of
Jonathan before Renfield could move to stop him, and thrust it into Simon’s hand. The older man
glanced down at it--and his expression froze.
He was silent for a long moment. Rill held his arm, laying his head against the older man’s shoulder.
"It’s him, isn’t it?"
"Hush, Rill," Simion’s voice was faint.
"But Simion..."
"I said be quiet," he snapped. Then instantly he turned his head, dropping a kiss on the boy’s dark
curls. "I’m sorry, Rill, but you’re too impulsive." He looked at Renfield, and there was a speculation in
his gaze that hadn’t been there before. "Your friend bears a small resemblance to someone Rill has
seen before. May I ask you his name?"
Renfield stared at the two men. What possible interest could they have in Jonathan? The intensity of
the stocky man unnerved him, and he was reluctant to tell him. An old superstition flitted through his
mind: to know someone’s true name is to gain power over them.
Simion seemed to read Renfield’s emotions, if not his thought. He handed the photograph back. "Yes,
you’re quite correct--it’s rude of me to inquire." He indicated the photograph with a flick of his finger.
"But I would suggest that you keep that safe in your documents case, Mister Renfield. I am sad to say
that there are certain persons who are not shy about appropriating anything that takes their fancy." He
gave a short bow. "Sleep well. The prince will be available after sunset tomorrow." He patted Rill’s
arm. "Come, boy."
Rill bade Renfield goodnight, and followed his friend out. His lover, thought Renfield. I’m almost sure
of it. He sat on the bed, cradling Jonathan’s portrait almost tenderly, gazing at the handsome, gentle
features. He traced the lines of the well-loved face, and murmured, "And no one here seems to find it
disgusting, or even odd. What would that be like? To be able to love, and not hide it?" He sighed,
slipping the picture under his pillow, then went to the table for the glass of wine. He removed his
jacket and tie between sips, then sat at the desk to go over the papers once again. But he found himself
nodding. When he jerked upright after his head had almost touched the desktop, he gave up, got into
his nightshirt, blew out the candles, and went to bed. He was dozing almost before he had the covers
pulled up.
Rill followed Simion down the hall to the landing. Simion paused there, staring off at nothing as he
thought. Rill waited patiently for several moments. He knew that his lover would not purposefully
ignore him, and he had only to wait till the older man sorted through his thoughts. Finally Simion
looked at him. "I’m sorry I spoke harshly, Rill, but really--you must be careful what you say."
"I’m sorry. I was just excited."
Simion cupped Rill’s cheek. "I know. You ache for the prince as much as I do. You want him to find
his lost love again."
"I want him to be happy--like we are. But it is Nicolae, isn’t it?"
Simion closed his eyes briefly, and a hundred living images of Nicolae raced through his mind. Dead
for more than four hundred years, the boy’s memory was still living to Simion--and one other. He
looked at Rill. "I don’t know, Rill. I can’t be sure--but oh, God... It was like looking at the portrait in
the library. The same hair, eyes, mouth, expression..."
"Can I tell the master?"
His younger lover’s voice was eager. "No, child, no. Don’t disturb him tonight. There aren’t many
hours till dawn. He’s come back to himself a little since he began this project, but he still needs more
rest. And to spring this on him suddenly..." Simion shook his head. "You must let me tell him. You
wouldn’t want to risk your new friend’s life, would you?"
"But Draculea wouldn’t hurt him!" protested Rill.
"He might not mean to, my love, but..." Simion sighed. "He’s waited so long, and the hurt has gone so
deep. If the hope was suddenly presented--he might not be able to control himself, and in his desire to
get Mister Renfield to tell him where this person is..." Simion gripped Rill’s hair and shook his head
gently, saying chidingly, "Mortals are fragile creatures, Rill. You know this."
Rill giggled. "Yes. We don’t want Mister Renfield to break." He frowned suddenly. "Rock won’t play
with him, will he?"
"The prince has forbidden it."
"That doesn’t always stop Rock." Rill thought for a moment, then said, "But he usually behaves, and I
think he knows that the prince would be very, very angry if he hurt my new friend. Sinn would, too."
"Yes," said Simion dryly. He saw the French vampire coming up the stairs. "Sinn would be quite
annoyed if his own amusement was spoiled by Rock’s selfish destructiveness." Simion raised his
voice, speaking to Sinn. "He’s probably asleep by now, Barbee, so he’ll be of little use to you."
Sinn didn’t stamp his foot, but his voice was pettish enough to indicate that he wanted to. "Pah! You
are right, Simion. I have no desire to handle a limp, unresponsive body. Molesting the unconscious
might be Rock’s style, but it is not mine." He straightened his cuffs. "I am not a lover of the dead."
Rill said innocently, "But you are. Rock is dead, and so is the prince, so..."
Simion was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Sinn rolled his eyes. "One is constantly amazed at
your literal turn of mind, cheri. So, there is to be no sport tonight--bien. I can wait. But Simion, I
would ask a favor." Simion raised an eyebrow questioningly. Sinn shrugged. "A small thing, but when
I am ready to rendezvous with the little Renfield, it would be nice if I could caress him with hands that
provoked a shiver through desire, and not chill. Could you...?" he trailed off inquiringly.
Simion snorted softly, but said, "Well, the master just gave me drink this evening, so I suppose so.
Come to me before you go to him."
Sinn gave him a sunny smile, rubbing his hands together. "Thank you, Simion! You are a man of the
world, and a gentleman. Now, I must go and check to see that all of Rock’s most recent, um,
decorations have faded." He bustled off, muttering to himself about ’the difficulty of checking one’s
back for bruises when one could not use a mirror.’
Rill watched him go, his expression puzzled. "Simion, why does Sinn always want to be told how
beautiful he is? Doesn’t he know it by now?"
Simion hugged the boy. "It’s just as well that you do not move in society, my love. You are far too
honest."
"But isn’t being honest good?"
"Generally, yes. But there are some things that we simply do not say, because it is easier all around if
they are left unsaid. Then there are some things that SHOULD be said, but only at a certain time. That
is why we will not tell the master about that photograph--not yet. Now," he slapped Rill’s shoulder
lightly. "There is still an hour or two before you must go to your rest, and I have no duties. What shall
we do?"
Rill thought. "The soldiers?"
"Very well." They started toward the room that Draculea had given to Rill to house his toys. There was
usually a huge battle set up over most of the floor. As they walked, Simion said casually, "Though I
thought you might prefer to make love."
Rill stopped abruptly, eyes widening as he stared at his lover. Finally he said, "Can’t we do both?"
Simion laughed, putting his arm around the boy’s shoulder as they continued. "If I remember
correctly, there is a fine couch in your game room, so I don’t see why not..."
end part 69
Back to index
Chapter 70: Chapter 70 - Enticements
Pairing: Renfield/Sinn
Rating: NC17
Summary: Sinn seduces Renfield, rather aggressively, and the clerk’s slide into insanity begins.
Archive: List archives and the WWOMB. I will ask for removal when I have a publisher.
Disclaimer: Copyright extends for 75 years past the author’s death. Bram Stoker died in 1912--thus
Dracula is in the public domain. I mean nothing but respect for the actors and actresses who portray
the recognizable characters in various movies.
Warnings: Non-consensual sex. Renfield may have a physical response, but he’s devastated by this.
Notes: moue--pout: a look of discontent with the lips pressed together and forward,
poupee--doll mais non--but no
rien--nothing
helas--alas
la peu de tache magique--the little magic spot
mon petit amoureux--my little lover
le cheval de passe-temps--the hobby horse, literally
’the horse of pastime’
frottage--friction, the term for sexual stimulation
through rubbing
mon dieu--my god (notice the non-capitalization--Sinn
isn’t much of a believer in God).

Transylvania
Castle Draculea
Rill was still sleeping peacefully, lying on his belly with his face buried in a pillow. Simion had
awakened a little while before, and now sat up in bed, watching his lover sleep. *If only there were
breath, you
might think that he still lived,* he thought. He remembered Rill’s vigorous loving last night, and
smiled. *Well, though he might technically be dead, he’s lively enough.*
There was a tap at the door to their room. He got up, pulling on his trousers, and went to the door.
Sinn Barbee was outside, as meticulously dressed as ever, and with an eager gleam in his eyes. "I’m
sorry if I
awakened you, Simion, but you DID promise me a bit of a warm-up before I go to Mister Renfield."
"That I did." Simion stepped into the hall, shutting the door quietly. "We’ll need to make it quick--I’d
rather that Rill didn’t see it."
"Piffle. You know very well that the boy will not think you are cheating on him. He will merely view
you as a model of generosity." Simion offered Sinn his wrist, and the vampire made a face. "Must it
be like that? It seems so impersonal."
Simion’s voice was dry. "You’re taking a meal, not seducing me, Barbee. Be happy with what you
are offered."
Sinn shrugged. He took Simion’s arm, gripping it firmly--one hand just below the older man’s elbow,
the other holding his hand. He bent, and Simion winced slightly as the needle-pointed fangs sliced
into his flesh. Sinn was quick and neat. He opened a wound only big enough for his purpose, sealed
his lips around it securely, and drank. Simion’s blood was quite tasty--very rich from its frequent
mingling with Draculea’s. As he supped, Sinn wondered idly what the proper designation would be
for Simion. He was not Nosferatu, but surely he couldn’t be considered wholly
human after all these years of mingling his blood with his master’s.
Sinn stopped before Simion felt the need to halt him, giving the wounds a brief, efficient lick to speed
the healing. When he lifted his head, there was a rosy flush in his cheeks, his lips were cherry red, and
his green eyes sparkled. He’d never looked so attractive--not even in life. Simion reached out and
patted one smooth cheek. "Poor Renfield--he hasn’t a chance against you, Sinn."
Sinn bowed, giving him a cheeky smile. "Thank you, Simion. Those words are praise indeed from
you."
"They aren’t meant as praise--I’m simply stating facts. He’ll never have encountered anything like
you in his dry, narrow life. You’re going to be a revelation to him, but sometimes revelations can be
devastating."
*****
Renfield had never been one of those who awoke bright and cheerful. *But it usually isn’t THIS hard
for me to wake up.* He’d been lying in bed for several moments, trying to will himself to sit up, or at
least open his eyes. His head felt too heavy to lift. *Good God, I didn’t think I’d drunk that much.
Was that wine fortified with stronger spirits? I’ve heard of some drinks that taste like fruit punch, but
still addle your head.*
He managed to sit up, then promptly lay down again, his head spinning. *I’ve never been drunk in my
life, and if these are the after-effects, I don’t WANT to be.*
His head cleared a bit after another few moments of rest, and he managed to sit up. The room was
dim, illuminated only by the last tiny flickers of the dying fire. Since there was no window, there was
no estimating the time. He groped on the night stand and found his pocket watch. Popping the lid he
examined the face, then sighed in relief. *Only six-thirty. I haven’t slept too very late.*
Someone had been in his room recently, because the water in his pitcher and basin was still warm. He
disliked the idea of someone creeping in his room while he slept, but he was grateful for the water. He
stripped out of his nightshirt and drawers and quickly used the basin for a thorough sponge bath before
he put on fresh clothes. He remained barefooted, leaving his shirt open as he prepared to shave. He
didn’t want to risk getting foam on his shirt front--he had only one other change of clothes.
He stirred up a thick lather in the shaving mug, and was about to dab the soap on his face when he
stopped with a mild oath, eyeing the empty space on the dresser. He had no mirror--Rill had broken it
last night. And he said that they didn’t keep mirrors in the castle--another of the prince’s
eccentricities. Now what was he going to do?
There was a tap at the door. Distracted by his dilemma, Renfield called, "Come in," without thinking.
Sinn entered, and he smiled when he saw Renfield’s casual state of dress. "Your pardon, Robert. I did
not mean to intrude before you were ready to receive visitors."
"Oh, no, it’s fine. I was just going to shave." He ran a hand along his jaw line, feeling the rasp of
stubble. "Is there something special in the air hereabouts that promotes virility? I’d swear that my
beard has grown out more than it usually does overnight."
Sinn laughed delightedly. "I cannot vouch for any special properties in the atmosphere. Helas, virile
men are not so easy to come by here." He came closer. "Oh, the peasants have a certain crude
strength, but to be truly attractive, a man needs a bit of civilization." Renfield was startled when Sinn
reached out and let one fingertip follow the same
trail that Renfield’s had. "As to why your whiskers seem more vigorous, you must consider the extra
time, cheri."
"No, this is about the time I usually make my toilette." He indicated his watch, lying open on the
dresser. "Never later than seven, in any case."
Sinn cocked his head. "That would be seven in the morning?"
Renfield nodded slowly. "You don’t mean to tell me...?"
"But yes, cheri. The sun has just set."
Renfield dropped the shaving brush into the mug. "I don’t believe it! I’ve nearly slept the clock
’round." Renfield scrubbed a hand unconsciously through the hair he’d so carefully combed a few
minutes before. "I feel like a bloody fool."
Sinn shrugged. "But you fit in well with this household, monsieur. Now, what is it that has you so
peeved? Perhaps I can help."
Renfield sighed. "Thank you, but I doubt it. Rill accidentally broke my mirror last night, and I’m
afraid I’ve never been very deft. If I have to shave without a mirror, I may very well slice myself to
ribbons."
"Mais, no! We cannot have that, Robert. While an occasional scar can be intriguing, you have no
need of such an exotic adornment. You’re much too charming as you are for me to allow that." He
pulled the chair over from the table and tapped its back. "Sit, and I will play barber."
Renfield stared at Sinn. *He must be joking.* Indeed, the younger man wore a faint smile, and there
was a glint in his green eyes. "Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly let myself be such a trouble."
"It is no trouble, my friend. In fact, you will be doing me a favor. I coaxed Simion into teaching me
this skill, and I never get to practice it. Rock is too impatient, Rill’s cheeks are so smooth he scarcely
ever needs it, and when he does, Simion claims that privilege. And as to the prince," he picked up the
straight razor and gestured with it. "Draculea trusts no one but Simion to touch him with a blade."
Sinn ran his thumb lightly along the razor’s edge, and Renfield hissed in shocked sympathy as a thin
line of crimson marked Sinn’s pale skin. But the other man only smiled at him. "They can be
weapons as well as tools, and the prince has too much warrior in him to be careless of who brings such
things near his
person." He popped his thumb in his mouth for a second, cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucked away
the blood, his eyes never leaving Renfield. He drew it out slowly, then licked his lips.
Renfield realized that he was starting to get hard, and he flushed with shame and arousal. Sinn noticed
the blush, and knew very well what was causing it. He put a hand on Renfield’s shoulder and pressed
down, urging him into the chair. "Sit, Robert--and relax." He set aside the razor, draped a towel over
Renfield’s lap, and once again took up the shaving mug and brush. He dipped up a thick blob of lather
on the bristles, and began to dab it on Renfield’s cheeks. "I’m no match for Simion with a razor, but I
have my skills."
Renfield had treated himself to a trip to a barber shop occasionally. He’d always felt a bit decadent,
letting someone else groom him. And there was another reason. The barber he visited so infrequently
was a
brawny, coarsely handsome man, and the firm, confident touch of his hands on Renfield’s face and
head as he shaved him or cut his hair was... More than once he’d been glad of the concealing,
voluminous sheet draped around him.
This was much the same, but different. Sinn’s touch was not as forceful as the other man’s, but it was
more deft, and not nearly as impersonal. When he’d finished lathering Renfield’s face he took up the
razor again and braced his left hand high on Renfield’s cheek, pulling the skin taut. He leaned close,
and Renfield twitched involuntarily. "Please, mon ami!" Sinn scolded. "Even an artist cannot create if
his canvas moves." He set the edge of the blade to Renfield’s cheek and drew it smoothly upward,
leaving a clean path. "There." Sinn wiped the blade clean, then rinsed it briefly. "You see, petite? I
will take good care of you."
He made the second stroke, and the third. Renfield found that his breath was coming more quickly.
Sinn wasn’t shy about touching him to shift or hold his head the way he wanted. He cleaned
Renfield’s cheeks, then denuded his chin and upper lip with almost delicate strokes. Sinn cleaned the
razor, studying Renfield with a small smile, noting the rising flush
in his now smooth cheeks. "I missed a tiny bit of soap." Sinn rubbed his thumb over his space just
under Renfield’s nose. Renfield froze as Sinn let his thumb drift down, and pass over his lips. "What
a beautiful mouth you have, Robert." His fingertip pulled gently at Renfield’s bottom lip.
Renfield swallowed, unable to look away from Sinn’s dancing green eyes, but he kept his lips firmly
closed. Sinn made a moue, and said, "No? Ah, well." He set his left hand in Renfield’s hair and
tugged. "Stretch your neck for me, poupee."
Sinn slowly finished shaving Renfield. By the time he finished he had his arm around Renfield’s
neck, reaching around to hold his chin so that it could be counted as nothing less than an embrace. He
rested his cheek against Renfield’s hair as the razor made its way along the tensed bow of the man’s
throat. When Renfield started to speak (though he had no idea
of what he was going to say), Sinn shushed him. "I must concentrate, yes? You concentrate also,
cheri."
Renfield could feel himself trembling. He was awash with alternating waves of heat and cold--sensual
pleasure at Sinn’s touch, and near terror. He had never felt so vulnerable. His very life pulsed only a
hair’s breadth beneath cold, sharp steel, and the man who was wielding it was as odd as he was
enticing, but there was more to it.
*He knows,* Renfield thought in confused desperation. *God help me, he knows--what I want.*
Some part of Renfield’s mind sneered in disdain that he could not name his desires--not even to
himself.
Sinn laid aside the razor. Never releasing Renfield, he lifted a dripping cloth from the basin that sat
nearby on the dresser. "I was quite careful in wiping the razor, Robert, so the water is still quite
fresh." He squeezed the cloth, droplets pattering down into the water. "Now to clean you a bit." He
wiped Renfield’s face gently, only moving his hand from its grip on the other man’s chin to allow
passage of the cloth. Finally he tossed the cloth back, ignoring the small splash. "Voila--it is done."
He caressed Robert’s cheek. "And a magnificent job, if I do say so myself--as smooth as if you were
still a little boy. Ah, but you are a man, yes?" He kissed Renfield.
Robert made a quiet noise, a combination of protest and yearning that inflamed Sinn. There was
nothing quite as sweet as seduction, and seduction of a reluctant innocent... "How delicious you are,
Robert," he murmured.
"Sinn..." Renfield could not recognize his own voice. It was husky, almost pleading. "I’ve never..."
He trailed off.
Sinn’s laughter was silvery, and Renfield tensed. "Non, petit--you mustn’t take offense. I do not
laugh at you--I laugh at the world. It is so stupid, to let one such as you pass through untouched.
Bless you, you cannot even express what is, or what you wish to be." He moved quickly.
Renfield gasped as he found Sinn straddling his lap, facing him. His first instinct was to leap up,
throwing the presumptuous young man onto the floor, but the solid weight pressing down on his thighs
seemed to sap his strength. This time Sinn took Renfield’s face in his palms, and drew him forward
for another kiss, but in a moment Sinn drew back. "Robert, you kiss like a child. Open your mouth,
my sweet." He kissed him again. Still Renfield’s lips remained pressed closed. *So we use shock
tactics, *Sinn thought. He reached down and pinched Robert’s thigh hard.
Renfield gasped at the sudden sting, and Sinn quickly licked between his parted lips, sealing his mouth
over Renfield’s. He held Renfield’s head firmly, not letting him pull back. Renfield pushed at Sinn’s
shoulders, pushed hard--but he couldn’t budge him. Sinn hooked his feet under Renfield’s legs and
clung like a limpet, still kissing him.
It was very warm, very wet, and shockingly //active//, in so many ways. As the slippery tongue moved
in his mouth, Sinn was rubbing against him like a cat determined to coax a caress. Sinn murmured
against his mouth, "What is wrong, sweet? I will not believe you are so cold." He pulled back a few
inches, and gave Renfield a knowing, coquettish smile. "Is it
that you feel you will be cheating on your friend?"
"No! He--it isn’t like that. He’s ENGAGED. He... he’s just a friend."
"But you wish for more." It was a statement, not a question. "Robert, how can you expect to win his
heart if you are so ignorant of the ways of flesh? Fine words and romantic notions work well with
young girls, Robert, and must not be forgotten, but among men..." Renfield head fell back as Sinn’s
long, clever fingers closed over the mound of his erection,
squeezing firmly. "Between us men, it is best if things are more direct." He began unbuttoning
Renfield’s fly. "Let me show you."
"I can’t, Sinn." Renfield’s voice became more desperate as he felt the young man’s hand move into
the gap he’d created. "I swear. You MUST leave me alone." His voice died away as he felt, for the
first time, another’s hand on his cock.
Sinn stroked carefully. He was very pleased with the treasure he’d unearthed. Renfield was not
physically impressive at first sight, but he sported a fine prick. It was quite nice to begin with, and it
was growing quickly with his attentions. "I cannot, Robert. You see? You are already aroused, and it
would be cruel of me to leave you unsatisfied. What of this? Suppose you close your eyes, and
pretend that it is your friend who touches you." Robert shook his head firmly. "All right, but you
would not be the first to enjoy a fantasy lover while with a real
partner. Believe me, it has made my life tolerable many times."
Renfield had assumed that Sinn was widely experienced, but this statement made it all very real. He
heaved, managing to stand. Sinn had to unhook his legs to avoid the indignity of being dumped on the
floor. "Sinn, you have to go! This is wicked. I can’t do this under the prince’s roof."
Sinn had relinquished his clasp of Renfield’s flesh, sparing him pain, but now he grabbed Renfield’s
open shirt, pulling it back and half-way down, trapping his arms. "I have no objection. Would you
prefer the stables, or down by the river?"
"Stop teasing me!" Renfield cried. He tried to free his arms, but Sinn was holding the edges of the
shirt tightly together, and the effect was to bind his arms very neatly.
"Truly, I do not understand you, Robert," Sinn scolded. He glanced down to where Renfield’s
half-erect prick jutted from his fly. "You want
me--of that you cannot lie. Why would you deny both of us this pleasure?"
"IT’S WRONG!"
Sinn smiled slyly. "There speaks a man trying frantically to convince himself." Using Renfield’s
shirt, he tugged the stumbling man over to the still rumpled bed, then pushed him so that he sprawled
across it. Renfield would have jumped up, but Sinn was upon him with astonishing speed. To the
stunned clerk it was almost as if the young man had simply
FLOWED on top of him. Then he spun around, and Renfield found Sinn’s knees pressing his arms to
the mattress, while his hands rested on Renfield’s thighs. "I think I can persuade you of your folly,
cheri." He bent down.
It wasn’t till later that he realized that he hadn’t felt the first sensation that he unconsciously expected.
He SHOULD have felt the brush of Sinn’s breath--but he didn’t. The first sensation was the scalding,
slick swipe of Sinn’s tongue across the head of his cock. Renfield tried to thrash, but he was trapped,
and it only made Sinn giggle as Renfield’s
increasingly rigid cock swayed. "You make a game of this, Robert! Now I must capture you."
He spent a few moments darting his head this way and that, managing to land an occasional lick or
gentle nip that Renfield found, to his horror, sent even more blood to engorge his member. Finally
Sinn said, "This is most amusing, cheri, but it is time now." He pressed down on Renfield’s hips,
ruthlessly pinning them down. Renfield cried out as his cock was
engulfed by moist heat. The pleasure was shocking in its intensity, and instead of the sensation
dropping off to a level that would allow him to think, it did what he thought was impossible--it
increased.
Sinn was blissful. It had been a very long time since he had tasted someone new--in this way. Oh, he
had the blood, yes, and that was erotic in its own right. But there was nothing in the world like this.
And he
had not been only flattering Renfield--he DID find the little clerk delicious. He could taste so much of
the man. There was his anxiety, bordering on fear. //No, not bordering. He IS afraid--but does he fear
me, the prince’s wrath, society’s censure, or himself? Intriguing.// Oh, and there was his lust, too.
//Mon dieu, he has kept it bottled up for a long, long time. He attaches so much importance to this
act. It is possible that he may find it--shattering.// The idea pleased Sinn. He took Renfield’s cock
fully down his throat, pressing down till his nose was buried in crisp pubic hair, and feeling thankful
that he didn’t HAVE to breathe.
Renfield experienced the curious sensation of feeling that he was both growing stronger, and
weakening. His entire member was now engulfed, and the tight, soft heat seemed to be MASSAGING
him. The hard press of Sinn’s teeth around the base of his cock horrified him, even as it sparked an
added erotic tingle. From the few conversations he’d had about things like this (smirking whispers
exchanged in dark corners on his infrequent visits to pubs), he’d assumed that a man who would suck
another man’s prick could be nothing more than submissive--weak. Why, then, was Sinn quite
obviously the ravisher, rather than the ravished?
These thoughts were driven away as Sinn’s hips dropped, and Renfield found a firm, cloth covered
bulge pressed against his face. He jerked his head to the side. His cock was released and, though
Renfield knew that the room was warm, it felt almost cold after the heat of Sinn’s mouth. "Robert, it
would be only polite to reciprocate." Renfield strained his neck, trying to push his face into the sheets,
away from that disturbing swell. "Very well. I suppose that frottage will have to suffice."
Sinn bent once again to his task, and again Renfield felt the incredible softness of lips and tongue
doing impossibly exquisite things to his turgid flesh. Meanwhile Sinn undulated his hips, and the firm
bulge of his erection moved over Renfield’s cheek and jaw. The musky scent of arousal filled Robert,
and he couldn’t tell if it was this, or his OWN arousal that made it hard for him to breathe.
Then there was dampness on his face, scant moisture that told him that Sinn’s cock was leaking with
eagerness. It startled him, and his head jerked... and his mouth grazed the warm lump he had been
trying to avoid. Sinn made a cooing sound, and fire seemed to flood Renfield’s loins. He had turned
his head, and now he found himself opening his mouth. His
parted lips pinched down softly, molding around the thick column that strained beneath the covering
cloth.
Sinn was shuddering with desire. Even more arousing than the simple caress itself was the hesitancy,
the almost dismay with which it was given. //I have him,// he exulted. Knowing that he was risking
losing
his prize, Sinn shifted, slipping his knees off Renfield’s arms, and loosening his grip on the other
man’s hips till it was a caress. Renfield was very still for a moment, then Sinn felt his hands ghosting
shyly along his sides. He pushed his pelvis down encouragingly, and was rewarded with another
tentative nuzzle. He could feel the heat and moisture of Renfield’s breath through his clothes, and it
was glorious. //These mortals are so HOT.//
Sinn braced himself on one hand and jerked impatiently at his trousers with the other, while he
lavished licks on the flushed, slick cockhead before him, keeping Renfield distracted. He released his
own cock, shoving his trousers half down his hips to give his new lover better access.
He was irritated when Renfield didn’t take the hint. Instead, when confronted with a naked, rampant
cock, eager for his attention, he froze like a rabbit confronted by a serpent. "What am I doing?" he
whispered.
"Not nearly enough, cheri!" snapped Sinn. Renfield blinked as Sinn bounced off the bed, leaving him
uncovered by cloth, or flesh. His hands flew immediately to hide his erection. Sinn was walking
across the floor toward the dresser, and he said wryly, "You needn’t try to hide yourself, Robert. To
begin with, your hands are not large enough for the task." As he spoke, he kicked off his shoes, and
stepped out of trousers, leaving himself naked from the waist down. He dipped his hands in the water
basin, then lifted the cake of soap from the shaving mug, and began to massage it between his palms.
"And to finish with, I’ve already sampled your sweet staff--I’m not likely to forget it."
Renfield’s mind was whirling, his thoughts and emotions racing too quickly to be coherent. He
wondered vaguely why Sinn was washing his hands? Was
it proof that he thought what he had been doing was dirty? Sinn examined the thick, slippery coating
of lather he’d worked up on his hands, and nodded to himself, then walked back to the bed. "I can see
that I must take an even more active role in this seduction."
Renfield was astonished when Sinn put one foot up on the bed and bent, reaching back between his
legs to probe into the crease of his ass. "What...?" Renfield couldn’t voice the question. "Good lord."
Sinn’s expression tightened in concentration. "Sh. This is not so easy as it would be if I lay down.
Oh, I beg your pardon, Robert. Would you care to watch?" He turned and resumed his position.
Robert’s mouth went dry as he watched Sinn part his buttocks with one hand, smearing soap around
the brown crinkle of his anus with the other. He watched in horrified fascination as the young man
worked two stiffened fingers into the hole, spreading them slightly. Sinn pumped slowly, and his
voice was a little breathless. "I know that I should have brought oil, since you were not likely to have
any, but that just seemed..." he glanced back over his shoulder and smiled, "I think the word is
’presumptuous’." He crooked his fingers and shuddered suddenly, eyes half closing. He moaned, and
Renfield was sure he must have injured himself, but then he crooned, "Mm, la peu de tache magique. I
pity women. They cannot enjoy the back way to
pleasure as we can."
He turned, eyes gleaming like emeralds, and gripped Renfield’s still erect prick. Renfield thought of
scrambling away, but the grip on his most vulnerable flesh was firm, and not to be denied. And when
he looked into Sinn’s eyes, he felt as if he were slipping away, falling into some fathomless pool, or
perhaps being sucked into an endless fog. The only
thing holding him to reality was Sinn’s touch upon his body. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t try to
escape to save his soul. *And that may be what it is,* he thought numbly as Sinn slathered the
slippery soap thickly over his erection, then once again crawled over him.
Sinn knelt straddling Renfield’s hips. He gripped Renfield’s cock and drew the glans to rest against
the spread ring of his anus, pushing down just far enough to lodge the very tip was lodged against the
tight inner circle of muscle. He held it there with one hand. With the other, Sinn reached down,
settling his hand tightly in Renfield’s hair, forcing him to look straight at him. "Look at me, mon petit
amoureux."
He sank down slowly, his prick throbbing even more as he felt the thick, hot hardness spear up into
him. Robert, eyes wide and more than a little wild, moaned the entire time, the sound rising to a
whine like that of a panicked animal as Sinn came to rest. Sinn sat there for a moment, relishing the
fullness. Renfield was muttering to himself, words running together under his breath. It was nonsense
about sin, damnation, lust, someone named Jonathan, and forgiveness. At another time, Sinn might
have been interested, because it sounded like something that could be used, but now all he was
thinking about was finding his own release.
He began to rock slowly, rising and falling only an inch or two. As he increased his speed, he
increased the length of his strokes. Soon he was almost pulling free, only to slam down again, taking
Renfield’s entire length each lunge. He reached back and down, finding the man’s testes, and
massaged them, shifting the balls inside the soft, furry sac. Renfield gripped the sheets so tightly that
the muscles in his arms stood out, his knuckles bone white, as pale as his twisted face. He looked like
a man caught in a mixture of agony and ecstasy, unable to decide which was more powerful. His hips
were jerking helplessly as Sinn rode him, adding his own strength to the union, and delighting his
partner.
Sinn climaxed, his essence jetting across Robert’s chest and belly in warm crimson streaks. Robert
saw, and screamed, trying to throw Sinn off. His terror mingled with his onrushing orgasm, jumbling
blood, sex, pain, fear, and death in his mind. Sinn swore, suddenly realizing that he had forgotten how
this little peculiarity of vampire physiology might affect an unsuspecting mortal, but he wasn’t about
to relinquish his control of this encounter until he was fully satisfied--that meant that Renfield had to
be coaxed into release. Sinn had to know that he could command this from his bedmate, even though
he was frightened near to senselessness.
He succeeded. Again he pinned Renfield’s arms to the bed, and drove down on him ruthlessly. His
back passage had begun squeezing as he came, and now he bore down deliberately, milking Renfield’s
embedded cock with his strong, well practiced anal sheath. Renfield’s scream turned into a howl as he
had his first orgasm induced my another man. Sinn threw his head back, adding his own cries as the
liquid that burst from Robert’s quivering prick seemed to scald him. He froze, biting his lip,
concentrating on the pulse, and squeezing, squeezing...
Finally he collapsed on top of the now still Renfield. He hugged the man, almost purring in lazy
satiation. "So good, Robert. So good." He was answered by whimpers. He rolled off the other man
and sat up, examining him. Renfield stared up at the ceiling, lips working. "Why so distressed, mon
ami?" Sinn dabbed his finger in the bloody semen that beaded on Renfield’s pale chest. "This? I
should have warned you. It is only a personal peculiarity." He smiled. "Caused by something I drink,
I believe. Do not let it trouble you. Now, shouldn’t you get ready to meet
with the prince?"
When Renfield didn’t move, Sinn sighed. He went to the dresser again, wiped himself clean with
brisk efficiency, and dressed. Then he brought a cloth to the bed and gently wiped away all traces of
sex, stuffing the dirtied cloth in the commode. One of the gypsies should be up to empty the slops
later, and he would dispose of it. "He is a patient man, cheri, but after all... A prince is not kept
waiting, yes?" When Renfield was unresponsive, Sinn finished dressing him, as if he were a doll, right
down to his carefully starched collar and cuffs. He ran a comb carefully through the fine, light brown
hair, and said, "There--most presentable." Renfield stared blankly, and Sinn sighed. "Rien." He
slapped him.
Renfield blinked, and his eyes seemed to focus. "Sinn?"
"Are you ready to present your properties to the prince?"
Renfield stared at the cool, immaculate Frenchman. *Did I just have a nightmare? I remember
waking up, and starting to shave...* He touched his own cheek thoughtfully, and found it smooth
shaven. "Um... Yes. Yes, of course. Did... I oversleep?"
Sinn smiled. "Not by this household’s standards. Gather your things, and go down to the little room in
which we gathered last night." He paused at the door, smiling back. "If you have time later, seek me
out. If you wish to play games, it need not be Rill’s soldiers. The boy has the most remarkable
selection of toys, though." The smile grew wolfish. "I am most fond of le cheval de passe-temps."
"Pardon?"
"How do you say it in English? Ah! The hobby horse."
For no reason he could pinpoint, Renfield felt a chill as Sinn laughed, and shut the door.
end part 70
Back to index
Chapter 71: Chapter 71 - The Photograph

Pairing: NA this chapter
Rating: NC17
Summary: Draculea is finally presented with compelling evidence that his long wait may be at an end.
Archive: Yes, but tell me where, and I will ask for it’s removal when I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable media characters here, I don’t own them. I derive no
profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses
who
portray them. Bram Stoker died in 1912, and thus the copyright should have run out, and placed the
Dracula material in the public domain.
Part Seventy-one - The Photograph
Transylvania
Castle Draculea
Rill had been sitting on the edge of the bed, yawning, when Simion entered their room after having left
Sinn. "Was that Sinn?" He rubbed his eyes sleepily. "He’s up early."
It was true--Sinn was as indolent as a cat. Had he still been a creature of the day, he would have been
one who slept till near noon. "I expect it’s the novelty of having a stranger in the castle," said
Simion. He opened a dresser and began taking out Rill’s clothes for the night.
Rill stood and accepted the pair of linen drawers that his lover handed him. As he stepped into them,
he said slowly, "Simion, Sinn wouldn’t... wouldn’t hurt Robert, would he?"
Simion handed Rill a gold silk shirt--one that would set off his dark hair and eyes. "I think you must
know him better than I, Rill. Do you think there’s some reason he MIGHT hurt Mister Renfield?"
Rill sighed, looking thoughtful as he buttoned his shirt. "Not REALLY, but... Well, sometimes Sinn is
hard to understand. I get the feeling that maybe he’s telling me things just because he knows it’s what
I want to hear, not because he really means them."
Simion stepped closer and reached out, cupping the boy’s smooth cheek. "You know, Rill, there have
been many people the world consider quite intelligent who never realized that about Sinn. Wise
child." Rill smiled, turning his head to press a kiss to Simion’s hand, and the older man felt a sweet
twinge at his heart. *Wise, but oh, so innocent. You can see the possibility of cruelty, but you always
hope against hope that the person will follow a noble path, and resist the urge to hurt another. My
poor love--so often doomed to disappointment.*
He left the boy to finish dressing, going to check with the gypsies that had been on watch during the
day. As he’d expected, no one had come around. It had been centuries since any of the locals had
dared
come near the castle. Simion was more concerned about activities INSIDE the castle. The drug he’d
given Renfield had never failed before, but Simion was too practical to take it for granted.
While he considered the consultation with the prince’s guards necessary, he knew that he was also
using it as an excuse to take up a little time. He had to decide what he was going to do about that
extraordinary photograph.
He considered going into Renfield’s room, once he had gone to meet the prince, and taking it, but he
discarded that plan. He had a feeling that Renfield kept the picture close by at all times. His
protectiveness toward it had been very evident. *He feels something for that young man, and that
worries me,* thought Simion as he went to the kitchen to see to Renfield’s meal. It would be brought
to the meeting room, so that he could eat while discussing business with the prince.
*He must be told. It is possible that this means nothing, but...* Simion shook his head, drawing a
curious look from the gypsy who had been preparing Renfield’s food. The gypsy was curious, but he
said
nothing. The thoughts of the prince’s steward were his own, and it was best not to pry.
Simion’s thoughts continued. *No. That would be too great a coincidence. That young man, whoever
he is, is part of Draculea’s destiny. It would be foolish to deny it. He WILL learn of his
existence--I’m sure that is fated. But HOW he learns is important. I
fear what would happen if he saw the picture suddenly, with no warning. I think it might drive him
mad--then God help us all.*
Simion himself took the tray to the small room where they had gathered the night before. He had just
finished laying the dishes out on the table when Draculea arrived. Simion noted that his master looked
more aware, more involved with he world than he had for years. Even if the mysterious photograph
turned out to have no meaning, his decision to resume his hunt for Nicolae was good for him.
Draculea nodded to Simion, taking a seat at the table. "How is our visitor?"
"I have not yet seen him, master, but I trust he slept well. Our gypsies say he did not roam during the
day." He paused, then said, "Sinn is with him now."
Draculea smiled faintly. "Yes, Sinn would be on him as quickly as possible. He’s grown bored with
Rock. Sinn is no doubt waking him in his own inimitable manner. He has enough sense of self
preservation not to feed from him, but I have no doubt that he will drain him in another manner."
Simion smiled. "No doubt."
"I only hope that our new friend is none the worse for it." Draculea frowned. "He struck me as...
fragile. Oh, not PHYSICALLY." He pressed his palms together thoughtfully, fingers steepled before
his face. "But I sense that Mister Renfield has been walking a thin line for a long, long time. I would
not be surprised if Sinn caused him to stumble."
Draculea watched Simion as he finished laying the table, carefully arranging every item. He said,
"Old friend, something is on your mind." He gestured at a chair. "Speak to me."
Simion sat in the chair, and Draculea waited patiently while he ordered his thoughts, knowing that
Simion seldom spoke in haste. Finally the Simion said, "There is something, my lord--something that
could be nothing, or of great significance. Last night Rill was helping Mister Renfield unpack, and he
found something." His lips quirked in an almost-smile. "He is slow in some things, but he is very
sharp about the things that really count."
"What was this mysterious item?"
"You have heard me speak of photography, my lord?"
"Yes. The new way of making pictures, where there is no paint or canvas required."
"It shows everything exactly as it is--there is no personal interpretation involved, no softening or
flattering--no distortion. Renfield carries one of these photographs with him--a portrait." Simion fell
silent.
"You begin to intrigue me, Simion."
"The subject of the portrait is a young man, scarcely past his youth, with dark hair and dark eyes." He
stopped again.
Draculea’s only reaction was a slight tightening of his grip on the chair arms, but his eyes were bright.
"Go on."
Simion took a breath. "There is a resemblance, my lord."
He did not have to say the name. Draculea bent his head. It had been centuries since he had needed
breath, but some emotional responses were so deeply set that they never died. He drew a deep breath
and said, "How... how strong a resemblance?"
"It is his very image, my lord," Simion said quietly.
Draculea stood suddenly, the chair scraping as he thrust it back. In recent years he had seemed
smaller, stooped by the rigors of his self-denial, but now he towered, as Simion remembered from
years gone by. He whispered, "If this is true..." He turned, walking over to stare into the fire. "Could
I be that fortunate, Simion? That such direct proof of his return could be BROUGHT to me..." His
voice trailed away, then he said, "Do I dare believe this? It seems more likely that God is playing a
cruel joke, to punish me for my defiance."
"I cannot say, my prince. It may, indeed, be nothing--but it may be everything. You must see, then
judge for yourself. Unfortunately, I do not think Renfield will be inclined to show the picture. He
seems protective of it."
"Yes?" Draculea’s voice was flat, and Simion glanced at him quickly. His master was staring into the
fire, expression unreadable. "He values this young man?"
"He calls him a friend, lord. May I offer my opinion?" Draculea inclined his head. "I doubt that this
Englishman has ever experienced much in the ways of the flesh--male or female. Sinn is with him
now, and I would not be surprised if he is Mister Renfield’s maiden venture, but where his heart is
concerned..." Simion shrugged.
Draculea tapped the mantle, considering. "Well, there is no point in worrying until I’ve seen the
picture. And how shall I accomplish this, Simion? Must I have Sinn distract him while I slink into his
room and search?" His voice was ironic.
"I doubt that subterfuge will be necessary. He keeps it in his business case. He will need to open and
unpack it when you consult with him--it should be simple enough to... um, discover the picture."
Draculea nodded, and went to sit at the table. He stared at the food that had been prepared for his
visitor, thinking that even after so many years, Rill still enjoyed actually eating mortal fare. He
wondered if that would fade eventually, or if there as something in Rill’s simple nature that allowed
him to hold on to a shred of humanity. *And myself--is there any left? I would say that my love for
Nicu gives me claim to humanity. But is it still love, or is it only desire--and obsession?*
Simion watched Draculea. To others he would have seemed impassive, but Simion could read his old
friend where others couldn’t. If Draculea was convinced that the man in the portrait was Nicolae come
back, then how close he believed Renfield was to him might determine the clerk’s fate. Simion came
closer and put a hand on Draculea’s shoulder. When the vampire looked up at him, he said, "I ask you
to make me a promise. I ask you to swear to me."
Draculea frowned. He said slowly, "Simion, the last time I can remember you asking me to swear
something to you was when the bastard Varga hurt my Nicolae. What do you ask of me now?"
"I ask you to promise me that you will not act in haste with Renfield. Lord, you have waited so long...
I know how you yearn for Nicolae, how it must burn in your heart. Your passions could override your
cooler
sense of what it practical. I charge you to remember that this Renfield is only a mortal man, and one, I
believe, who is fragile in spirit. Please, my lord--promise patience. Remember, if he dies, or
descends too far into his own mind, you may never find Nicolae."
"Once again you council wisdom, Simion. Yes, I will be patient--as much as I may. But if this thing
is all you say..." He turned burning eyes up to Simion. "He WILL direct me to Nicolae."
There was a noise at the door, and the two men looked toward it expectantly. It slowly eased open an
inch, then moved quickly and smoothly to be fully open. The knew why when they saw Rill close
behind Renfield. He had one hand on the clerk’s shoulder, and the other was against the door, casually
moving the heavy weight. "You must not mind this, Robert. The hinges are quite tight with age, and
it is difficult to move, if you do not know the trick."
"Thank you, Rill." Renfield entered with the leather business case tucked in his arms as carefully as a
mother might carry her firstborn child. "Good morning... Um, evening..." He trailed off, his tone
questioning.
Draculea shrugged. "Yes, it can be a bit confusing for one new to our schedule. But do not fear--the
sentiment is clear, no matter the form. Please, come and break your fast."
Renfield went and sat at the table, Rill taking a seat on one of the sides, near Draculea. As he had
done before, Draculea caressed the boy absently, stroking his hair as Renfield ate. The prince inquired
politely after how he had slept, and Renfield answered that he had slept quite well. "I was a bit
surprised, Prince. I have not had a decent night’s sleep since this journey began. Of course most of
that can be attributed to jouncing trains, restless companions, or hellishly uncomfortable beds, but
still... I would not have expected to sleep so soundly in an unfamiliar place."
"You were exhausted with your travels, my friend," said Draculea. "Tell me, did you dream?"
Renfield started to speak, then hesitated. "Yes?"
"Well, it’s quite odd. I don’t recall having dreamed while I slept, but there has been a distinctly
dreamlike quality since I awakened." He shook his head slightly as he sliced a boiled potato. "I
remember getting up. Someone came to my room to see if I was ready to come downstairs."
"I came for you," Rill pointed out.
"I know. But it seems like there was someone else." He sighed, and took a bite of potato, chewing
slowly. "I suppose it isn’t important."
Draculea’s eyes narrowed as he examined the oblivious Renfield. Had Sinn disobeyed, and indulged
himself by supping from their guest? It was hard to tell. Renfield was naturally pale, and the shadows
under his eyes COULD be accounted for by his recent journey. His high collar would hide any marks
on his throat. *No, I do not think Sinn would trespass so. He has better sense, or at least a stronger
drive for self-preservation. Rock would be a different matter, but I doubt he could restrain himself
enough to keep any signs of his usage subtle enough to escape immediate detection. I think that
Mister Renfield has
just been a bit rocked by Sinn’s... exuberance. From what I recall, that is quite likely.*
Rill was engaging Renfield in a conversation about the prince’s horses--which one was sweet
tempered, which one was spirited, which one was the cleverest at finding hidden lumps of sugar.
Draculea was pleased to see that the clerk was paying attention to what the boy had to say, and
responding intelligently. Simion, of course, did the same, but Sinn tended to treat the boy like a
yipping lapdog, and Rock... Rill still tried to involve his brother in his life. Draculea could only
marvel at the boy’s ability to forgive.
While Renfield was distracted, Draculea’s eyes dropped down to the leather case that lay at his side. It
was a simple object, surely no different from thousands of others. *Strange that such a common thing
could hold the key to my fate.* "Have you finished your repast, Mister Renfield?"
Renfield looked up, a little surprised that his till now perfect host would show the least impatience.
But this man was royalty, he reminded himself, and had to be used to having his wishes or whims
instantly granted. "Yes, thank you." He wiped his lips as Simion began to remove the dishes to the
tray. He reached for the case.
Rill sat up alertly, eyes fixed on the case. Simion gave him a warning glance, but then his expression
softened. Rill was too fixed on Renfield and his portfolio to notice the warning, but Simion knew that
his automatic apprehension was undeserved. He had told Rill to be discreet, and he would do so. Rill
would do anything for him.
Renfield removed a sheaf of papers. "I’ve brought the specifics of eight properties in, and around,
London. I’m sure that two or three should suit your needs. On the off chance that none of them strike
your fancy, I can have information about more sent from my home office. It should only take a week
or so."
He started to stand, but Draculea gestured. "No, no--you remain seated. I become stiff if I sit too
long, so I will come to you." Draculea stood and came around the table. He stood to Renfield’s side,
and a little behind him. "Please, tell me about these properties."
"Well... Here, sir, if you’ll look at this map. The first one is located here. Now, I won’t lie to
you--this is not a fashionable neighborhood, but it is RESPECTABLE, and quiet. The house is in
good repair, though it hasn’t been occupied for a year. You might be interested in doing a bit of
redecorating, if you choose this one."
"Words can go only so far. Rill tells me that you have pho... pho..." He looked at Simion.
"Photographs, my lord," Simion replied.
"Yes. Photographs of these properties?"
"Yes, indeed." Renfield lay down the documents and reached into the case again. He pulled out a
small stack of photographs and sorted through them. "Here." He offered one, the image of a
handsome house, to the prince.
Draculea took it, and forced himself to pretend interest. If there had not been the promise of
something so much more interesting, he would have found the photograph fascinating. He had seen
painted miniatures before, but this photograph seemed perfect in every detail. He handed it back, with
no comment.
Renfield did not show any worry over this--it was only the first offering, and the prince had not
expressed a DISlike. "If you’d prefer something with the air of the country, without the nuisance of
the distance from the city conveniences, you might be interested in THIS property." He offered
another document, and a photograph. "It is just on the outskirts of the city, and the property includes a
wooded area, and even a small pond."
Draculea took them and glanced at them absently. "Very pleasant, I’m sure. It might save time,
Mister Renfield, if you would just give me all the photographs. I will look through them and let you
know if I find one of them appealing."
*Trust a member of the nobility to be more interested in appearance than solid reality.* "Certainly."
Renfield handed over the rest of the pictures. "If you find one that appeals to you, I can find the
proper documents, and give you the details."
Draculea pretended to study each picture, forcing himself to take his time. He came to the bottom of
the pile. No portrait. A hot lick of anger rose above his disappointment, but he forced it down. *It
exists--Rill and Simion have seen it, and I WILL see it, but this situation must be handled carefully.*
He smiled graciously at Renfield, and selected a photograph at random. "This place. I find it
interesting."
Renfield took the picture and examined it. "Ah, yes, the Plummer estate. This would be an excellent
choice, Prince Draculea, and I happen to know that the owners are eager to sell. I’m sure they will be
very reasonable, if we are shrewd in our negotiations."
"Wonderful. You must tell me more of it. But first..." He picked up the case, "we should tidy away
some of this." As he reached for the some of the documents, he casually, carelessly tipped the case,
and a final photograph slipped out.
Renfield instinctively reached for the portrait, but Draculea moved even more quickly. He caught
Renfield’s wrist with his free hand, his grip as firm and cold as steel. Draculea laid the case down, and
picked up the photograph, but did not look at it. Instead, his gaze was fixed on Renfield, pinning him
in place. Still Renfield protested. "Prince Draculea, that is a personal photograph--it has nothing to do
with our business."
"Perhaps not directly but this is an image of one of your friends, yes? I want to know something of a
man, if I am to do business with him." He stared at Renfield. "Surely you don’t object?"
How could Renfield object? It was an innocent enough request, and he needed to stay in the Prince’s
good graces. "No," he said slowly. "No, of course not."
"And who is this?"
"His name is Jonathan Harker--we work together."
"Jonathan Harker." The name struck no chord, had no resonance, but... *Simion knew Nicolae almost
as well as I. Could he be mistaken?* Draculea looked down at the picture...
And the world fell away.
*The eyes. By all the powers of Heaven and Hell, the EYES! HIS eyes.* They were dark and tilted
slightly at the corners, wide and direct, staring out at the world with intelligence and humor, and
more. *His soul looks out, and the goodness and sweetness shines through.*
He tore his gaze away from the eyes to look at the rest of the image. His throat tightened, and he
swallowed hard. The lean body, the thick, glossy black hair, the wide, beautifully formed mouth, the
long, elegantly shaped hands, resting quietly on his thighs--all familiar, even after so many years.
*He doesn’t just look like him--he IS my Nicolae. He MUST be.*
Renfield watched the prince examine Jonathan’s photograph, and apprehension began to creep through
him. Draculea was holding the picture in both hands, gripping it on either side, his hands tightening
slowly. The old man’s expression was blank, but his eyes seemed almost to glow. *Good God, what
does he see?* "Sir?" The prince did not respond.
The prince seemed mentally sharp for a man his age, but then, Renfield had not seen much of him.
Perhaps he had these... spells... regularly? He looked to Rill and Simion, hoping to gather some
indication that this was a typical thing. Both were watching the prince intently. Rill’s face shone with
happy eagerness, as if he were watching someone he cared for open a much desired gift. There was an
edge of apprehension in Simion’s expression, but he, too, seemed to be anticipating some sort of
strong reaction.
Draculea’s hands tightened again, and there was a brittle sound. The glass covering the photo had
broken, splitting diagonally, completely across. Renfield didn’t exactly cry out, but he made a
distressed sound, and did the bravest thing he’d ever done. He tried to take the photograph away from
Draculea.
Simion moved quickly, managing to catch Renfield’s arm before he could touch the photo--or
Draculea. "Mister Renfield, please! Give him a moment." Simion raised his voice slightly. "My
lord, our guest fears for the safety of his memento."
Draculea blinked slowly. He touched the split in the glass, and said faintly, "Forgive me, Mister
Renfield." When Renfield reached again for the photograph, Draculea casually brought it close to his
chest. "I will, of course, see that the glass is replaced. It should take no more than a day or two."
Renfield lifted his hand again, more in appeal than expectation. "There’s no need."
"Nonsense. My clumsiness is inexcusable, and I WILL make reparations. Just be patient." Renfield’s
hand dropped in resignation. "Your... friend. Again, what did you say his name was?"
"Jonathan Harker."
"That is all? It is only that I know how fond you English are of giving names. Isn’t there usually a
middle name?"
Renfield frowned. "I think... Yes, he DOES have another name. I remember he told me that his
father hated it, but his mother insisted on giving it to him."
"What was it?"
Renfield thought. "Nicholas. I remember--I was teasing him one day, and I asked if she had any pet
names for him--Nick or Nicky. He said that she called him Nicu."
A hush fell over the room. If it had not been impossible, Renfield would have thought that there was
not even the sound of breath being drawn. Feeling the need to break the silence he said, "Unusual isn’t
it?"
"Unusual, yes," said Draculea softly. "But not, Mister Renfield, unheard of."
end part 71
Back to index
Chapter 72: Chapter 72 - Communication, and Impressions

Pairing: Renfield/Sinn
Rating: NC17
Summary: Renfield writes to Jonathan, and shows a touch of defiance in defending him.
Archive: List archives and the WWOMB, but I will ask for removal when I find a publisher.
Disclaimer: Dracula is an actual historical character, thus in the public domain. Bram Stoker wrote the
most popularly known usage of the character. He passed away in 1912. To the best of my knowledge,
copyright expires 75 years after the author’s death, so it became public in 1987. There is a suggested
’cast list’ in chapter one. I have nothing but the greatest respect for all these actors, and the behavior
of the characters in the story bears absolutely no relation to the real life of these people.
Warnings: Warnings will be placed where deemed necessary on individual chapters.
Notes: Letters were a very important means of communications in the ages before
telecommunications. Check any library and you will find the collected letters of historical figures. It
is how we know a great deal of the everyday lives of our ancestors. Regarding Renfield’s
consternation over the lack of last names at Castle Draculea--surnames are a relatively recent
invention. From http://www.intl-research.com/surname.htm--European :"Surnames first occurred
between the eleventh and fifteenth centuries <snip>. Prior to this time period
<snip> people were largely illiterate, lived in rural areas or small villages, and had little need of
distinction beyond their given names." This explains Simion’s lack of surname. Rock and Rill have
discarded whatever surname they might have had, in order to distance themselves from their family,
and Sinn simply doesn’t bother. During the Victorian era, the use of the first name (or Christian or
given name) was considered a privilege. To call someone by their given name immediately upon
introduction was considered horribly rude and presumptuous. People might be on close terms for
years and still use surnames. There are records of married couples referring to each other as Mister
and Mrs. Such and Such for their entire married lives, at least in public. Conversely, servants and
people who were considered of a lower class were often referred to solely by their first names. As a
mark of how little consideration the upper classes had for the dignity of naming when it came to the
lower classes, we can refer to the British mini-series Upstairs, Downstairs. When a new maid is
engaged, the lady of the house casually informs her that she will now be referred to as Sarah, because
they feel that her own name is unsuitable for someone in her position.
Formatting: //Words between slashes represent writing.// *Words in asterisks are thoughts.*
Translation: These are from babelfish. To any French readers, if they’re wrong, feel free to send me
the correct translations. chien paresseux--lazy dog. reveillez-vous--wake up
The Year of Our Lord, 1882, Two days later

Transylvania
Castle Draculea
//My dear friend,//
//I mistrust the efficiency of the postal system in this barbaric region, and I have no inkling of when
this message will reach you. Indeed, it is entirely possible that none of the letters I have sent during
my journey have yet arrived. Let me assure you that I have not neglected my promise to you--I have
posted a missive at every stop. I think it likely that they will arrive in clumps. Please refer to the
dates, if you wish to have an accurate impression of my journey.//
Renfield scanned the paragraph, shaking his head slightly. *I sound like an utter prig. Well, I suppose
that’s what I am, and he won’t expect any different from me. Still, is it foolish to be pratting on about
the letters not arriving when this one will probably arrive after the earlier ones?* He rubbed his
forehead, trying to concentrate. *I wish I could clear my head. I seem to have been wandering in a
fog ever since I arrived here. I would have expected it DURING my journey--one expects to be in
flux during travel.* Again he read what he had written. *Lord, so much left unsaid, but how could I
write what I feel without sounding like an utter lunatic? I used to feel so completely prosaic and
grounded in reality. When did that change? When did this disconnected, floating feeling begin?*
Though he loathed complaining, feeling it to be peevish, Renfield couldn’t hold back at least one acid
comment. //I must say that the transportation in this region leaves much to be desired. The final stage
of my trip was quite ridiculous. I paid for transportation to a certain point in the mountains, where I
was to be met by the Prince’s carriage. The driver absolutely refused to take me to my destination,
insisting upon taking a route that would add a great deal of distance to the trip, solely, it seems, to
insure his arrival at a village before sunset. I was forced to walk the last mile, carrying my own
baggage, and then wait in a howling wilderness until it was quite dark. I use the term ’howling’ with
no sense of irony, Jonathan. I swear to you that there were wolves. I believe that I narrowly escaped
being savaged. If not for the timely arrival of the Prince’s conveyance, I would even now be
nourishing some foul beast.//
*Should I write that? I don’t want him to worry unduly--and he WILL worry, bless him. I’d better
show him quickly that the danger has passed.*
//I have been made most welcome at Castle Draculea. I know your interest in history, Jonathan, and
you would find this place fascinating. It must be at least five hundred years old, and has been
occupied by one family the entire time--a record that not even our own
country can match. Sadly, much of it has fallen into neglect, with only a few rooms being kept clean
and comfortable. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising. Few of the old, noble families can still afford
the upkeep of lavish residences. Still, it is strange. One gets the feeling that the structure has fallen
into disrepair more from disinterest than lack of means. It is as if the owners simply ceased to care
about their surroundings at some point far back in its long history. One must wonder what could cause
such a lack of concern for creature comforts.//
//You’ll want to know about the people I’ve met.// *He’s so interested in... well, humanity in general.
I’ve never known anyone who has such genuine concern for others, and he takes such delight in
closeness. I think that the boy must have been starved for human warmth most of his life.* //While
the menial servants are a variety of gypsy, speaking an uncivilized dialect, I was infinitely relieved to
find that the principle members of this establishment speak English. Their phrasing is a bit odd, but we
are able to communicate easily.//
//I was met by two members of the household--Simion, and Rill. Simion is by way of being the
prince’s aide--or perhaps steward is a more accurate term. In any case, he is in charge of the
day-to-day running of the castle, and appears to be most competent in dispensing his duties. The
situation of Rill, my other escort on the trip to the castle, is much harder to define. The gypsies do all
the rough work, and Simion administrates. While Rill has indicated that he helps with some of the
light cleaning, it is apparent that he volunteers for these chores, and is not expected to do anything
other than provide companionship for the Prince.// *And Simion. Yes, that is QUITE apparent, but it
will NOT be mentioned here.* //He is a young man of about your age--a simple soul, but
good-hearted. I believe that, aside
from yourself, he is the most friendly and open person I have ever met. But as open as he is, there are
still moments when he seems to hold secrets.// *Dark secrets? Possibly. I have a hard time believing
he would lie for any reason other than to protect someone else.*
//Once at the castle I was presented with another two young men who seem to share Rill’s
position--Sinn, and Rock. You will forgive me for not providing their surnames--they do not seem to
possess them. You can imagine how uncomfortable that makes me feel, but I am becoming
accustomed to it. I’ve learned that Rock is Rill’s brother, but I can scarcely imagine two more
dissimilar siblings. Where Rill is unfailingly cheerful, Rock is just as consistently sullen. He seems to
occupy a lower position in the household, perhaps just above the gypsies. I suppose it is due to his
surly disposition.//
//The Prince’s third companion is called Sinn, and he is quite a contrast to the others. While they are
obviously of humble origin, Sinn displays a level of sophistication and polish that could only be
acquired through a lifetime spent among the gentry. He is what I would imagine an ambitious young
diplomat to be like--very smooth and charming, but one can see a sharp mind behind his eyes. I think
that there is very little in this world that Sinn could not turn, somehow, to his advantage. For some
reason he seems to have taken a particular interest in me. I spend a good deal of my waking hours
with the Prince, answering his questions about England, but Sinn is with me most of my free time.//
*And I simply can’t remember what transpires during most of that time,* Renfield thought helplessly.
*Great chunks of time just seem to go missing. All I’m left with is... is flashes.* He closed his eyes.
*I’ll suddenly seem to wake, when I know that I couldn’t possibly have been asleep. I’m so tired of
late, as if I’ve been taking strenuous exercise--yet I do nothing more vigorous than walk from room to
room. I just don’t understand it.* He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. *And how in God’s name
have I acquired that chafing on my private parts? It’s almost as if I’ve handled myself too roughly in
the bath.* Even though he was alone, a dull red stain crept into his cheeks at the next thought. *Or in
some other activity. But I haven’t, not since London. Especially not now that I do not have my
picture of Jonathan. When will Draculea return it? I’ve asked him, but he always says something
about how difficult it is to get the proper materials, how they will have to send one of the gypsies
through the mountains, and he can’t possibly spare one now. Well, he’s promised to see my letters
delivered, and there will be no excuse for not acquiring the glass then.*
He set pen to paper again. //Prince Draculea himself is an interesting character. There is no doubt as
to his breeding. He has the innate sense of command that can only come with a long and royal
lineage. Though he is elderly, his frailty is solely physical--he rules his household with a firm hand.
One can see that he must have been an impressive man in his youth. Jonathan, you know that I am not
loquacious, and I have spoken more freely with you than with anyone else in my life. The Prince
spends hours plying me with questions about life in England--in particular MY life. He says that as I
am a typical Englishman he can learn what he wishes by studying me. The idea of being held up as an
example is distressing...//
"Busy, busy, busy."
Renfield had been so preoccupied with his writing that he had not heard Sinn enter. When the
dark-haired young man spoke almost in his ear, Renfield jerked, his pen skittering across the page and
leaving a streak of ink. "Oh, la! See what I have done. And it was so pretty and neat."
Renfield blotted at the ink, frowning. "Drat. Perhaps I should start again. Jonathan is very particular
about penmanship, though he’d never think to criticize."
"Yes, I have heard that of him."
Renfield regarded him in surprise. "How could you?"
"You told me, mon ami."
"No, I’m quite sure that I haven’t said anything about Jonathan’s minor obsession with precise
writing."
Sinn shrugged. "You must have." He smiled. "How else could I know, eh? Are you almost through
with your correspondence? I can bring them to Simion, and he will see that one of the Rom get them
to the nearest post."
"I... Yes, nearly so." Sinn picked up the letter before Renfield realized what he intended. "I say!
That’s private."
"Cheri, there is very little in Castle Draculea that can be considered private--you will learn that." He
was reading quickly. "Informative." Renfield blushed, remembering the less-than-glowing
description of at least two of the castle’s occupants. Sinn noted his reaction, and laughed. "Do not be
distressed, Robert. You are quite astute in your assessments, and you are fairly discreet." He put the
paper down again and reached out to touch Renfield lightly on the chest, gazing directly into his eyes.
Renfield felt the floating sensation creeping up on him again as the world seemed to narrow till
nothing existed but Sinn’s green eyes. "Of course, I do not leave you much to remember, do I?" He
began to unbutton the unresisting man’s shirt. "Such a shame that I can’t let you keep the sweet
memories of our time together, but perhaps after my master has what he needs from you..."
~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~
Sinn was on his hands and knees, on the floor. "Harder!"
Renfield, kneeling behind him, obeyed mechanically, strengthening his thrusts till his loins met Sinn’s
buttocks with meaty slaps, plunging his turgid cock deep into the clinging coolness of the vampire’s
body. His grip on the pale man’s hips was bruisingly tight, but no bruises would rise because Sinn
hadn’t bothered to take a meal before coming to him. He had decided that since Renfield would be in
a trance state during the encounter, and it would be wiped from his memory afterward, there was little
need to keep up the pretense of mortality.
Sinn grunted in pleasure as his lover’s cock rubbed over his prostate, but it wasn’t enough. "Chien
paresseux! Show some spirit, damn you! Fuck me!"
Renfield made a sound very like a sob and redoubled his effort, slamming into Sinn so hard that the
vampire’s braced arms slipped, and he fell on his face. Robert didn’t stop, plunging into him
ruthlessly, his expression almost grieving. Sinn whimpered in happy abandon, relishing the demanded
roughness. As he was jolted over and over again he thought, *Such sweet force. If only he weren’t
normally so boringly gentle. He doesn’t take well to the control. I fear that his mind may not be able
to withstand much more of this.* Sinn’s orgasm swept over him, filling him with the phantom sense
of nearly forgotten warmth as his cool sperm splattered the floor. *No matter. We only need him to
stay sane long enough to find the location of Draculea’s long-lost beauty.*
Sated now, he slapped away Renfield’s hands. He sat, wincing at the pleasant pain in his ravaged ass,
and turned to look at Robert. The little clerk knelt, trembling. He was flushed down to his chest, his
hair lank with sweat, breathing heavily. His eyes were both wild, and glazed, as if screaming panic
was behind them, only barely leashed. Sinn noted this all dispassionately, then his eyes fell to
Renfield’s crotch. His cock still jutted out, swollen and straining. It was slick with the thick, dark
blood that had oozed from the tears that Renfield’s reluctant roughness had caused. Sinn licked his
lips thoughtfully, then cooed, "Poor Robert. Let me help you." He crawled forward, gripped
Renfield’s hips, and delicately began to lick him clean. Renfield soon groaned, hips jerking
helplessly. Sinn was quick, and managed to fit his mouth over the cockhead, catching and drinking
every drop of hot sperm eagerly. He finished with a tiny, sucking kiss to the very tip, then sighed. "I
may drink blood for nourishment, but this--this is for love." Then he smiled ironically,
knowing very well that he had never loved anyone--living, dead, or otherwise.
He stood, and noted the scarlet splash his bloody sperm had left on the floor. He looked about, but
there didn’t seem to be anything convenient to use for clean up. Shrugging, he went to the bed. There
was a small rug beside it, meant to save the sleeper from putting warm feet on an icy stone floor. He
dragged it over and used it to cover the mess.
He could have ordered Renfield to dress, but he preferred to do it himself, treating the man like a
life-size, breathing doll. When he was done he guided the still-blank man back into his chair. Pulling
a
comb from his pocket, he carefully smoothed Renfield’s hair, then patted his cheek as he put the comb
away. "Robert. Robert, reveillez-vous." Renfield gave his head a minute shake, emerging slowly
from his mental fog. "You have allowed your mind to wander again." He pouted teasingly.
"Honestly, one would think you found my company boring."
"No--certainly not, Sinn. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately." He shifted
uncomfortably again.
"Finish your letter."
Renfield wrote quickly. //I wish this could be a longer message, but I find myself fatigued of late. It
must be the climate. I will write again soon.//
//Ever your friend,//
//Robert Renfield//
He folded the letter neatly, inserted it in an envelope, and addressed it. "I also have one for my
landlady, explaining that she may need to hold my room a bit longer than I had anticipated, and one
for my employers." He hesitated. "Sinn, the Prince DOES intend to buy, doesn’t he? I’ve presented
all the specifics I brought along, but he will not commit himself. I don’t want to be too aggressive,
but..."
Sinn was leafing through the envelopes. "Never fear, Robert. I can promise you that he has every
intention of going to England. In fact, I can assure you that nothing on this earth could prevent him."
He tapped the envelopes, gazing down at Renfield. "I notice that you have addressed your letter to
your friend Harker to your place of employment." Renfield nodded warily, but didn’t comment.
"Wouldn’t it be better to send it to him at his home?" Sinn picked up a fresh envelope and laid it
before Renfield. "Go on."
"I already have that one prepared--there’s no need to waste another."
"Cheri, if it is waste that bothers you, we can provide all the supplies that you require." There was a
subtle, demanding tone in Sinn’s voice.
Renfield stared stubbornly down at the blank envelope. "I’d rather not. He lodges with someone, you
know, and it... it would be rather presumptuous to send personal mail there."
Sinn reached out mentally, giving Renfield a gentle push toward obedience. "Robert, address the
envelope." Renfield’s hands clenched on the desktop. Sinn regarded him in surprise. So far the
Englishman
had offered nothing but the feeblest resistance. He pushed harder, concentrating. "Do it!"
Renfield shivered, a fine sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. He bit his lip hard, but muttered,
"No."
Sinn gritted his teeth, slitted his eyes, and focused every ounce of will he had. "Robert, you will
address that envelope--NOW!"
Renfield winced. Hand shaking, he picked up the pen and scribbled on the envelope. Smiling in
triumph, Sinn picked it up and read. "Merde! Exactly the same address as the first!" He glared at
Renfield with a mixture of irritation and, surprisingly enough, admiration as he crumpled the second
envelope. "You must love him very much, cheri. Very well, I will leave you in peace on this count."
He touched Renfield’s cheek. "But believe me, I know what the Prince can unleash to persuade you,
and you should have done as I asked." He stroked Renfield’s brow. "Remember nothing after you
finished your letter. Now, awake." He gave Renfield’s shoulder a little push, saying playfully, "Again
you drift away from me! Really, Robert, I shall have to devise new ways to keep your attention."
Robert stared after him as he left. He absent-mindedly adjusted his vest, wondering why he hadn’t
noticed before that it had been buttoned
crookedly. For some reason he felt clammy, as if he had sweated, then put on his clothes without
bathing, and he was exhausted. Still, over-riding these discomforts was the sense that he had
somehow won some kind of victory.
end part 72
Back to index
Chapter 73: Chapter 73- Harsher Methods

Pairing: Rock/Renfield
Rating: NC17
Summary: Draculea is finally so determined to find Jonathan’s whereabouts that he gives Rock his
way. Poor Renfield.
Archive: I will ask for removal when I find a publisher.
Sequel/Series: No
Disclaimer: When I last checked, copyright extended for 75 years after the creator’s death. Bram
Stoker died in 1912, so it became public domain in 1987.
Warnings: Rape. Rock is a sick bastard.
Part Seventy-three - Harsher Methods

Transylvania
Castle Draculea
The household had gathered once again in the small sitting room--Draculea, Simion, and the three
companions. Rock and Rill had taken chairs across the table from Draculea. Simion and Sinn flanked
the Prince’s chair as Sinn related his latest encounter with Renfield. He didn’t go into detail about
their physical congress, saying only that they had been ’intimate’. Rock smirked sourly, but Rill
beamed. His interpretation of intimacy was much different from the other two young vampires. He
was glad that his friend Robert had someone to make him feel good, and feel special. Simion noted
his lover’s happy expression and sighed inwardly, hoping that this could all be resolved before Rill
had to be disillusioned.
That didn’t seem likely, though. Draculea stared at the envelopes that lay on the table before him. He
wasn’t aware of it, but he had bared his teeth, and his fangs had appeared. They weren’t fully
exposed, but the visible points were enough to startle anyone who didn’t expect them. He reached out
and tapped two of the envelopes, with a nail that was longer and sharper than it should have been. "I
told you to be sure that he gave me the home address."
Sinn, an observant man, had noticed the subtle changes in Draculea’s appearance. The elder vampire
was expert at concealing the physical aspects of his nature--he must have been very agitated to slip
like that. It made Sinn nervous. "I tried." Draculea’s eyes flashed up to him, and there was a spark of
red in their depths. "I swear, my lord. I used my skills both as a human, and as Nosferatu." He
shrugged. "I confess myself astonished at his resistance. Renfield certainly doesn’t strike me as a
tower of strength."
Draculea grunted. "Which of these is for the employers, and which is for the boy?"
Sinn looked embarrassed. "I am afraid..."
With a sound of annoyance, Draculea picked up one letter and opened it with one slash of his
fingernail. He pulled out the sheet, glanced at it, and tossed it on the table, reaching for the second.
He opened his one, too, but more slowly. He extracted the page and unfolded it slowly. "My dear
friend."
"It is a common greeting, lord," said Simion.
"It is more intimate than I would like." Draculea read on, his frown deepening. "I’m not sure how
much longer I dare let this continue. Mister Renfield is quite an observant man." He studied the letter
again, reading between the lines. "Observant, and suspicious."
"Lord, we should send the letters," said Simion. "One can never tell how the English will react, and
we do not want them to send someone after him."
"Very well." He handed over the letters. "Send them. Sinn, have you done your best? Are you sure
that you cannot extract the location from him?"
Sinn normally would have immediately assured the Prince that he could perform any task that his
master wished, but he hesitated. "As much as I am loath to admit it, my lord, I believe I have done my
utmost. He has a stubborn streak, does Robert."
"The stubborn can be broken."
They all looked at Rock, who was lounging back in his chair. He stared levelly back at the Prince, and
he gave a small, feral smile. Draculea said slowly, "Simion, take Rill with you to fix the letters."
Simion regarded Rock, then silently urged his lover up, and led him from the room. Rill went
willingly, happy to be on any errand with Simion.
For a long moment, Draculea and Rock regarded each other in silence. Finally Draculea said,
"Speak."
Rock shrugged. "Sometimes cruder methods succeed where sophistication fails."
"And, if I remember correctly, your methods are as crude as any." Rock bared his teeth in an
almost-smile. He’d never claimed to be anything but what he was. "What do you plan?"
"I do not know. How can I tell until I see how he reacts?"
Draculea stared at him. He knew very well that Renfield’s fragile spirit was in the balance, but on the
other side of the scale was Nicolae. There was no doubt as to which direction the scales would tip.
"Be careful of him, Rock," Draculea warned. "If he dies, or if his mind is destroyed, then the purpose
is defeated. And I would prefer that he remain... undamaged. Your brother is fond of him, and I
would not have him distressed."
Rock nodded, standing. His movements were quick, and he was almost vibrating with eagerness as he
headed for the door. Draculea sighed. "And so another sin is laid to my account." He closed his
eyes. *I do much for you, Nicolae. But you are worth it, my love.*
~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~
Renfield sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face distractedly as he stared at his pocket watch.
*Oh, God, I’ve lost more time. What is HAPPENING? I feel as if I’ve been in a siege, as if I’ve been
battling something, or someone, long and hard. I’m so tired.*
He went to slip the watch back into his pocket, and hesitated as he felt something else. *What’s this?*
He drew out a silver crucifix on a thin chain. *Oh, yes. That girl gave it to me. What did she say?
Something about a man losing his soul in the pursuit of profit. And the old lady. ’Wear it for your
mother’s sake.’ They acted as if I were about to walk into a lion’s den.* Renfield’s head jerked up as
a wavering howl sounded somewhere nearby. *Or maybe a wolf’s.* After a moment’s hesitation, he
donned the chain, slipping the crucifix inside his shirt. He let his hand rest over it, and wished he was
a religious man. Perhaps it would make him feel more secure.
The door opened, and he looked up wearily, expecting Sinn again, or perhaps Simion. He would
welcome Rill--the boy’s cheerful, sweet nature was soothing. He was the only one with whom
Renfield could feel
comfortable in this household. He was surprised to see Rock shutting the door behind himself. The
blond man had been a sullen, near-silent presence during his stay. He seldom had anything to say, but
Renfield was always aware of his watching. The man’s gaze was like a physical weight. "Oh, Rock.
I’m sorry that I’ve been so long. I just... I lost track of time."
"That happens here." Renfield watched nervously as Rock turned the key in the lock, then leaned back
against the door, staring at him. "Years can just slide by, before you know it. Decades. Centuries."
"Yes, I suppose it can seem that way."
"No ’seem’ about it, Englishman." He started over toward Renfield. "Have you any idea how long
I’ve been trapped in this hellhole? Trapped under the thumb of that devil Draculea, without a breath
or a moment to call my own?"
Renfield stood up, reluctant to be near the bed while he was alone with this man. He couldn’t
remember ever feeling sexually threatened, but he had no trouble recognizing it now. "You should
leave, then."
Rock barked with acid laughter. "Think I haven’t tried that? You don’t know what he does when you
run." His eyes narrowed. "I could SHOW you--if you run from me."
Renfield back up quickly, his heart suddenly hammering so violently it seemed impossible it wouldn’t
tear through the fragile walls of his chest. He tried to keep his voice steady, knowing instinctively that
a
show of fear would only excite Rock. He ignored the last threat, saying, "I’m sure you could find
employment elsewhere."
"You don’t understand." Rock kept coming, stalking Renfield till the clerk’s back was against the
wall. "I’m not his employee. I’m not even his servant, or his slave. I’m his creature, Robert. I’m
owned, body and..." He smiled nastily. "I was going to say body and soul, but I gave up my soul a
long time ago--probably BEFORE he killed me."
"You’re mad," Robert whispered, appalled. Insanity was a terrifying thing. You never knew what a
lunatic was capable of doing.
Rock shrugged. "I suppose I am. It would be hard to go through the long years without going at least
a little mad. But sanity aside, Robert, you and I have business together. You have something that the
prince wants very, very much, and Draculea isn’t one to be denied. Sinn hasn’t been able to coax it
out of you, so..." he reached out and fingered the soft collar of Robert’s shirt, "they’ve called for an
expert in more forceful techniques." He tightened his hold, leaning in to force his mouth against
Renfield’s.
Renfield, terrified, reacted more violently than he ever had in his life. He brought his arm up,
knocking aside Rock’s arm. Rock didn’t release his grip, and there was a ripping sound as Renfield’s
shirt tore. The crucifix glinted. Rock fell back so quickly that he almost stumbled, hissing in anger
and surprise. For a split second his face seemed to melt and reform into something monstrous. It was
like the flickering of a candle flame, but it was too clear for Renfield to pretend it hadn’t happened.
"Oh, my God! What are you?"
"You English--you’re so enamored of the modern and the scientific that you scoff at the dark legends.
You must know of Nosferatu, Renfield. Every country has its tales. Some of them are true."
"Vampires? No, it’s not possible." But the clues were clicking into place--the household’s odd
timetable, the shunning of mirrors, the dread of the locals.
"As you say." Rock’s smile was sharp. "Then remove that foul bauble. You believe in it no more
than do I."
Renfield shook his head. "I might be ignorant--horribly ignorant, but I’m not stupid!" He began to try
to edge toward the door. He had to get help, but whom could he trust? *Not Sinn. He’s part of this,
somehow. And Draculea--I can see him being as dangerous as Rock says. Simion is Draculea’s man.
Rill! Rill will help me.*
Rock shifted, cutting off his escape route. "Take it off, Renfield, or you’ll suffer for it. You’ll suffer
even more than I had planned." Instead, Renfield lifted the tiny ornament toward Rock. Rock snarled,
wavering as if undecided. Then he lunged. He snatched at the necklace. Renfield felt the chain snap.
Almost in the same motion Rock hurled the necklace violently, howling in rage and pain. There had
been a brief, sizzling sound, and a smell like rotten meat roasting. A thin curl of smoke wafted from
the hand that had seized the crucifix, and Rock clutched it to his chest, muttering. Renfield could see
that the flesh had been destroyed on his palm, charred in the shape of a cross, and with raw flesh
showing through. There were also thin red lines on Rock’s fingers and wrist, where the silver chain
had lashed him.
When he looked back at Renfield, his eyes glowed yellow. "It was a good try--silver and religious
objects are among the few things that can harm a Nosferatu, and when they are combined..." He
whined, and licked at the scorched skin, like a dog trying to soothe a hurt. "It was a good try, human.
It burned like fire, but I can reach into fire for something I want badly enough, and I want you."
Renfield tried to run, but Rock was on him before he could unlock the door. He shouted hopelessly as
he was dragged back, and thrown face-down on the bed. A hard hand pressed down on the small of
his back,
pinning him like a butterfly to a corkboard. Like the trapped insect, Renfield thrashed and fought, all
to no good. Not bothering with buttons, Rock simply tore the Englishman’s pants down, ripping
through the thick waistband as if it were gauze. Renfield felt cool air on his bare buttocks, and
realized with horror exactly what Rock meant to do.
Suddenly he was released as Rock reached to open his own breeches, and Renfield tried to scramble
away. His legs tangled in his shredded clothing, and Rock caught his feet and dragged him back. "No,
pretty boy, you won’t get away like that. You’re mine, and I’ve been waiting for a tender piece of ass
for ages. Sinn says he thinks you’re a virgin--at least as far as being mounted yourself. Are you?"
"Please, let me go!"
"Answer me, milksop! Ever had a man inside?" He grabbed Renfield’s ass, thumbs digging into the
crease and spreading them roughly. "Ever had this sweet peach split?"
"No! God, please, don’t, please..." Renfield was degenerating into babbling and whimpers.
"I didn’t think so. Look at that hole--as pink, soft and tight as a rosebud." Rock used his knees to
force Renfield’s thighs apart, dropping down on his body. "Time to blossom."
There was a stab of pain that lanced deep into Renfield’s bowels--cold and burning, all at once, and he
gave a thin scream. Rock roared with triumph and pleasure as he finally was once again buried in the
hot, tight flesh of a reluctant victim. Rock pounded into Renfield, using his weight to keep the other
man trapped as he plundered his body. He fucked ruthlessly, using long, powerful strokes, then short,
brutal jabs, causing as much pain as he could. Finally Renfield was reduced to weak moans and
squirms. As he felt his climax approaching, Rock grabbed hold of Robert’s soft brown hair, forcing
his head up and aside, then sank his fangs into the smooth, warm skin of his neck. A burst of hot,
salty-sweet blood, rich with terror and shame, flooded his mouth, and he drank greedily. But he
stopped himself long before it was too late, and satisfied himself with spraying his bloody seed deep
into the now limp human’s aching core.
When he was done, he pulled out briskly, wringing another groan as his softening cock slid free of
Renfield’s abused asshole. He flipped the smaller man over onto his back and studied him critically.
"Huh. Still soft, little man?" Rock gave Renfield’s limp prick a cruel squeeze. "That will change
eventually. I can make you learn to like it. But there’s plenty of time for that. What I need now is
information." Renfield stared up at him blankly, giving no indication that he understood. "Your
friend, Harker. Draculea fancies him. He’s convinced himself that Harker is a long-lost
lover--reborn. Just tell me his address," Rock stroked Renfield’s cock roughly, "and I’ll see that you
have a prize."
"Jonathan?" Renfield’s voice was choked. "You want Jonathan?"
Rock smiled lasciviously. "Oh, I wouldn’t mind a taste--I’ve seen the picture. But Draculea has plans
for that particular sweetmeat. He’s bound to grow tired of him eventually, so who can say?" He bit
Robert’s throat, not drawing blood this time--only bruising. "Perhaps we three can play games."
Renfield’s eyes were huge, shocked and horrified. "No, not Jonathan."
Rock frowned. "Yes. See here, Englishman--I may not be as accomplished in the finer arts of torture
as Simion, but I can cause pain well enough. You’ll tell me what I want to know eventually. The
question is if you’ll survive the telling."
Renfield shook his head vehemently. "No. I won’t tell you. I’d rather die."
Rock said softly, "People say that all the time, but they don’t know what it means. If you don’t tell me
what I want to know," he put his lips against Renfield’s ear and whispered, "I promise that you WILL
understand."
~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~
Two days later
Rill knelt before Draculea, looking up at him with anxious eyes. "Please, Domn."
Draculea held the picture that had occupied so much of his waking time. He paused in its study and
looked at the dark-haired Hungarian boy. "What is it, Rill?"
"Domn, I can’t find Renfield. I haven’t seen him for ever so long, neither have the Rom, nor Simion.
Sinn just laughs and pats my head when I ask him. I’m afraid something has happened to him."
"Don’t be distressed, child. He was warned to stay within the castle. Are you afraid the wolves have
taken him?"
Rill looked down at the floor. "No, prince. Perhaps the wolves would have been more kind. I haven’t
seen Rock, either." When he looked at Draculea, there was nothing as sophisticated as suspicion in his
eyes--only sad questioning. "Simion will not let me go to the lower levels. You told me he wouldn’t
be hurt."
As necessary as he knew his decision to have been, Draculea felt heavy-hearted. "Rill, you know that
I must find Nicolae." Rill nodded. This was a fact, nothing to be questioned. "Mister Renfield knows
where he is, but he will not say. For some reason he believes that I mean his friend harm."
"Harm? But Domn, you LOVE him."
"Renfield doesn’t understand this, Rill. He is--misguided. We have tried to persuade him, but were
not successful."
"But ROCK! Oh, Domn, could you not have let me ask? I could have explained it to him."
"Boy," said Draculea grimly, "this is something that he would never have been able to grasp. I had no
choice. Still, I gave Rock strict instructions that he was to be careful." He stood up. "I will seek your
Renfield." He patted the boy’s dark curls. "Do not despair, child. Rock will surely have the answer I
seek by now. If not..." He shrugged. As he started for the dungeon, he thought, *If not, I will TAKE
the answer, but I fear you will be left with little more than a warm and breathing doll when I am
done.*
~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~
Renfield was curled naked in a pile of dank, musty straw, hugging himself. He shivered, but could not
tell if it were from cold, fear, or the pain, which never seemed to quite leave him.
Rock never left him. During what had to be the daylight hours, he would fix Renfield to a rack or tie
him to a cot while he slept the sleep of the undead. When he awoke, the torture would begin again.
Rock favored rape as his chosen method of punishment, but beating was not neglected. When Rock
could no longer will his flesh to perform, he had various devices he used as a substitute--bottles and
polished sticks, thick, blunt metal clubs. Renfield had stopped crying a long time ago.
Rock still questioned him. Occasionally he would pause from thrusting himself into Renfield’s
cringing flesh, once again demanding Jonathan’s address. Renfield would shake his head, and the
abuse would resume. Robert had long since realized that the question was only an excuse for Rock to
take his pleasure. He didn’t really care whether or not he got an answer. Robert had also accepted the
fact that he was going to die. So be it, but he would leave Jonathan safe, taking the information of his
whereabouts to the grave.
He heard a voice, and the ceaseless pounding into his ass stopped. He was bound across a table, on his
belly, and a hard hand gripped his hair, lifting his head. Through his swimming vision he saw
Draculea. The prince watched him with grim coolness. Finally he said, "Why do you resist, human?
Don’t you know that I will kill you if I must?"
"You won’t have him," rasped Renfield.
There was a minute softening in Draculea’s eyes. "You must love him very much, to defend him so
bravely. But I love him, too, Robert."
"Can’t." All he could manage was a whisper. "Something like you. Soulless. Can’t love him."
Draculea’s expression hardened. "I gave up my lands, my throne, my life, my very SOUL for him,
human! I have waited for him to return to me, down through the centuries, in my loneliness and grief,
and now that he is almost within my grasp I---will---have him!" His eyes began to burn, fixing
Renfield’s gaze. "You will give him to me."
Renfield knew there were only two things that could prevent Draculea from making good his promise.
He would have to die, and as much as he wished that, he simply could not achieve it. He had tried
many times
during Rock’s torture. He would have to die, or...
Renfield took a deep breath, and chose the only other option. He let go.
Rock frowned at the first low, ragged chuckles. They continued, building slowly. He had seen many
unearthly things in his long unlife, and little fazed him, but this sound made the hair prickle at the back
of his neck.
Draculea could have understood almost any response, save this one. He shoved Renfield’s head back
till the man’s neck was arched like a bow. There was absolutely no tension in Renfield’s body--he
was limp, almost inert. The only sign of life was the low, almost purring string of giggles that issued
from his faintly smiling mouth. He sounded as if he was enjoying some clever, private joke...
But his eyes were screaming.
end part 73
Back to index
Chapter 74: Chapter 74- Substitution

Rating: NC17
Summary: With Renfield insane, the information Draculea seeks is lost to him, but the prince thinks of
a way to have Jonathan come to him.
Archive: I will ask for removal when I find a publisher.
Sequel/Series: No
Disclaimer: When I last checked, copyright extended for 75 years after the creator’s death. Bram
Stoker died in 1912, so it became public domain in 1987.

Transylvania
Castle Draculea
"I’m sorry, Rill."
The boy silently looked up at Draculea. He was curled on the bed, holding Renfield, cradling him
protectively. The smaller man accepted the embrace, but didn’t return it. His head rested against
Rill’s chest, and he stared blankly into the middle distance. Every now and then he giggled tonelessly.
Each time Rill would pet him till he stopped, then return his reproachful gaze to the prince.
"You have to know that I didn’t want this."
"I know. Now he can’t lead you to Nicolae." The tone wasn’t accusatory. Rill was only stating a
simple fact--Draculea might regret Renfield’s breakdown, but it was more for the sake of his lost
opportunity than anything else. Rill dropped a kiss on Renfield’s hair, then laid his cheek against it.
"Don’t be afraid, Robert. We’ll take care of you--Simion and I. I won’t let Rock hurt you anymore."
He didn’t look up again, and Draculea finally left the two. Simion, Rock, and Sinn were waiting in the
hall. Simion said, "It may be hard to believe, but he IS improving, Prince. He speaks to Rill, though
he will not respond to me. He is gradually emerging from the darkness."
"But he will never return to this world entirely." Draculea sighed. "I will never learn Nicolae’s
location from him now. Any further force will send him completely over the edge. It would be like
sealing him in a windowless room, and leaving him to die."
"You can’t blame this on me," said Rock. "He was doing well enough till you tried to push him."
Draculea grabbed Rock by the throat, slamming him against the wall. "I sped it, yes, but he was
teetering on the edge when I came to him. I told you to be careful."
Rock tried to force Draculea’s hand away, choking, "He’s alive, isn’t he?" Disgusted, Draculea
shoved him away.
Sinn was eyeing the door, speculation in his eyes. He found the idea of a making love to a lunatic
exotic. "I should see if there’s anything that they need."
"Stay away from him, Sinn," said Draculea. "Just leave the poor bastard to Rill’s care. He won’t have
him for much longer, and he’s going to be upset by that."
Sinn raised his eyebrows. "I didn’t think he was that badly off--or do you have plans for him?"
"I do, but not what you think. He’s going to have to go back to England."
Simion frowned. "Domn, is that wise?"
Draculea shrugged. "He’s obviously mad--if he raves, no one will listen."
"Yes, but those concerns aside, how can such a man travel?"
"I’ll have the Rom take him to his nation’s embassy in Budapest, with letters of explanation. They
will see that he returns to England safely."
Sinn said, "That is remarkably magnanimous, my lord."
"It’s practical, Sinn. I will also send a letter to his law firm, explaining the sad circumstances of
Mister Renfield’s decline. Then I will express my desire to continue our transaction, so will they
kindly send another representative? Mister Renfield has spoken highly of his colleague--Jonathan
Harker."
~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~
The Next Day
Rill was weeping, bloody tears streaking his cheeks. Renfield was crouched on the floor at his feet,
holding him about the legs. "Don’t let them take me. They’ll kill me, Rill." His eyes darted toward
the two stoic gypsies standing near the door. One of them was the one who’d met the carriage when
he arrived, and Renfield hadn’t forgotten his disturbing, suggestive manner. "Or something just as
bad," he whispered. "Please. Not again. I don’t want that to happen again." Rock and Sinn were
lounging nearby, and Robert eyed the blond vampire surreptitiously. "It hurts."
Rill caressed Renfield’s hair, glaring at Rock, who was slouching against the wall. "I’m so sorry,
Robert. It doesn’t have to be like that." Renfield looked up at him with doubtful, confused eyes. Rill
looked helplessly at Simion. "How can I explain it to him?"
"You can’t, dear heart," said Simion gently. "You can’t just tell him about it. He’s been hurt, and it’s
going to take him time to heal."
"He could do that HERE. Why must he go away?"
"No, Rill. This place holds too many bad memories for him." He put one hand on Rill’s shoulder, and
the other on Renfield’s head. Renfield flinched, whimpering and burrowing his face against Rill’s
thigh. Simion lowered his voice. "Would you force him to face Rock every day? Let him go, my
love. Perhaps they can help him in his own land. And who knows? We live long--perhaps he will
find his way to you again. Our lord is at long last finding the one he has sought."
"But he’s so frightened," whispered Rill.
Simion squatted down, bringing his face on level with Renfield. "Robert?" Renfield gave a
high-pitched giggle. "Robert, look at me." Renfield turned his eyes to Simion, and the blond man had
to fight down
the urge to wince. Renfield had been an intelligent, high-strung man--a bit stuffy, but with no harm in
him. What had happened to him disgusted Simion, but he could not find it in his heart to blame his
master. He knew that Draculea had himself skirted the edge of madness in his grief, and would not
have wished such a fate on any other. He had made a grave mistake in allowing Rock his way, and
Simion knew that his old friend truly regretted what had happened to his guest. "Robert," he repeated
gently. "Do not be afraid. We are sending you home--to England."
A light sparked in Renfield’s expression. "To Jonathan?"
"If he is the friend that I think he is, he will be waiting for you."
Renfield ducked his head. "But I don’t want to go with THEM. I don’t like the way they look at me."
"They won’t harm you. I’ll see to that." Simion walked over to the gypsies. He stared at them. "You
will deliver that man safely to the British Embassy in Budapest. You will not touch him, save to
insure his well-being. He is under the prince’s protection, and if any harm comes to him--you know
what will happen." The two men nodded. The senior one spoke in Rom, and Simion returned to
Renfield. "Rill, tell him what the gypsy said."
Rill tilted Renfield’s chin up, so that he was looking into his face. "Robert, the Rom said that if they
harmed you, the prince would not need stir himself, because their own blood would hunt them down
and kill them. It is so. Go back to England--they will help you there."
"But I’m weak, Rill. I couldn’t fight them--I couldn’t fight ANYONE who wanted to hurt me."
Rill hugged him. "You’re stronger than you think."
Renfield was shaking his head. "I’m nothing but a shadow of a man. How could I protect Jonathan
when I can’t protect myself? I’m only half alive. I need strength. There has to be some way I
could..." His gaze, almost lucid while he was speaking to Rill, was becoming wilder. His eyes fixed
on the floor. "If I could take it in. If I could EAT life..." He lunged, scrabbling at something, and
came up with a pleased cry. There was something dark pinched between his fingers, wiggling. It was
a fat black beetle. "Just a TINY life, but I suppose I have to start small." He popped the bug in his
mouth and chewed briskly.
Rill covered his mouth in horror and nausea. Rock sneered, and spat on the floor in disgust. "Bah! I
haven’t sunk that low, not even when I was starving for blood. Even I hunted for rats."
Renfield looked up alertly. "Rats? Yes, yes--rats would be good, excellent. But I’ll have to work up
to them, I’m afraid. Beetles, and flies, yes, many flies. Then perhaps some nice, plump mice." He
looked up at Rill, smiling widely. "There’s blood in mice, and blood is life."
"Oh, Robert, you mustn’t. You’ll be ill," moaned Rill.
"Why? It makes you strong, doesn’t it?" Rill couldn’t deny it--blood WAS the only thing that could
keep him alive and strong. Renfield nodded. "Beetles, flies, and... Oh, spiders! Spiders are FULL of
life--so fast and agile. Then mice and rats, and then..." he grinned at Rill. "I’ll get stronger--you’ll
see. Blood is life."
~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~
Hawkins and Thompkins Law Offices
London, England
Two weeks later
"Harker, more letters for you." Corlis handed Jonathan a thin pile of envelopes. "And I wish you
wouldn’t use the business address for your personal correspondence. It’s hardly proper."
Jonathan sorted through the envelopes eagerly, noting the exotic postal marks. "I gave Robert my
home address. I don’t know why he chooses not to use it--I’m just happy that he writes." He smiled.
"It looks as if he has written me from each stop. I should be getting a letter from his destination soon."
Corlis grunted. "Don’t count on it. The partners received one from that Romanian prince with the
afternoon post yesterday. Speaking of which, you’re to go right up to Thompkins’ room--no
dawdling."
Jonathan hurried to the office. He paused out in the hall, removed his coat and hat, and ran a quick
hand over his hair, wishing he had time to go to the washroom and freshen up. Appearance was
important when meeting with employers, but he had the impression that in this case, promptness
would be even more important. He carefully arranged his coat over his arm, taking the hat in that
same hand, and knocked. From inside he heard, "Enter."
Thompkins was at his desk, with Hawkins occupying a comfortable chair at its side. Jonathan ignored
the other chair, going to stand in front of the desk. "Corlis told me that you wished to see me, sir."
Thompkins gestured at the free chair. "Have a seat, Harker."
Jonathan blinked, but it would have been rude to express his surprise, so he merely said, "Thank you,
sir," and took the seat, arranging his coat and hat across his lap. Both of the partners were watching
him. *No, STUDYING me. I don’t believe they looked at me this closely even when they
interviewed me for the position.*
Hawkins said, "How have things been for you the past few weeks, Harker? Taking over Renfield’s
work hasn’t been too arduous?"
"No, sir." *Oh, that makes it sound as if Robert’s efforts were negligible. "I mean, the other clerks
have been helpful, and Robert left things in such good order that it’s been no trouble at all." He
hesitated. "There haven’t been any... complaints?"
Thompkins gave him a small, chilly smile. "No, indeed. Our clients are not effusive in their praise of
anyone, but so far they have expressed no reservations as to your capabilities. In fact, we have it in
mind to offer you the chance of taking on even more responsibilities--if you are willing."
Now Jonathan was confused. Rapid advancement in a firm such as this was almost unheard of. While
he was fairly confident that he’d been doing a good job, he knew that by no stretch could he be called
brilliant. "I would be willing to try, of course, sir, but I fear that if I was to take on much more, my
other work would suffer."
Thompkin’s smile widened a fraction. "At least you’re honest. Don’t worry about that, Harker. Your
work will be distributed among the other clerks. This assignment will require all your time and
effort." He glanced at his partner.
Hawkins cleared his throat. "We have a situation here, Harker--a very grave situation. Renfield is not
able to complete the transaction with Prince Draculea in Romania, and..."
"Is there something wrong?" Hawkins was too well bred to look startled by Jonathan’s sudden
outburst. It was almost unheard of for a subordinate to interrupt, but the sudden apprehension in the
young man’s worry was impossible to mistake. Jonathan continued, "He isn’t hurt, is he?" His
apprehension was growing. "Not... not... Sir, please, tell me!"
"Calm down, Harker. Get control of yourself." He looked at Thompkins. "Are you sure about this?
If the boy is this easily upset..."
"This is a shock to him," Thompkins admonished. "Give the boy a moment to collect himself.
Harker, calm down." He touched a letter that lay open on the desk. "Prince Vlad Draculea has
contacted us, explaining the sad affair. Mister Renfield has suffered some sort of breakdown, mental
more than physical. The prince still wishes to purchase property in England, but Renfield will not be
able to facilitate the sale. Apparently Robert had spoken very highly of you, and the prince
specifically requests that you journey to Romania to finish the transaction."
"Am I to bring Robert home?"
*He’s being offered the opportunity of a lifetime, and all he can think about it Renfield. I don’t know
whether to think him noble, or foolish.* "That will not be necessary. He is already here in London.
The prince graciously saw to it that he reached the British Embassy, and they saw him home--at the
prince’s expense, I might add. When the man has acted so decently, it would be crassly ungrateful if
we were not to respond to his request immediately."
*Not to mention damned bad for business,* thought Hawkins. *He doesn’t look at all convinced that
he ought to acquiesce.*
As if in answer to his thought, Jonathan said, "Sir, I’m not sure that I’m the man for this assignment.
I’m the most junior clerk here, and it might foster resentment."
"Perhaps you’re not sure," said Hawkins, "but Renfield seems to be. Remember, boy, HE
recommended you in the highest terms. Surely you don’t want to fail his expectations?"
"I... no. No, of course not."
"Good." Thompkins sat back in his chair. "How soon can you leave?"
Jonathan rubbed his temple. "This is happening so quickly. I’m sure that my landlady will help me
pack. Then I only need to speak to my fiance--I can do that this evening."
"Good, it’s settled. We’ll arrange for you to leave tomorrow morning."
"But I must see Robert before I go."
Hawkins was shaking his head. "Not possible, boy."
Jonathan’s chin firmed, and he said with quiet finality, "I must."
Thompkins noted the determination in Jonathan’s eyes, and knew that simply insisting would do no
good. *There’s only one thing for it.* "Harker, you mustn’t worry about him--he’s being well taken
care of. He’s at Dr. Arthur Seward’s Sanitarium, and I’m assured that it is one of the most modern and
progressive facilities in England. You couldn’t see him, in any case. I’ve spoken with Seward, and he
tells me that it will be some time before Renfield can be allowed visitors. I’m sure that you wouldn’t
try to insist if it would be detrimental to Renfield’s health." Jonathan was wavering. "Go to
Romania. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks, and I’m sure that by the time you return he will be
much improved."
Jonathan was silent for a moment. Hawkins was wondering if they dared threaten the young man with
the loss of his job if he refused. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the boy might actually give up
his job in favor of his friend. "Renfield wouldn’t want you to miss this chance."
Jonathan wavered, biting his lip. He was torn, but it DID sound like something that Robert would
want. *He’s always been so encouraging. Not as insistent as Mina, but I know that he wants me to do
well for myself.* "It won’t take long?"
"Once you reach the castle, it should be no more than a day or two," Thompkins assured him. "Go
home and make your arrangements. We will begin making the travel arrangements, and have the
tickets and itinerary brought to you at your lodging."
Jonathan stood. "Yes, sir."
"We’re relying on you, Harker," said Hawkins. "This business is important to us all."
"I’ll do my best, sir." He left.
Thompkins sighed. "For a moment there, I thought he was going to refuse, simply to go spend time
with Renfield."
Hawkins shook his head. "I wonder if we should be trusting this to him. It seems, oh, I’m not
sure--frivolous."
Thompkins shot his partner a jaundiced look. "Or perhaps we have simply reached the point where
common affection seems unnecessary?" Hawkins didn’t answer. He thought that he had long ago
earned the right to ignore such petty contemplations. "I feel guilty about not telling him the full story."
"What point would there have been? As you said, Seward probably wouldn’t want him to have
visitors. What point would there be in telling Harker that Renfield was ranting that he mustn’t go
anywhere near Romania--that the prince and all around him were demons and monsters?" He sipped
his drink. "Why should we destroy our chance at this plum for the ravings of a lunatic?"
end part 74
Back to index
Chapter 75: Chapter 75 - At Last

Author’s Notes: Summary: A reluctant Jonathan travels to Transylvania--and meets a mysterious
prince. Finally.
Archive: Ask, and I will probably allow a link.
Status: WIP
Notes: I only hope I can make this live up to y’all’s expectations, after you’ve waited so patiently.
Ennui--boredom from lack of interest: weariness and dissatisfaction with life that results from a loss of
interest or sense of excitement, trap--transport carriage: a light horse-drawn carriage with two wheels

Transylvania
Draculea was pacing before the fire in his small meeting room, hands clasped behind his back. It was
odd. After the near ennui of the last few decades, now he could scarcely contain himself. He couldn’t
keep still. He had to force himself to go to his coffin during the day, begrudging even the few hours of
inactivity.
Simion entered, trailed, as usual, by Rill. Draculea looked up sharply, and Simion smiled, offering
him an envelope. "Yes, my lord. They must have sent this response by swiftest course the moment
they finished reading your missive." Draculea almost snatched the letter, and ripped it open. His eyes
flicked over the page, and Simion watched as his eyes began to glow. For a moment he was worried,
but then he saw the slow smile, and relaxed. "Good news, my lord?"
Draculea slapped the letter with the back of his hand. "The best, my friend! He is already on his way.
If all goes well, he will be waiting at Borgo Pass the night after next."
Simion gripped Draculea’s shoulder. "It WILL go well, my lord. I cannot believe that God would
deny you this."
Cynicism seeped into Draculea’s glad expression. "No? Simion, for Nicolae’s sake I blasphemed, I
damned myself, I have murdered..." Simion started to protest, but Draculea gestured him to be still.
"No, my friend, I HAVE. Though most of what has passed has been for simple survival, or to protect
what I thought of as mine, I have taken God’s prerogative of life and death far too many times to count
on salvation. All I have left to hope for is my love--my Nicolae." He sighed, dropping his hand. "I
can only hope that I am not mistaken in this."
Rill said eagerly, "Surely it is he, Master. I have seen the picture that Robert carried, and the portrait
of your love in the library." His forehead puckered. "Is he one of us? He hasn’t changed."
Simion patted his shoulder. "No, my love. This Jonathan Harker is a mortal. Remember? We
discussed this. We believe that Nicolae has been reborn, that his spirit has returned to earth, and been
given flesh in the form that he wore long ago, when our Master first loved him."
Rill nodded, then said, "But Simion, it’s been so long. What if he has forgotten?"
Draculea sat down heavily, worry once again creasing his face, and Simion said quickly, "Rill, your
memories of your life before the Prince are still there, though some of them have grown dim, yes?"
Rill nodded. "When we speak of them, they become more clear. Perhaps Nicolae will not remember
when he first arrives, but surely he will, once he has been here for awhile, here where he was so
happy."
"Yes, Simion--I see. I’m sure that once we tell him how our Master has longed for him, and has
waited so patiently..."
"Rill, come here." Draculea extended his hand, and Rill went to him instantly. Draculea drew the
young vampire down to sit on his lap. "Listen to me carefully. This is very important, and I know that
you can pay attention and obey as well as the most learned of men, when it is necessary." He paused.
"While I believe--I HOPE--that this is my Nicolae come back to me... As much as I hate to admit it, I
may be wrong. Even if he IS Nicolae reborn, he will also be Jonathan Harker, with a full life behind
him, complete with his own memories, loves, and attachments." He stroked Rill’s hair. "This must be
considered. I think that even if Nicolae awakens and remembers, Jonathan will always be a part of
him. Would I want my love to be forever conflicted, carrying a small part inside that feared or
mistrusted me?"
"Oh, no, my lord!" Rill looked at his own lover, adoration and trust shining in his eyes. "That would
be terrible. There must be no shadow on your love."
"So you will be discreet. You must make no references to his previous life with me. I know that you
are eager for us to be together." He stroked the boy’s dark hair, smiling at him. "Bless you for you
wish for my happiness. But you must not try to push us together. You know from your little pets--the
kittens and the horses--that they must decide for themselves whom they will trust. You cannot push
them, else they balk. Be his friend--I’d like that. And if he truly IS Nicolae, believe me, he will
gravitate to you. He always had a special place in his heart for the innocent. But remember,
Rill--nothing of the years that have gone before."
"Yes, Prince." Rill smiled brilliantly. "But it will be good to have him here, won’t it?"
Draculea returned the smile. "Yes, little one--very good."
Rill touched Draculea’s hair, lifting a stray, white strand. "Master, shouldn’t you eat? You looked
better after the last time one of the Rom gave you a meal..." He frowned. "That was a long time ago.
But I remember--your hair was a little darker for some time after that." He touched Draculea’s cheek.
"And you weren’t quite so wrinkled. Don’t you want to look good for Nicolae, like you did the first
time?"
"Rill!" scolded Simion.
Draculea laughed. "No, Simion, he’s right. Even after all this time, I learn more about my state. I had
been wondering if refusing human blood could finally cause me to deteriorate to the point that I
reached full death. I believe that I have been committing long, passive suicide." He gently pushed
Rill off his lap. "It may take some time to reach my former glory," his lips twisted ironically, "but I
should begin." He stood, rising to his full height, sinews creaking and joints popping as he strained
muscles that had not been stretched for many years. "Send one of the Rom."
"Prince," said Simion. He came to stand beside him. "Let me be your first." Draculea hesitated, and
Simion said, "Please, my lord--let me do this for you. I was your first when you returned to us, let me
be
the first when you prepare to welcome your love once again."
Draculea glanced at Rill. "You two belong to each other, Rill. You will not mind?"
Again Rill smiled. "But Master, BOTH of us are yours. How could I object?"
Draculea caressed his cheek. "Ah, Rill, I once dreamed of having a son. You ARE my son, as well as
my childe. I could never have hoped to sire anyone more loving." He pressed a kiss to the boy’s
forehead. "Thank you." He looked back at Simion. "Yes, thank you, old friend."
Simion unbuttoned his shirt, pulling aside his collar to bare the strong column of his throat. There
were small, pale scars marking the tanned skin. Even the great healing power of the blood he supped
from his master and his lover could not entirely wipe away the traces of the many, many times he had
fed the prince and Rill. He bore the marks proudly, symbols of his love.
Draculea held Simion’s shoulder with his right hand, his left going to cup the back of his skull.
Simion closed his eyes, leaning his head back into the secure, cradling touch, arching his neck to ease
Draculea’s access. Draculea bent. For a moment he pressed his face to Simion’s neck, drinking in the
long familiar scent and warmth. Through the long, dark years of his unlife, Simion had been the only
constant, and he loved the man. It wasn’t as he loved Nicolae--nothing could ever approach that--but
still... He knew what he meant to Simion. The older man had dedicated his life to the prince, even
knowing that he would never hold first place in his heart. Such loyalty and sacrifice was rare.
Draculea was glad that Simion had found Rill--he deserved someone of his own, someone who would
put him first in his heart.
Draculea licked Simion’s neck, letting the long remembered taste of his skin fill him. Simion shivered
slightly with the sensation, and in
anticipation of what was to come. He could feel himself beginning to stiffen in his trousers. It was
always like this. He couldn’t help but think that this was something that Nature--or whatever it was
that decided the fate of the Unnatural--had given this gift to the Nosferatu. If they chose, they could
seduce all but the most determined to resist.
Simion felt the first pain as Draculea’s fangs slid through his skin. He gripped the vampire’s arms,
steadying himself against the faintness that might come. He trusted Draculea to go so far and no
further, but he could never be sure that the sensation wouldn’t overwhelm him.
It had been a long time. Draculea had been surviving for years on the thin, sour blood of rats and other
vermin. The burst of strong, hot, sweetness was almost a shock, and he was gulping thirstily before he
realized it. He felt Simion tremble, and forced himself to slow. It would do him no good to glut, and
it could be harmful, if not fatal, to the one generous enough to give him this gift.
Draculea drank enough to feel the first stirring of warmth and energy, then pulled back. He lapped the
wound, beginning to close it, then kissed Simion gently on the cheek, leaving a moist smear of blood.
"Thank you," he whispered. He reached down, and his palm covered the bulge in Simion’s fly. "Now,
go and give this to your lover."
He sat as they left the room, hand in hand. They would go to their room, and make love. Draculea felt
the faint stir of long-absent desire, the warm flush of taken blood seeming to pool in his groin. He
knew that, had he indicated the slightest wish, that both Simion and Rill would have welcomed him
into their bed with joy.
*No. He is close now, so close.* Draculea stared into the fire, letting the blood begin to work,
fancying that he could feel the withered tissues of his body filling with strength and vigor. *I can
wait.*
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Two Days Later
Jonathan trudged up the road toward the Borgo Pass, case bumping against his side. *I’m not a
swearing man, but I am SO tempted right now to use some of the words I learned from the upper class
boys at school. They might have told me that they wouldn’t be taking me all the way to Borgo Pass. I
could have rented a trap or a horse in that last village.*
Darkness was fast approaching. *Damn it! Perhaps I should have done as the driver suggested, and
gone on to the next village, then gone on to Castle Draculea tomorrow. I’m not sure if that would have
worked, though. Robert had the same trouble. I get the impression that the locals don’t care to go too
far into this section of the mountains.*
As the shadows gathered, and he got farther from the main road, he became even more nervous. He
moved from walking along the edge to the center of the road, knowing that he was in more danger of
being attacked from the bushes than he was of being run down. *Robert said there were wolves. I
only hope that they won’t come into the road.* As he walked, his thoughts turned to the time before
he’d begun this journey.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
His landlady had taken over his packing, shooing him out of the house to go make a brief visit to
Mina. "You can’t be running off and leaving your fiancee without a word, no matter what your
employers wish. The very idea!"
Lucy Westenra had been visiting Mina when he arrived. He would have preferred to see his fiancee
alone, but he couldn’t very well ask Mina’s best friend to leave. He was a little hurt that Mina didn’t
ask Lucy to leave them alone when she learned that he would be leaving on a long journey the next
day.
He’d expected protestations from Mina, perhaps even tears. He hadn’t been prepared for her almost
gleeful acceptance of the situation. "Jonathan, what a chance! Just think, this could make you. Oh,
most men have to wait YEARS for such an opportunity. You’re so lucky."
"Mina! I’m only going because of poor Robert’s misfortune."
Lucy had shrugged. "Yes, it’s very sad," she said in an off-hand manner, "but why shouldn’t Mina be
happy for what it can mean for you two?" When she saw him frowning, she took his hands and said
coaxingly, "Think of it, Jon. If this does as much for you as I think it will, you’ll be able to wed much
sooner than we expected. Wouldn’t you like that?" She smiled at her friend. "I know Mina would."
"Yes, of course." Jonathan looked at Mina doubtfully. Somehow there hadn’t been a ring of deep
conviction in her tone.
"Now, you mustn’t worry about Mina," Lucy assured him. Mina’s mother had died not long before,
and Mina was, for the first time, living on her own, lodging in a small room only a mile or so from
Jonathan’s own residence. "She’ll come and stay with me till you return."
Jonathan looked at Mina. "Wouldn’t that interfere with your job, Mina? It will be a much greater
distance to travel each day."
Lucy waved gaily. "Nonsense! She never should have taken that position. Why, keeping accounts
and doing office work for that dry goods store--it’s scarcely better than being a shop girl."
Now Jonathan did frown. "Lucy, shop girl is an honorable job."
"Yes, yes, I know. Goodness, Jonathan, one would think you were one of those socialists that father is
always railing against. See here--Mina is my best friend--has been for years. Why shouldn’t I do what
I can for her?"
How could Jonathan answer that? How could he say that he saw how Lucy’s lavish, careless lifestyle
turned Mina’s head, gave her ideas? While Jonathan did not truly believe in ’keeping to one’s station’,
he was realistic enough to realize that some things in life were difficult, if not impossible, to
overcome. While he might advance in his career, he’d never attain the heights that would make the
likes of Lucy Westenra and her family sees him as an equal--that took the proper
bloodlines, and wealth and position could never replace the proper pedigree. And Mina... Though she
had been Lucy’s companion for many years, if she gave up her independence, Jonathan had the feeling
that she would be reduced to the status of a pet, to be cosseted on a whim, or pushed away when Lucy
found something more interesting. But Mina couldn’t see this. She saw only Lucy’s generosity and
carelessly offered friendship. Was it possible that she couldn’t tell shallow emotions from the deeper,
true ones?
Not for the first time, Jonathan wondered if he was doing the right thing. It seemed that he’d
FALLEN into this engagement, rather than entering into it clear-eyed and determined. He was fond of
Mina, he knew that. Was it enough? He remembered how things had been with his own
parents--seldom more than chilly civility. Then he thought of how things were between Mister and
Mrs. Hallifax--the warm familiarity of old companions. It was pleasant, and he knew that they loved
each other... *But I want MORE. I don’t want just companionship or affection--I want love, and...
and PASSION.*
Lucy noted the faint blush creeping up Jonathan’s cheeks, and misinterpreted it. "Now, now,
Jonathan, you mustn’t be embarrassed. This isn’t charity." She gave Mina a hug. "Friends do things
for each other, and I know that Mina would do the same for me, if she were in my place. So you just
trot off on your business and don’t fret." She smiled. "We’ll have a jolly time gossiping about you
and planning your wedding and life."
Jonathan left with the uneasy feeling that they would do just that--plan his life--to suit themselves.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Jonathan came to the wide, cleared area that Robert had mentioned in one of his letters. He put the
case down and seated himself on what had to be the same rock that Renfield had rested on. He looked
around
nervously. It was every bit as desolate as his friend had described it.
Jonathan took off his hat and rested it on his knees, fingers nervously working on the brim. He heard
furtive sounds from the brush across the road, but couldn’t tell if it were from an animal, or the small,
warm breeze that ruffled his hair. *I wish I’d brought a pistol with me, like Mister Hallifax advised,
but I don’t know how the authorities feel
about foreigners going about armed. Being jailed seemed like the greater risk before...* a twig
snapped, *but now I’m not so sure.* All he had was his small pocketknife. He took it out and opened
it, then thought of what a picture he’d make to anyone who came to meet him, so he hid it beneath his
hat. He felt a little better--but not much.
Thankfully, he did not have long to wait. In another ten minutes he heard a carriage approaching.
Even at a distance, he could see the pale blur of someone leaning their head out the window, looking
toward him. He quickly put away the knife, stood, smoothed his hair as best he could, and settled his
hat once more on his head. He was representing his law firm, and he had to make a good impression.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
They had left the castle when it was barely sunset. Simion had insisted that, if Draculea were to come,
he swath himself well before he went out into the dim dusk, to take the few steps from the castle to the
waiting, closed carriage. Rill had wanted to come along, but he would have had to ride, at least at
first, inside. "And the prince should be alone with him at first, Rill, don’t you think?" Rill’s bottom
lip had started to push out a bit, and Simion had said, "Think, my love. Imagine if we had been
separated as long as they have. Wouldn’t you want to be alone with me, at least at first?"
Rill had to agree, so he waited back at the castle. He went into the library and kept himself busy for a
little while. Then he sat where Draculea had spent so many hours, gazing up at the portrait of the
dark-haired, dark-eyed young man, studying his gentle expression. "Nicolae... Jonathan? He’s been
waiting for you so long. Please remember him."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Draculea had never in his life, or his long unlife, put his head out the window of a carriage unless he
had thought there was danger of a bandit attack. But as he neared the appointed place, he couldn’t
help
himself--he had to SEE. They were coming around a bend when he finally succumbed. He leaned his
head out the window, gazing down the road...
...and there he was.
The figure in the distance, sitting on the case, could have been anyone. He looked toward the
approaching carriage, and it was too far for Draculea to make out more than a blur of features. Then
he stood, long body unfolding with unconscious grace, hand rising to sweep back dark hair, and he
knew. He knew ever line, every gesture, as well as, when he lived, he had known his own breath and
heartbeat. It was his Nicolae. He might be clothed in new flesh, but it was Nicolae nonetheless.
The sudden rush of emotion crashed over Draculea so violently that even as desperate as he was to
keep his eyes on the lone figure beside the road, he fell back into his seat. His hand drifted up to rest
over his
still heart, as if to calm a frantic pace. *Patience.* He closed his eyes. *Simion has always said that I
am too impatient. If I have learned nothing else in the long, lonely years, let me have learned to
control myself when I first meet Nicu face to face. If I can get beyond these first few moments
without simply falling upon him, I think I will be able to hold myself in check. I seduced him, I made
him love me once--I can do it again.*
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The coach slowed as it neared, then stopped only a few yards away. The man sitting on the driver’s
seat called down, "You would be Mister Harker."
"Yes." Jonathan went to the carriage, standing near the horses. "I’m sorry--I had hoped to get
transportation to the castle and spare you this inconvenience, but..."
"No trouble, sir, and you would never have found anyone willing to bring you that far." There was a
howl nearby. The horses stamped and shifted nervously, and Simion tugged hard on the reins, calming
them. Jonathan looked around nervously, but Simion never took his eyes off the young man. Yes, he
was Nicolae to the life, hair clipped nearly as short as it had been the first time he had seen him. "I am
Simion, Prince Draculea’s steward. Can you pass me your case? I fear that I cannot get down. These
horses are used to this area, but still, if the wolves howl again..." He shrugged.
"Of course." Jonathan raised up on his toes, extending the case, and Simion took it.
As he stored the case behind him, he said, "Please, young sir, enter the carriage. The prince is within,
and he is most eager to make your acquaintance."
Jonathan looked toward the carriage window, surprised. A member of royalty, no matter how minor,
taking the trouble to come greet a simple law clerk? This prince must be a most unusual man. As he
stepped up to the door, it opened. He could only make out a vague shape in the shadowed interior.
"Prince Draculea. It is good of you to come..." The man in the carriage leaned forward, into the pale
moonlight, and
Jonathan’s voice died in his throat. He had heard the French term deja vu before, but had never
expected to experience it himself. Later he wasn’t even sure if that was the proper word for what
happened next, but he could think of no other term that even came close.
For just a moment, less time than it took for his heart to beat, he seemed to be somewhere else.
Instead of the wilderness, there were tall stone walls, hard packed earth. There was the sound of many
people, and many horses--much more than could be accounted for by the ones that he knew were here.
And perhaps most frighteningly, there was light. For that scant space of time, he KNEW it was broad
daylight,
and not early night. There was a blur of movement before him, and he lifted his eyes to a big figure
sitting high on an enormous horse. The sun *Dear God, there IS no sun!* was behind him, and all he
could see was a silhouette, but somehow... somehow this was someone he knew--intimately.
Then it was gone, and he was once again standing beside a carriage on a dark Transylvanian road. He
blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes as he tried to clear the momentary illusion (for what else could it
be?) "I... I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps I am more tired than I thought."
"You are not ill?"
The voice was deep, the accent at once exotic, and somehow familiar. "No, sir. As I said, it was only
a moment of... of distraction." Nicolae looked back up at the man who was watching him. There was
another moment of dizzying unreality as he saw the man’s face, and... *Blue. Blue eyes.* "I...
apologize."
The man was obviously elderly, but he was still sternly handsome. He was watching Jonathan so
intently that the young man felt the urge to check himself again, to be sure that nothing in his
appearance was awry. He felt, with unquestioned certainty, that this was a man who deserved to be
offered only the best of anything-- goods or efforts. He’d never felt all that confident in his own
worth. But somehow, looking into those pale blue eyes, he had not doubt of the truth of Draculea’s
next words. "Do not apologize. I am only happy that you have arrived safely." He smiled slowly.
"You have no idea how long I have been waiting for you."
end part 75
Back to index
Chapter 76: Chapter 76 - Blood Bond
Transylvania
Draculea extended a hand. "I fear that the steps are rather high."
Jonathan paused. It was a big hand. Though the joints were slightly swollen and the skin papery,
sprinkled with faint age marks, it was still obviously strong. *But the nails... I know that the
Mandarins
keep long nails as a sign of status, but surely European nobles don’t follow this fashion?*
"Please, young man."
Jonathan realized that his hesitation must seem rude. He gripped the proffered hand, and the fingers
closed over his own. It was cool, but he had not time to think about this as the prince drew him up into
the
carriage. Yes, there was still strength in the elderly prince. He didn’t strain, didn’t even lean forward
as he helped Jonathan up the steep step.
There was a moment, just a moment, when it seemed as if Prince Draculea would draw Jonathan down
to sit beside him. Then he released his grip, and Jonathan settled on the seat opposite him. "Thank
you, sir." He reached into his pocket. "I have here my letter of introduction."
"Do not bother."
He smiled, and Jonathan felt a stab of admiration. Dentistry was gaining ground, but there were still
very few people of the prince’s age who possessed such a magnificent set of teeth. *I suppose royalty
can afford to take more care.*
The prince was continued. "I can read it later if you like, but there are no need for such formalities. I
know who you are." His eyes seemed to glitter. "Indeed, it is unlikely that you could be anyone else."
"Yes, I suppose you’re right. There wouldn’t be too many people just wandering about in this
wilderness at this time of night. I must say that this courtesy is most welcome after the rudeness of my
previous coach driver. Robert Renfield had written me about the shocking state of their service, but I
thought he might be exaggerating a bit, as travelers sometimes do."
"Things are primitive in this region, Mister Harker--primitive, and wild. I will take this opportunity to
warn you that you should remain within the castle walls during your stay. Beasts still roam the forests,
and many of them are both vicious and bold."
"I heard the wolves while I was waiting." He laughed nervously. "It gave me quite a turn. The largest
predator I’ve ever seen outside the London Zoo was when I was spending the summer in the country.
A vixen got into my landlord’s henhouse, and it was quite a to-do." He noted the prince’s intent, but
somehow amused, gaze, and felt himself flushing. "I’m sorry. I know I run on..."
"Do not apologize. I enjoy listening to you speak. I hope you will not limit yourself only to business
in the days to come. I am rather isolated. While the members of my household are congenial, I
sometimes
long for contact with the world outside my small sphere. Renfield was that for me, telling me much
about your England--and about you."
"Me?"
Draculea nodded. "He considers you his best friend, Jonathan." He paused, seeing the surprise in the
young man’s face. "I hope you do not mind? I realize that using your Christian name so soon is a bit
presumptuous, but I feel that I already know you."
"No, it’s fine," said Jonathan automatically. Who was he to object if such an important man wished to
use his given name? *Some people do that to those they see as their inferiors--servants, children, and
pets, but it doesn’t feel like that. It doesn’t feel condescending.*
The prince was continuing. "Good. And how is friend Robert? He reached home safely?"
Jonathan’s expression grew troubled. "So they tell me, sir. I wished to visit him, but my employers
insisted that there be no delay. They tell me that he has gone to a most reputable sanatorium. There,
God willing, they can calm him, and bring him back to clarity. I’m afraid that Robert has always been
high-strung, and the stress of travel, and the responsibility must have proved too much for him."
Draculea’s eyes were hooded. "Yes. I feel great guilt that he came to such a state while under my
care."
"Oh, you mustn’t blame yourself. Sometimes these things can’t be fully explained." Jonathan glanced
out the window. "Is it far to the castle?"
"No, not far. We will arrive in less than an hour."
"I rather wish I could arrive in the daytime, so that I could see the castle to its best advantage." He
smiled. "I’ve always liked the idea of castles. I even managed to visit one or two ruins in Scotland
when a friend invited me to go with him on holiday." He frowned slightly. "I enjoyed it, but there
was... I kept thinking how sad it was that they were deserted. I imagined what they must have been
like when they were filled with people, busy. Not with the great machinations of history, you
understand, but just normal people, going about their everyday lives. Silly, I suppose."
"Not at all. Some of us feel great kinship with the past."
Jonathan laughed. "I wish my father felt the same way. He says my mother infected me with her
romanticism while I was an impressionable child. Why should I waste my time dreaming about ages
gone by when I should be attending to the present--and the future?"
"Some people--old souls--are drawn to the past."
"Old souls? You refer to reincarnation?"
He nodded. "An Oriental concept, but one I find too compelling to ignore. I suppose it conflicts with
your own beliefs."
"Um, officially, yes. The Church of England does not believe in the soul’s return to earthly realms,
but I find that I can’t completely hold with that. Reincarnation would explain many things."
"I can see that we will have many things to discuss, Jonathan."
"I look forward to it. My landlords are wonderful people, but their conversation is... I won’t say it’s
limited, but there’s only so much I can say about the garden, and I refuse to discuss politics or religion
with someone who owns the roof over my head."
Draculea laughed. "Very wise. You must not feel limited when you are with me, though. I want to
know all about you, Jonathan Harker." He leaned forward slightly.
The dim moonlight smoothed the harsher marks of age, and Jonathan thought for a moment that this
must be what the prince had looked like in vigorous middle age. Before he could censor himself he
said, "And I, you." At the other man’s smile, Jonathan said hastily, "So that I can better serve your
needs."
"Yes. I can see that you dedicate yourself to others." He studied his companion for a moment, then
nodded, saying, "We are going to be important to each other, Jonathan."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"We approach the castle," remarked Draculea. Jonathan started to lean out the window, eager for a
glimpse of the castle, but he caught himself. "No, go on," Draculea urged him. "My heart still lifts
when I come in sight of my home, even after all these years."
Jonathan removed his hat and leaned far out the window, gripping the coach’s side as he peered
ahead. Despite what he’d said before, he couldn’t help but feel that Castle Draculea was very
impressive by moonlight. The surrounding walls were tall, but the castle loomed behind them--at least
three stories tall. It looked massive. *One could easily get lost in a place like that,* Jonathan
thought. *I’ll have to be careful.*
The gate was standing open, and they drove through into a spacious courtyard. Jonathan noticed two
swarthy, roughly dressed men standing just inside the gate, studying the carriage. When they saw him,
they
began whispering to each other hurriedly. He couldn’t understand why they would look so curious.
Englishmen were rare in these mountains, but surely they’d seen Robert during his visit. The two men
hurried,
grabbing doors on either side of the entrance, and pushing them to. They weren’t small men, but
Jonathan could tell that they had to strain to move the heavy doors. There was a muffled thud as a bolt
as large as a man’s leg was dropped into place, barring the gate.
The coach drew up before the shallow flight of stairs that led to the castle’s main door. Even as the
horses stamped to a halt, the door opened, and three men came out. One (he looked like the youngest),
hurried down the stairs. His face was alight with joyous curiosity, as if a visitor was the greatest treat
he could imagine. He opened the door, jumping nimbly onto the step and leaning into the coach. His
eyes, large and dark, fixed immediately on Jonathan, and he smiled, as if greeting a great friend, just
returning from a long absence. "It’s you! Oh, it IS you!" He looked at the prince, saying eagerly, "I
knew it, Prince. He..."
"Rill," said Draculea sharply. The boy stumbled to a halt, biting his lip contritely. Draculea’s voice
was not harsh. "This is Jonathan Harker, the young man that Mister Renfield counts as such a friend.
Jonathan Harker," he said, slowly and distinctly.
The boy stared at Draculea, then said slowly, "Oh, yes. Of course." He smiled at Jonathan, offering
his hand. "I’m Rill."
Jonathan was used to the rigid social protocols of home, but instead of being offended by this
brashness, he found it oddly endearing. "Hello, Rill." He shook hands, absently noticing that the
boy’s hand was just as cold as the prince’s had been.
"Rill is..." Draculea seemed to consider. Finally he said slowly, "My ward. He is one of three young
men that I have taken into my care." Draculea shrugged. "It can be lonely when you have outlived
most of your contemporaries. Rill, we should go inside now. I am sure that Jonathan is weary from
his journey."
"Oh, beg pardon!" Rill quickly stepped back down. "I will get the bag."
Draculea gestured toward the door. "Please."
Jonathan wasn’t entirely sure on the proper order of disembarking, but if the prince wished to allow
him to go first, then that was as it should be. The first rule of manners was that the upper classes
MADE the rules. Rill gave him another smile as he stepped out, then the boy reached up to take
Jonathan’s bag from Simion. Jonathan, mindful of the prince’s age and station, turned to offer him
assistance. The prince accepted his hand gravely, but seemed to have little trouble with his descent.
Simion jumped down off the seat, and one of the men from the gate clambered up, taking the reins and
starting the coach toward a large outbuilding--obviously a stable. The other two men came down the
shallow steps, and again Jonathan felt a moment of deja vu, though not as strong or as clear as the one
he’d experienced on the road. He had spoken of seeing predators at the London Zoo, and now that
memory flickered through his mind.
He had been very small, no more than five. He had stopped before the wolves’ cage, and two great,
shaggy beasts had risen from the shadows in the back and stalked toward the bars, their lambent eyes
fixed upon
him. They drew closer, closer... Black lips wrinkled back from ivory fangs. He hadn’t cried, but he
had turned, burying his face in his mother’s skirts. She had stroked his hair, assuring him that the
beasts were only attracted by the smell of the roasted peanuts that Jonathan had bought to feed the
monkeys. He had not been convinced, but he had been comforted by her touch, knowing that she
would let no harm come to him.
*Why should that memory come back to me now?* he thought as the two men moved toward him.
But there was no denying the sudden apprehension he felt. Then he felt a touch, and glanced to the
side. The prince stood there, his hand resting on Jonathan’s shoulder, his pale gaze fixed on the
approaching pair. The apprehension did not disappear entirely, but somehow, with the prince beside
him, it eased.
"This is Rock, Rill’s brother, and Sinn," said the prince.
Jonathan shook hands with them both, and he wondered again at the coolness of their hands. He knew
that England was considered notorious for its tendency toward chilly rooms, but Jonathan had always
enjoyed
his creature comforts. He hoped that the castle would not prove to be too damp and cold.
The blonde man gave only a curt nod of greeting, but the dark haired one, Sinn, made a slight, courtly
bow as he shook Jonathan’s hand. "What a pleasure to meet you at last! I’ve been quite looking
forward to this. Dear Robert was very free with his words in your favor, Jonathan."
*It seems I’m to be on familiar terms with the entire household,* Jonathan thought resignedly. *Well,
when in Rome, do as the Romans do.* "Thank you. Robert wrote a great deal, but he was reticent
about his hosts, not wanting to gossip. I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you all."
Sinn’s smile was brilliant, and just a touch off-putting. "I would like that very much," his eyes slid to
the prince, and he tilted his head deferentially, "when you are not busy with more important matters, of
course."
"You must be cautious of Sinn," said Draculea dryly. "He flatters as naturally as most men breathe."
As they entered the castle, Draculea said, "Are you hungry, Jonathan? Our fare here is simple, so it
would be no trouble to provide you with a meal."
"No, thank you. I made rather a pig of myself at the last way station, but the proprietress had a superb
cake that I just couldn’t pass up."
The prince smiled. "You have a sweet tooth." It was a statement, rather than a question.
"I’m afraid so. My father says that I’ll never grow up in that respect." He smiled. "He’s always
predicted that my teeth would rot from all the sugar. I think he’s rather disappointed that they
haven’t." Jonathan was glancing around the great entrance hall. There were a few candles flickering
along the walls, but not nearly enough to dispel the gloom that gathered in the corners. *What a
shame that such an impressive place is neglected.*
The prince noticed his look. "Yes, the castle is not at its best. The proper upkeep would require a
veritable army of servants and, as you have noted, the locals are reluctant to come here." He
shrugged. "We make do with the Rom," he patted Rill’s shoulder, "and Rill insists on helping."
"I cleaned your room," Rill offered eagerly. "It’s the nicest one in the castle."
"How kind." *He’s exaggerating. The grandest room will belong to the prince, of course.*
They were passing through the hall. Simion went ahead and opened a door to the side. Jonathan was
relieved by the brightness and warmth that flowed from the room. It proved to be small, at least
compared to the spaciousness of the other room, and very cozy. A fire snapped vigorously on the
hearth, and several lamps burned about the room. As the prince ushered Jonathan into the room, he
turned to the others. "That will be all for the night." His voice was firm.
There were various reactions. Rock scowled and Sinn shrugged in blase resignation, but Rill was
obviously disappointed. Simion took his hand, murmuring to him, and the boy nodded in acceptance.
He looked
appealingly at Draculea. "Can I say goodnight to him?" Draculea nodded, and Rill went to Jonathan.
"Do you like soldiers?"
The question took Jonathan off guard. "I... I greatly admire men who will fight for their country."
Rill laughed. "No, no! Toy soldiers."
"Oh, you mean the tin and lead ones? Yes, I do. I had some when I was a boy." His voice was tinged
with irony. "They were one of the few things of which my father approved."
"I have a lot. I’ve tried to count them, but I keep losing count. Would you like to see them
tomorrow?" He looked at the prince. "If you have time?"
The prince smiled at Rill, then looked at Jonathan, lifting his eyebrows. "Yes, Rill, I’d like that very
much."
Rill’s smile was joyous. "Goodnight, then, Jonathan. I hope you sleep well." He hesitated. "You
might dream--Robert did. If you dream, don’t be afraid. The prince won’t let anything hurt you." He
turned and went to Simion, who put an arm around his shoulders and led him away.
The prince shut the door. "You made Rill very happy." He gestured toward one of the chairs before
the fire. "Please, sit."
Jonathan laid his hat on the table and took the seat. "I was glad to do it." He smiled. "I like toy
soldiers, but I haven’t thought of them for years. Rill... he hasn’t grown up, has he?"
Draculea studied him. "You are kind, Jonathan. Most people would be much harsher in how they
characterized Rill, but I believe your view is right. He is still a child in many ways--good-hearted, and
innocent. Will you take wine?" Jonathan hesitated. "Jonathan, we are not talking business now."
"I do not drink much." Jonathan’s voice was almost apologetic.
The prince moved to the sideboard that was against the wall behind Jonathan’s chair. "One glass?"
The prince unstoppered a cut glass decanter, pouring the rich, red wine into a narrow goblet.
"Just one, then. Is it very strong?"
"Yes, it is potent." He glanced at the small ewer of water that sat beside the decanter. Jonathan had
turned slightly in the chair. He was holding his hands out to the fire, drinking in the warmth.
Draculea watched the turn of the long, elegant hands. He could see only a thin slice of Jonathan’s
face, the barest profile. The flickering light gilded the strong, beautiful features, and Draculea’s hand
clenched on the ewer handle. "I could mingle it with water, if you like."
"Yes, please."
Draculea released the ewer, and brought his hand to his mouth. Never taking his eyes from the young
man before the fire, he bit down, opening a small gash in the pad of his palm. The blood welled out,
liquid and vibrant with the blood he had taken from Simion earlier. He held his hand over the goblet
and let the blood trickle into the goblet, watching as the darker red swirled and dissipated in the
crimson of the wine.
Jonathan looked up to find the prince standing beside him. *He moves very quietly--they all do.*
Draculea offered the glass. "This is a very rare vintage, and I want to get your opinion of it."
Jonathan accepted the glass. "You won’t join me?"
Draculea sat opposite him. "I seldom drink wine. Certain pleasures have lost their savor, but others
have taken their place. Try it." Jonathan took a sip. He’d never really enjoyed wine, and was trying
to think of something complimentary, but not false, to say.
There was the tartness he’d been expecting, but even as he noted this, it seemed to change. It was the
most complex, subtle taste Jonathan had ever experienced. There was sweetness, but a salt tang as
well. There was also a hint of spiciness that he couldn’t identify. He sipped again, hoping to gain
some clue to the elusive ingredient.
"Well, I believe that you enjoyed that."
Jonathan looked down, and was surprised to discover that he had drained the goblet. "It’s very
warming, but delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Is it spiced?"
Draculea steepled his fingers under his chin. "There is a special ingredient."
"What is it?"
Jonathan was running his tongue over his upper lip, seeking a last taste, and was unaware of how the
prince’s eyes lighted at the sight. "Perhaps I will tell you--soon."
end part 76
Back to index
Chapter 77: Chapter 77 - Testing the Water

Pairing: Vlad/Jonathan
Rating: NC17
Summary: Jonathan opens up a little to Vlad.
Archive: Ask, and I will probably allow a link.
Rating: NC17
Jonathan reluctantly set the empty glass aside. He would have liked another taste of the wine, but he’d
already specified one glass, and he knew he had to stick to that. He couldn’t have the prince thinking
that he was changeable. If he was going to be here for a number of days, perhaps he’d have a chance
for a bit more. "I know that Robert left the documents here, but the partners have sent along
particulars on additional properties. If you’d like..."
Draculea was shaking his head, smiling faintly. "You English are such a conscientious race. Robert
was just the same, ready to spring directly into business. I prefer to know a bit about the men I do
business with, Jonathan. We can spend at least this first evening in conversation, don’t you think?"
"Of course, but," Jonathan chuckled, "I’m afraid that you will be quite bored. I’ve had a very
conventional life."
"But your are seeing it from the inside, my friend. I want to know all about you. Tell me about your
parents."
Jonathan smiled, "Well, my mother was a dear woman. She loved me very much," the smile faded,
"and I lost her too soon. She died when I was six."
"Your father raised you alone?"
Jonathan’s expression became carefully controlled. "No, I didn’t say that. Despite what he might tell
you, he had very little to do with raising me. That was taken over by the school staff during term and
the housekeeper or a paid host during the holidays. He bothered himself enough to pay my expenses,
all the while making sure that I was properly grateful, and he was very free with what he called
correction and advice. I’ve thought about it a bit, and I think that complaint and criticism are much
more accurate terms."
Draculea folded his hands together, hiding them in his lap. He was fairly sure of his control of his
expression, but sometimes his hands got away from him, and he knew that the answer to his next
question could very well make him careless. "He didn’t beat you?"
Jonathan blinked in surprise. "No, nothing like that. Not even when I was small, and I know from
some of the other boys at school that was quite rare. No, he never struck me. He had other ways of
showing his
disapproval." He rubbed his arms unconsciously, remembering a few bruises that had been inflicted
when his father took hold to emphasize a point. "The thing was, that was pretty much all he showed
me." He paused, then shook his head. "I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I’ve never spoken of it to
anyone--not even Mina."
"Who is Mina?"
"Miss Wilhelmina Murray--my fiancee." Draculea was silent for a moment. Jonathan had no way of
knowing the sudden, roaring anger that had leaped up inside the prince, for Draculea kept his
expression carefully neutral. It took him a moment to be sure that he had control of his voice, though,
and Jonathan became curious about the lag in conversation. "Sir? Are you...?"
"I’m sorry, young man. I’m afraid that my mind wanders a bit. It’s just that you seem very young to
be contemplating marriage."
Jonathan sighed. "That’s what my father said, among other things. Oh, he had no objections to Mina
as long as we were just keeping company together, but when we told him that we wanted to get
married..." Jonathan shook his head, his expression tightening. "He was insulting to Mina. He said
that she might be respectable, but that I could certainly do better. I couldn’t have that, so we left. I
haven’t spoken to him since."
"How long have you known this Mina? Were you childhood sweethearts?"
"Not really. I met her when I was fifteen or sixteen, at a dance. Her friend Lucy was teasing me, but
Mina was kind. We started to correspond after that, and we saw each other again at dances and on
joint outings."
"You fell in love."
"I..." Jonathan could feel himself flushing under the prince’s intent gaze. "Sir, that’s hardly an
appropriate subject." Draculea sat back a little, and his face was shadowed by the tall side of the chair,
but somehow Jonathan could still see his eyes--FEEL them.
*He must speak of himself, so that I may know of this present life, and lead him to remember the
former one. But the English are close-mouthed. Already he has allowed more familiarity than he is
comfortable with. He has taken my blood, that should help.* Draculea
reached out with his will, with his spirit. He exerted gentle force, making it more of a suggestion than
a command. "But my friend, what could be more natural than to speak of your love, of the one with
whom you will spend your life?" He hesitated. "Surely you’re not ashamed of her?"
Jonathan had felt the first stirrings of stubbornness, and had been prepared to refuse flatly any further
discussion of his private life. But this statement required a response. Jonathan had never questioned
loving Mina. In fact, he’d never really thought about it--he’d just assumed that he MUST, since they
were getting married. "No! It’s just..." *He wants me to speak about the woman I love. I should be
bursting to sing her praises, and tell of how deep and sweet my love is. Only poets, romantics, and
women speak of love.* Jonathan gave himself a mental shake. *When did I become my father?*
"When did you first know that you loved her, Jonathan?" Jonathan was silent, staring at him. Vlad
pushed a little harder, and could feel the change, though it was subtle. It was not so much a lowering
of defenses as it was a thinning. It was like something inside the young man’s psyche was stirring,
pushing toward consciousness. "Yes, sometimes that is difficult to pinpoint," he smiled, "But some of
us can point to it directly. We may not have recognized it when it happened, but when we look back,
it becomes clear. If you cannot say when you knew that you loved her, then can you tell me of how
you proposed?" He cocked his head. "It wouldn’t be too personal?"
Jonathan thought, his expression crinkling in puzzlement, as much at his unexpected willingness to
speak as to the thoughts that the prince’s questions had stirred. "You know..." he laughed a little
nervously, "I can’t remember ever actually saying the words. Mina kept talking about weren’t we
great friends? Didn’t we get on well together? Didn’t I enjoy spending time with her? That was all
true, and I always agreed. And she spoke of how wonderful marriage is, the natural state, and how
everyone needed someone, and wouldn’t it be awful to go through life alone? And I agreed with that,
too. I told her that I felt that sometimes you just KNEW that there was someone special that you were
meant to be with." His tone was apologetic. "I know it sounds dreadfully sentimental, but that’s how
I’ve always felt--that there was someone I belonged to."
"Belonged to..." It was almost a whisper.
Jonathan blinked. "Did I say that? I’m sorry, sometimes I ramble. I meant belonged WITH."
"I see nothing wrong with your first choice of words, Jonathan."
Jonathan shook his head. "Mina would have a fit if she heard me say that. She’s a bit of a suffragette,
and would say I am advocating nothing more than domestic slavery."
"She’s wrong. There is nothing wrong with belonging to someone--as long as they belong to you in
turn."
The young man looked into the fire. "That sounds ideal, but I can’t imagine it happens often."
"Not often, but when it does... Think of it--to be a part of someone else, and they a part of you--body,
heart, and soul."
"It would be glorious," Jonathan whispered. He sighed, then smiled thinly, "But I have to be
practical. In any case, we kept talking, and one day she was telling me how happy she was, how
happy she’d make me, and should we be married in the summer, or the fall?" He shrugged helplessly.
"How could I say anything after that? She’d already told our friends, and I couldn’t let her be
humiliated. And besides, a man must marry, so I’ve been told."
"The world has changed only on the surface, I fear. Too often marriage is still more duty to society
and others than it is love, and I can’t help but feel that love should come first." Jonathan shot a glance
at him, and Draculea said, "This attitude surprises you?"
"Frankly, yes. It isn’t one that I’ve encountered often from people your..." he trailed off in
embarrassment.
"Someone my age? You needn’t be embarrassed, Jonathan. Yes, I am quite old, older than you could
imagine. But the years have not faded my belief in love--its power, and its vitality. You have said that
you feel that there is someone you are meant to be with. Can you tell me more about this person?"
Jonathan thought. "Not really. It’s all very vague. I think it was clearest when I was very young,
before my mother died. Since then there has been so much..." He thought for a moment, trying to find
the words to express what he felt, and the prince waited. At last he said. "Things seemed clearer then,
even if I didn’t understand it all. It’s as if what I once almost knew has become buried under layers of
time, and experience, till it’s very dim and far away. I knew that there was someone, one special
person, that I was meant to be with forever. They told me so."
Draculea tensed slightly. "How so?"
Jonathan shrugged helplessly. "In dreams, I suppose. I seem to recall looking out the window at
night, and listening to them. They were very faint, very far away, and they said that I belonged to
them, that they
had waited for me for a long, long time. That I would go to them someday. My mother found me at
the window once. It frightened her, and she ordered me not to do it again. Now I can see why she was
distressed, but then I couldn’t understand it. You see, I wasn’t afraid. The voice didn’t frighten me--it
made me feel safe, and wanted." He looked down at his hands. "She must have been right--it had to
have been a dream."
"Do you dream often?"
"Yes, I do. But you know, they don’t seem to be like other people’s dreams. They’re just dreams of
LIFE--in a different time and place, but just an ordinary life. Talking to people, working... Working
among books, that’s very clear." He smiled. "I like that idea. It was one of my first choices for a
career, after the Church, but Father objected, of course."
"Somehow that does not surprise me. Tell me more about these dreams." *For the true self is
revealed when the waking self is at rest.*
"Well, there’s never anything phantasmagorical about them," his face twisted briefly. "No, I lie.
There has been blood, at least once. For some reason I remember long streaks of blood on a rich rug.
I haven’t had that dream very often, thank goodness. The other one, the one that bothers me the
most..." He took a breath. "I’ve awakened in a cold sweat more than once, but I understand that many
people have the
same sort of dream, so I suppose that it isn’t particularly significant."
"What is it?"
"Falling." Draculea turned his face away so that Jonathan would not see the spasm of pain that marred
his features. The young man continued. "I dream of falling from a great height, never landing. And
you know, the funny thing is that I’m not frightened while it’s happening. I should be terrified, but
there’s another emotion that suffocates any fear I might feel."
"Sorrow."
Jonathan looked toward the prince in surprise. "Yes. It isn’t simple sadness, either--it’s grief, and
despair. I remember how I felt when my mother died, but this is even stronger. It’s consuming. It’s
as
if the grief will kill me before the fall can, and I’ll welcome death as an end to the suffering. I don’t
know where this comes from. I’ve led a good life. Compared to the tragedy that others have borne,
I’ve suffered little."
Jonathan shifted uncomfortably, and Draculea could feel him pulling away, mentally and emotionally.
The young man sensed something here, something deep and powerful, and it made him instinctively
uneasy. It
was time to end this conversation before Jonathan felt the intrusion into his will, and took alarm. "I
fear that I have been a bad host." When Jonathan started to protest, Draculea said, "No. You are
weary with your travels, and I have been selfish in keeping you up simply to amuse me. You are quite
tired."
"No, prince, truly."
"But you are, my friend. Your eyes grow heavy lidded. I can almost see the drowse stealing over
you."
Jonathan did feel a lassitude creeping over him. *The warmth of the fire, and the wine...* he thought
vaguely. He tried to push away the feeling. *I mustn’t doze before the prince.*
The prince was still speaking. "You look very young in this light, Jonathan--almost like a sleepy
child. Very innocent."
"Perhaps you’re right, sir. I AM very sleepy."
"Then you must to bed." The prince stood. "Come, and I will show you to your room."
The prince took a candle and led Jonathan out once again into the Great Hall. Most of the candles had
burned out, and it was very dim. The prince was not much more than a shadow as he moved before
him. "Follow closely. The twists and turns of this old place can be confusing for one unused to it."
Jonathan had thought that the walk would drive away the oddly sudden sleepiness, but it only seemed
to increase. At the top of the stairs he stumbled and would have fallen if the prince hadn’t turned
quickly,
catching his arm. "I’m sorry. I’m not usually so clumsy."
"No," the grip on his arm was firm, but somehow gentle. "You are one of the most graceful people I
have ever known." Before Jonathan could respond to this odd remark, the prince said, "Here we are."
They stepped into the room, and Jonathan looked around. "My word. Rill said that I had been given
the grandest room in the castle, and I thought that he was merely being polite."
"No, he spoke the truth."
"But Prince, surely YOU should have this room."
"No, young man. I have not slept here for ages." He looked around the room slowly, then let his eyes
rest on Jonathan’s face. "There are too many memories." He set the candle down on a table. "I will
leave this
with you--I know this old place so well that I could make my way even if I should lose my sight. I
hope your dreams are pleasant."
The weariness was creeping back. He ran his hand over the bed’s velvet coverlet. It was old, but
clean and smooth. The bed looked almost sinfully comfortable, and he felt an overwhelming urge to
sink into its soft depths. "Thank you. I’m sure they shall be."
The prince bowed slightly, his eyes fixed on the slim young man standing beside the bed--new, yet so
familiar. Then his eyes drifted to one corner of the room, where a tapestry hung, and he thought of the
door behind the faded hanging--the door, and the hall that led to another room that did not hold the
happy memories that this one did. He looked back at Jonathan and said quietly, "No dark dreams,
Jonathan.
Dream only of sweet things. Dream of that one person you are meant to be with." He inclined his
head, and left the room, shutting the door softly.
In the hall he hesitated a moment, then pulled a key from his pocket and locked the door. He would
give the key to Simion, who would see that the door was once again unlocked before the sun rose.
Rock had been warned in the harshest terms to behave himself, but...
He had known for some time that Rock was insane. He believed that it had begun long before he
became Nosferatu, probably during his first years, under the abuse of his father. Rill had escaped that,
and his
brother’s abuse, with his sanity and sweet nature intact, but Rock had soured, and grown poisonous.
The long years of enforced submission had made him even more unbalanced. After what happened
with Renfield, Draculea was no longer sure that the blonde vampire was sane enough to consider his
own best interests. And if he dared to harm Jonathan... There was no question--Rock would die. The
only question would be how swift Draculea’s vengeance would be. But for now, the locked door
should keep Jonathan safe.
Draculea waited for a moment, hand pressed to the door. After a moment he turned, walked a few
yards down the hall, and removed another key from his pocket. The key grated in the long unused
lock, but it turned, and Draculea stepped into the long sealed room that had belonged to the former
lady of Castle Draculea--his long dead wife, Elizabeta.
end part 77
Back to index
Chapter 78: Chapter 78: Dreams

Rating: NC17
Summary: Nicolae has not emerged from Jonathan’s subconscious, but Vlad cannot resist being closer
to his love.
Archive: WWOMB and lists, other wise ask and I may approve a link.
Notes: About the sock garters. I may have mentioned this before. This is pre-elastic, folks. If you
wanted socks to stay up, you wore garters. Ever SEEN men’s sock garters? I have (vintage blue
movies on
cable--don’t ask), and I howled. Not sexy, but then neither are boxers, really. It all depends on who’s
wearing them. :) Men, especially businessmen, wore highly starched, detachable cuffs (to prevent
their shirtsleeves from becoming soiled by smeared ink), and collars (talk about uncomfortable.
Imagine wearing a stiff band around your neck for ten or twelve hours a day).
Jonathan looked after the prince. *What an odd man. Odd, but there’s something... I don’t know.
Perhaps compelling is the right word?* He yawned, stretching hugely. *I can’t remember the last
time I’ve been so sleepy. I feel like I’m weaving on my feet. I really ought to stay up long enough to
go over the papers one more time, but..." He touched the spread again, fingers scratching at the thin
velvet. *The household schedule is turn-about, though. I should have time to review the documents
during the day. I suppose it will be all right.* He yawned again, and thought wryly, *It had better be,
else I’ll find myself asleep face down amid the papers.*
He set his shoes neatly beside the bed, and sat on the bed to take down his socks. By the time he’d
tucked them and the garters in his shoes he was yawning again, eyes drifting shut. He shook his head,
but it didn’t help much, so he quickly removed his collar and cuffs, putting them on the bedside stand.
He got out of his jacket, but it seemed like such an awful lot of trouble to get up and walk all the way
over to the chair to hang it neatly. He draped it over the foot of the bed, and began to unbutton his
shirt.
The softness of the mattress seemed to be pulling him down inexorably. *Perhaps I’ll just lie down for
a moment, just to test it.* He stretched out on the bed, settling his head on the fat pillow. The last
thing he thought as he drifted off to sleep was that Rill must have fluffed it for him, and wasn’t he a
thoughtful boy?
*****
Vlad had never felt the urge to linger in the room of the lady of the castle--not when his late mother
had occupied it, and especially not when his own wife had resided there. Still, he knew that he had to
spend a bit of time there--he couldn’t simply pass directly into his own room. Jonathan had already
been tired, and since he was unused to strong drink, the wine should have worked with the suggestion
of sleepiness that Draculea had planted.
He moved about the room restlessly, the hem of his robe brushing the thick dust that coated the floor.
He paused before a tall object, one that was shrouded in a thick cloth. He eyed it, thinking, *Simion
must
change the drapery occasionally. I think it would have rotted away by now if he hadn’t.*
He reached out and touched it. Despite what Rill had told Renfield, there WAS at least one mirror in
Castle Draculea. Vlad had ordered the others destroyed not long after he had turned. He felt he did
not need the empty expanses of glass to remind him of his new state, but for some reason he had had
this mirror spared. It wasn’t from any fond memories. His mother, despite her faults, was not a vain
woman, and he could not remember her ever gazing into this glass. Elizabeta had been different. He
knew that she had spent long moments sitting before the mirror while Lena brushed her hair, but he
was fairly sure that Beta had watched her maid in the mirror, and not her own reflection.
*She said that a mirror offered the truest representation of mankind, and I told her that they showed
only the outer flesh. A mirror would serve no good purpose unless it could show what was inside, and
if they could, what would be revealed would most likely horrify us all.*
He stared at it a moment longer, then reached out, and pinched the fabric, pulling. It slid down with a
whisper, and dust puffed up as it settled to the floor. Even in the darkness, Vlad could see clearly, and
what he saw was... nothing. The room behind him was clearly reflected, and it looked as empty as it
had been for the past centuries.
*And for me it does not even show the flesh. Perhaps it now does what I speculated--and shows what
is inside me--nothing.* He shook his head. *No. I might have believed that a month ago. I felt
empty then--hollow. But not now.* His eyes turned to the small door in the back corner of the room.
*Not now that my Nicu has returned to me.*
He was moving before the thought was fully formed. His fist smashed into the mirror. There was a
brittle crack, and a line split the glass, running from corner to corner. The reflected image seemed to
flicker slightly, shifting and distorting subtly as the reflecting surface was divided. The sound, and the
shock of sensation up his arm satisfied something deep inside Draculea, some need that he hadn’t even
known he possessed, and he struck again--harder. The glass crunched, breaks spidering out from the
point of impact.
He was drawing back to strike again when caution made him stop. He knew very well that the walls
of the castle were thick, and that the sounds generated in a room seldom traveled beyond, but he had
no wish to test the possibility--not with Jonathan in the room next door. Instead he stood for a few
moments, staring at the cobweb shape of breaks that radiated from the crumpled center section of the
mirror.
He flexed his hand idly, hardly noticing the sting of sliced skin. What did it matter? It would heal in a
matter of hours. During the few days before Jonathan arrived, Draculea had begun to feed from
humans again, but he did so sparingly, still taking most of his sustenance from rats, or the castle
horses. Already there were changes. Faint sprinklings of black strands were shot through his hair,
though still almost buried by the gray. The age freckles on the
back of his hands were beginning to fade, and the knuckles were a bit less swollen now. Simion had
noted the changes. He was sure that it was because the Prince was finally taking proper nourishment,
and he thought that given time and enough human blood, Draculea would regain his youthful
appearance, and vigor.
He forced himself to wait a few more minutes, but knew that he could not long resist the compulsion.
Still he tried, pacing the room like a caged wild thing. At last he thought, *The longer I delay, the
greater
chance I will lose all control when I am finally with him. Better to go now. If he is still awake, I can
make some excuse about wanting to amuse him with the revelation of the secret passage.* He told
himself
this, though he was not at all sure that he would be able to resist reaching out for Jonathan, no matter
how aware, or reluctant, he was.
As Lena had speculated all those years ago, there was no lock on the door that led to the hallway.
Draculea walked the scant yards, feet silent on thickly dusted stone, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on
the door at the other end. This one COULD be locked--but it was not. He had made sure of that
himself before they went to fetch Jonathan Harker.
The latch had been well oiled, and it made no sound. The door swung inward, and Draculea saw the
back of the tapestry that hid the passageway. The tapestry was thick, but there was still a faint rim of
light around the sides, and at the bottom. Draculea hesitated. *Damnation! The candle still burns. Is
he awake? I would have wagered what life I have that he would be asleep by now. The wine, warmth,
and compulsion should have seen to that.*
Draculea listened carefully. The senses of the Nosferatu were keen, and he heard no sound of
movement. He concentrated even more, willing himself to greater acuity. The room was still save an
occasional muted snap from the fire, and... Yes, there... the gentle suspiration of breath, the steady
rhythm suggesting deep slumber.
Draculea closed his eyes for a moment. He had never before felt the need to enter this room with
stealth, not unless it was in care that Nicolae not be awakened from a peaceful slumber. He put out his
hand and swept aside the tapestry, stepping softly into the room.
The light was nothing but a faint red-gold glow, from the low burning fire and the single candle, but it
was enough. Draculea approached the bed slowly, almost fearfully. With the very reason for his
existence
within his grasp, he was almost afraid to realize his heart’s desire. Then Draculea saw him.
The clothing was different, and the hair. The first time he had seen Nicolae, the boy’s hair had been in
a monk’s crop--no more than two inches long. The last time his hair had fallen over his shoulders in
waves of dark silk. Nicolae had let it grow solely for the pleasure it gave his lover. Now the hair was
caught between the two lengths. Disturbed from its carefully combed style, it tumbled across Jonathan
Harker’s forehead, strands straying down to where his high collar would have risen, had he been
wearing it. Instead of the drab brown monk’s habit, or the simple but rich clothes Draculea had once
provided, he was clad in gray trousers and a severe white shirt, half-unbuttoned. Yes, some things
were different.
But so many more things were the same--the long, sturdy lines of his sprawled body, the firm curve of
his mouth, the fairness of his skin, the sheen of his hair, the elegant shape of his hands as they lay open
and relaxed--all these things, and more. He might bear a different name, this flesh might be new, but
he WAS Nicolae.
Draculea moved to the side of the bed and stood staring down at him. Jonathan was deeply asleep, but
HOW deeply? Draculea knew that he would not be able to leave this room without touching his
beloved somehow, but the boy must not awaken. Nicolae had to be coaxed to awareness gradually. If
Jonathan was abruptly presented with the situation, he was unlikely to accept it. No, he would
probably do what any reasonable modern man would do in a like situation--balk, and flatly refuse to
accept the truth, no matter what his heart told him.
So Draculea again reached out with his will, pushing Jonathan’s consciousness deeper into the fog of
the unconscious. *Do not think, my dear one. Only feel. Let your instincts and your physical desires
hold sway tonight. You are there, Nicolae--I can feel you. You have to know how much I need you.
Please, my love. Give me tonight, and I will be able to be patient till you again find your way to
awareness.*
Draculea put one knee on the mattress. It dipped with his weight, but Jonathan Harker did not stir.
Draculea reached out and lightly touched the sleeping man’s hair, lifting a thick lock, and drawing it
between his fingers. Draculea felt himself begin to tremble at the familiar smooth slide. He watched
closely, but Jonathan slept on. Growing bolder, Draculea brushed the back of his hand gently down
Jonathan’s cheek. He felt the very faint roughness of stubble, and smiled fondly. Nicolae had been so
proud when his beard had finally become strong enough to justify shaving. It hadn’t been required
more than thrice a week, but Simion had patiently shaved him whenever he asked, assuring the prince
that he took extra care, lest the delicate skin be irritated.
Satisfied now that Jonathan was in a sleep so deep that it could rightly be called a trance, Draculea
moved to undress him. This would be the test. If Jonathan awakened, Draculea could claim that he
was
just helping prepare his guest for bed. It would be a flimsy excuse, one that the Englishman would
rightly suspect, but the desire to cause no strain on their business relation would probably keep him
from demanding an explanation.
Jonathan did not awaken. Draculea slipped off the shirt, peeled down the trousers and drawers, and
dropped them carelessly on the jacket that already lay across the foot of the bed, then took a moment
to simply savor the sight.
Jonathan moved, and Draculea tensed, but it was the slow stretch of a sleeper. His toes pointed, and
he rolled away from Draculea, onto his side, cheek snuggling down onto the pillow. Vlad was
presented with the long sweep of his back, leading down to the pale double curve of his buttocks.
Draculea swiftly pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling a groan. *I have to touch him, but how can I
risk it?* Then he remembered that first time so long ago, after Ernestu had beaten him. He hadn’t
thought there was a way then, but somehow...
He removed his outer robe and, still wearing his loose shirt and trousers, crawled onto the bed behind
Jonathan, lying down close beside him. This close he could feel the heat of the young man’s body,
smell the scent of his skin and hair. He passed a hand over Jonathan’s shoulder and down his arm,
barely skimming. Jonathan didn’t react; his breathing remained deep and even. Draculea reached out
and slipped an arm over Jonathan’s body, sliding it over his waist. Then he shifted closer till he was
pressed against him. Then he became still, and simply experienced the joy of holding Nicolae in his
arms again.
*I could stay like this forever,* Draculea thought, closing his eyes. *I could spend eternity content.*
*****
Jonathan was dreaming. It was a familiar dream, one that he had come to look forward to, and hope
for.
He was no longer alone in his bed. Someone had joined him, cuddling up close behind. He had never
shared a bed with another, and there was no reason why he should know this feeling, but he did. He
could not remember a time when he had NOT known it, but it was buried so deep that it was only a
ghost of a memory, except when he slept.
He thought that other men must experience something like this, because there had been discussions
when he was at school. Sniggering fellow students had whispered about their own ’night
visitors’--dreams that were so vivid that they’d awaken with their members stiff, or with cooling
semen spread on their bellies or thighs. Jonathan hadn’t joined in the talks, because while his dreams
shared some of the same characteristics, there were distinct differences.
For one thing, the body that moved up behind him in his dreams was not soft and rounded. It was hard
and muscular. The hands that touched him, drawing such sweet responses, were large and firm,
slightly rough.
No, he never spoke of these fantasies, because he knew that they would be met with astonishment, or
derision. But somehow they seemed RIGHT. He hadn’t had the dream for a number of years, and he
had missed it. Now it was back, and more vivid than ever. He welcomed it, unconsciously shifting
toward the presence.
*****
Jonathan sighed and squirmed slightly, pressing back against the prince, deeper into his embrace, and
Draculea knew that he had been lying to himself. Just holding his reborn love would not be enough.
His hands moved over the smooth planes of Jonathan’s chest and abdomen, stroking slowly, relearning
his texture and form. His fingers found a soft nipple, and he rubbed and pinched gently, feeling it
begin to stiffen. Jonathan’s breathing increased a little in speed.
Draculea let his hand slip lower, till his fingers brushed springy curls. Finally he allowed his hand to
close over the warm flesh at Jonathan’s crotch, molding his palm around the smooth column of the
younger man’s sex. He made a quiet murmur of approval when he found that the boy was already
half-aroused. He closed his hand loosely around Jonathan’s cock and stroked lightly, feeling it begin
to swell, filling his fist. *Sweet Nicolae,* Draculea thought. *Always so responsive to my touch.*
He tenderly kissed the back of his lover’s neck, and was rewarded with a small shiver, and a breathy
exhalation. He couldn’t resist any longer. Draculea stopped his ministrations long enough to unfasten
his
own trousers, freeing himself. Draculea had begun to stiffen while he was still standing in the
passageway, anticipation stirring the blood he had taken only an hour before from one of the willing
Rom. His cock was hard now, eager to seek the sweet sanctuary of Nicolae’s body as it had so many
times before.
He couldn’t do that--not yet. Jonathan Harker had tasted the blood of Draculea only once, and the
prince wanted a more certain hold before he consummated their union. Till then he would have to
content himself with less than a full joining, but all contact with his love was a joy--physical and
emotional.
Draculea pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and draped it over Jonathan’s bare hip, putting it
where it would be ready to receive his seed. He parted Jonathan’s buttocks, and traced a finger down
the cleft. Jonathan shuddered and moaned. The crinkled star that marked the entrance to his body
flexed, as if trying to draw Draculea in. It was all that the prince could do to resist sliding a finger
deep into the tempting passage, beginning the slow, delicious chore of stretching the tiny hole enough
to accommodate his hungry flesh. But he did not. Instead he once again spooned up against Jonathan,
laying the solid length of his sex between Jonathan’s buttocks, letting them cradle him in a snug
embrace.
When he was positioned to his satisfaction, Draculea again found Jonathan’s erection. He began to
pump the boy, slowly and firmly. At the same time, he moved his hips, thrusting against Jonathan.
The damp friction was exquisite.
Draculea felt a smear of warm liquid on his hand. Immediately he circled his fingers around the head
of the boy’s penis, finding the ooze of pre-ejaculate that flowed from the tip. He used it to slick the
velvety skin of Jonathan’s erection, letting it make his hand slide even more freely.
Jonathan’s breathing had become ragged. His head tipped back, till it rested on Draculea’s shoulder.
The prince gazed down at him as he pumped the boy’s thickened flesh, and slid his own erection back
and forth in the not-quite tight enough embrace of Jonathan’s cleft. Vlad could feel himself
approaching his climax. He was both elated and dismayed. This was what he wanted--completion
with his love--but it was coming so soon.
The physical pleasure was sweeping through Jonathan’s dream. He whimpered with need, body
moving with unconscious will to press more tightly to the shifting, thrusting presence at his back. His
head dropped back even farther, twisting...
*****
If only he hadn’t moved, if only he hadn’t made that soft, yearning sound, Draculea might have been
able to resist. But the boy shifted back, as if begging for a firmer touch, and he arched his neck, baring
his throat in a gesture of natural submission. All the need, longing, and hunger of over four hundred
years rose up in an instant. Draculea’s hand tightened around the boy’s rigid prick, stroking and
squeezing roughly. The ache of his fangs extending only seemed a part of it all, as Draculea bent his
head and sank them into the smooth skin of Jonathan Harker’s throat.
The pain in Jonathan’s throat mingled with the sudden burst of hot pleasure that rose from his crotch
and spread through his body. The combination pulled him toward consciousness, and something else
seemed to rise inside the young man. It was as if a splinter of something buried deep in his self, a part
that had always been there, but always hidden and sleeping, had awakened also. For a brief second it
struggled toward the surface, confused.
Draculea drank from Jonathan, and it was the sweetest, most satisfying meal he had ever taken,
nourishing him more than physically. He swallowed once, twice, three times... He allowed himself no
more than a half-dozen strong pulls. When the young man’s orgasm ended, his flesh beginning to
soften in Draculea’s hand, the prince forced himself to stop. He released Jonathan’s sex and snatched
up the handkerchief, just in time to catch his own spend before it could streak the sheets and
Jonathan’s flesh with blood that could not be explained away.
As Jonathan’s breathing fell back to the slow pace of deep sleep, Draculea licked the seeping wounds
on his love’s neck till they no longer bled, and the healing had begun. Then Vlad licked his lover’s
essence from his hand, relishing every slick, slightly bitter drop.
They lay there for a while longer, Draculea cradling the sleeping, sated boy back against his chest.
How he wished he could simply drift off to sleep like this, then awake to find himself watched by a
pair of
dark, sleepy, contented eyes. But no, that was too much of a risk. It would be Jonathan Harker who
awoke, not Nicu--and Jonathan wasn’t ready for this.
Reluctantly, Draculea arose. He looked at Jonathan again, seeing the flush of arousal slowly fading
from his face and throat. So beautiful. The fire was very low now, scarcely more than embers, and the
room might become chilly. Jonathan was lying on the bedspread, and to move him would be to risk
waking him. After a moment’s though, Draculea turned up the side of the spread, just managing to
enfold the sleeping man.
Draculea refastened his trousers, then picked up his robe. He went to the tapestry, moving slowly,
head turned to watch the bed over his shoulder. Jonathan never stirred. Finally Draculea moved aside
the tapestry, stepped back into the corridor, and shut the door once again.
He paused, leaning against the chill stone wall, letting his head drop back against the stone. It was
ironic: his love had finally returned, but in some lights he was still far away. He was close by, but
Draculea could not embrace him, touch him, kiss him as he wished. Nicolae was still buried deep
inside Jonathan Harker--there, and not there. Draculea straightened and went back down the passage,
through the room, and out into the hall.
Simion was standing at the end of the hall. He said nothing as his master approached, but he watched
him keenly. There was fire in Draculea’s eyes, but also the beginning of peace. It was a look that
Simion had not seen for a long, long time. There was more energy in the prince’s step, and he thought
he detected a faint flush of natural color in the usually paper-pale cheeks.
The prince stopped before Simion, and they regarded each other silently for a moment. At last Simion
embraced the prince. Draculea returned the embrace, letting his head rest on his old friend’s shoulder.
Simion felt the big man begin to tremble. Draculea did not breathe, and the first hint Simion had that
he was weeping was the warm moisture of bloody tears against his neck as Draculea whispered, "At
last, at last, at last..."
end part 78
Back to index
Chapter 79: Chapter 79 - Strange Familiarity

Author’s Notes: Notes: Rough translations of Hungarian. Jo reggelt. Hol van a herceg?--Good
morning. Where is the prince? Reggel? Az nem reggel. O alszik a alszik-bol csak, Angol ferfi. On
beszel Magyar jol--Morning? It’s not morning. He sleeps the sleep of the just, Englishman. You speak
Hungarian well.
Jonathan slept a long time, but somehow he was still tired when he awakened. *Dreams,* he thought,
sitting up a bit groggily. *That must be it. Very odd dreams, too.* He felt himself blushing, though
there was no one else in the room to remark any embarrassment. He couldn’t remember much of the
dreams, but he knew they had been sexual. They always were when he awoke with the sticky feeling
on his crotch.
But this was different, too. The room was half-lit by a good fire, indicating that someone had been in
while he slept, building it up. Jonathan pushed aside the cover and examined his own body, skimming
his fingers over his belly and thighs. Yes, there was a slight tackiness, but not all that he would have
expected. His fingers suddenly stilled on his leg. *How did I get undressed? I don’t remember... I’m
certain I fell asleep atop the spread.* He pushed the coverlet further back, seeing that the edge had
been turned up to cover him. He frowned. If he had been awake enough to do that, why hadn’t he
gotten decently into his nightshirt?
Still wondering, he got up and went to the dresser. As he’d expected, there was fresh water, soap, and
cloths, and he quickly cleaned himself. Jonathan’s mother hadn’t seen anything odd about his wanting
to bathe every day, but he really hadn’t been able to do that since he was a child. The vicar’s sister and
his father’s housekeeper had complained bitterly about the trouble, even when he’d offered to draw
and dispose of the water himself, and it simply hadn’t been possible at school. His current landlady
was willing enough, but he felt selfish, asking the elderly woman (or her equally elderly husband) to
carry and heat the water, and she insisted on doing it for him because, "After all, dear, you’re the
guest." He thought wistfully that perhaps there was a tub he could borrow, if he stayed more than a day
or so.
He was washing his throat as he thought this, and he winced as his hand glided over a tender spot.
Frowning, and wishing for a mirror, he carefully felt the area. It was sore, and... Was that a welt? He
pulled back the sheets and examined the bed, but it looked beautifully clean, no sign of vermin.
*Well,* he thought, puzzled, *perhaps I scratched myself during the night. If I could get undressed
without remembering, I could certainly do that.*
He dressed. After some hesitation, he left off the stiff collar and cuffs, leaving the soft cloth ones
unadorned. Part of business, he’d been told, was adapting your ways to fit in with those you served.
From what he’d seen himself, and what he’d gleaned from Robert’s correspondence, Draculea was
more comfortable with a slightly informal atmosphere. He consulted his watch, finding that it was just
after six o’clock. He usually waited till the afternoon to wear more casual clothes, but, *I can change
quickly enough if I’ve misjudged,* he thought, combing his hair.
Once he was dressed again, he paused. The emptiness in his belly was a good indicator that some time
had passed, and food would be most welcome, but he felt hesitant about wandering around a private
home. *Especially one this size. I think one could become lost here.* Still, he didn’t want to simply sit
in his room, waiting to be summoned.
Finally he unlocked the door and went out into the hallway. He found that it was lit, a good number of
candles flickering in sconces along both walls. He paused, looking at one of the fixtures. Reaching up
to touch it, he found that the holder was thickly crusted with old, crumbling wax--and dust. It was as if
hundreds of candles had been burned here, but not recently.
Jonathan briefly considered exploring further into the castle, but decided it would be much more
acceptable to stay in the more public portions of the building. He would be sure to encounter the
Prince, or some of his household, in the rooms he had already visited.
He made his way down the stairs into the Great Hall, and was a little surprised to find it occupied. One
of the gypsies had dragged a chair right in front of the entrance, and was leaning back in it negligently.
He watched Jonathan with a dark, unreadable gaze as he approached.
Jonathan stopped nearby and said, "Jo reggelt. Hol van a herceg?"
The gypsy was obviously surprised, but he answered, "Reggel? Az nem reggel. O alszik a alszik-ból
csak, Angol férfi. Ön beszél Magyar jól." He smiled, and said in a thick accent, "But you not speak
Rom, I think. They sleep still." He gestured toward the back of the hall. "Food in kitchen."
Jonathan wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or apprehensive that some of the servants could
understand him. "Thank you." Before he left, he said doubtfully, "It isn’t morning? How long have I
slept?"
Again the man shrugged. "Dusk soon. They stir then. You go eat." He smiled, and there was
something disturbingly wise in the expression. "You need be strong."
Feeling more than a little disoriented, Jonathan made his way to the passage that the man had
indicated--a long, blank stone corridor that seemed to lead around behind the main rooms on the
ground floor. He was grateful that there continued to be candles at regular intervals, because there
were a few turns that led off in odd directions. It would be easy to get lost, he reflected, but now he
could hear a faint murmur of sound, and he followed that.
Finally he entered a spacious, low ceilinged room. It was much brighter and warmer than the rest of
the castle, due to the three separate hearths, and two stoves. All the fireplaces were lit, and one of the
stoves. There were several gypsies sitting at a large table, looking very comfortable as they smoked
and chatted while another stirred a pot on the stove, and yet another turned a spit of sizzling meat over
one fire. All conversation died as Jonathan entered. A familiar voice called, "Good evening, Mister
Harker."
Jonathan was relieved to see Simion, the prince’s steward, sitting among the men. He held a tankard of
ale, but, though he looked completely relaxed, he also had an air of authority. It was clear that he was
the one this group deferred to. Jonathan came closer. "Good evening. I think I amused the man on duty
at the front when I told him ’good morning’. Is it really so late?"
"You must understand, sir, that for this place, it might as well be early morning." He said a few words
to the gypsies, and they got up, moving to another, smaller table. "Please, have a seat and let us
provide you with food."
"I couldn’t ask them to give up..."
"Mister Harker," he said quietly, "It is their way. Please, if you try to treat them as equals you will
only puzzle and frustrate them." He shrugged. "It sounds feudal, I know, but their mentality is still
lodged firmly in the past. Sit, and be served." Jonathan took a chair beside Simion while one of the
gypsies began to fill a plate for him. "As to how long you have slept--you had been journeying for a
long time, and I know the prince kept you up talking. You needed the rest. I know that you English are
very fond of your schedules and timetables, but do not fear. Things move much more slowly here."
The gypsy set a plate laden with rare, juicy lamb, roasted potatoes, and tiny green peas before
Jonathan, then added a plate of bread, butter and cheese. Very hungry, Jonathan reached eagerly for
his knife and fork, then hesitated, sitting back. "Will the prince or his companions join us?"
As he finished speaking, his stomach gave a liquid gurgle, protesting his slowness, and Simion
chuckled. "Again I tell you that we do not stand on formality here. Eat. The prince would be most
annoyed if I allowed you to go hungry waiting for him." Mollified, Jonathan began to eat as Simion
continued. "I have already dined. Rock does not take his meals here, but Sinn sometimes has a whim
to sample what the cooks prepare. Rill will no doubt be here shortly, though, if you wish company."
He smiled fondly. "He enjoys his appetites, that one."
"And the prince?"
Simion’s eyes were hooded as he took a sip of ale. "The prince took a meal not long ago--perhaps the
most satisfying in years. But it is likely that he will seek us out, simply to enjoy your company."
Jonathan was already finishing his food, eagerly mopping up the rosy meat juices with a chunk of
bread. "It’s good that you went ahead, else you might have fainted from hunger."
Jonathan blushed. "I’m sorry, I know it’s horrible manners, but," he quickly ate the sopping bread, "I
can’t help it. I feel like I’m starving, and this seems to satisfy the most. It’s funny--I’ve always liked
my roast well done. A good thing, too, since Father always ordered them cooked through and through,
so that there wasn’t the least hint of blood. He said that was the only civilized way."
"Indeed?" Simion gestured, and the gypsy took Jonathan’s plate, beginning to fill it again. "Here there
is no shame in being a bit of a barbarian. All the goodness is in the blood, Mister Harker. Burn it away,
and you lose the strength it might give you."
The slice of roast this time was bright pink and oozing. Jonathan set to with relish. "When you put it
that way, it certainly makes sense."
Rill, barefoot and dressed in loose, rumpled trousers and shirt, shuffled into the room, yawning and
rubbing his eyes. He went straight to Simion and leaned heavily on the older man’s shoulder. "You
were gone when I woke up." His tone was disappointed, but not accusing. "Did I sleep so long?"
Simion reached up to pat his hand. "No, but I had to be sure that our guest was seen to properly."
Rill looked up at Jonathan, giving him a sleepy smile that the Englishman couldn’t help but return.
"Oh, yes."
"You most likely forgot me, Rill," said Jonathan genially.
"No, how could I do that, when we’ve been waiting for you for so long?" As he spoke, Rill was
moving to sit in Simion’s lap. Simion held him away, and the boy seemed hurt and puzzled. "What’s
wrong?"
"Rill--our guest." Rill looked at Jonathan, then said, "Oh." He pulled out a chair on Simion’s other
side, then leaned close to the older man and whispered, "I’m sorry. I forgot. It’s just that..." he chewed
his lip. "It’s that he seems right, sitting there. Like he’s always been here."
The same gypsy who had served Jonathan put a plate of food before Rill. Jonathan noticed that there
were only a few potatoes--the rest was thick slices of steaming, barely cooked meat. Rill beamed as he
pulled the plate closer. Simion cleared his throat, tapping the tabletop. Rill blinked, then picked up a
knife and fork and began swiftly cutting the meat into chunks. For a moment Jonathan had half
expected the young man to dig into the bloody fare with his bare hands. Somehow the thought wasn’t
as appalling as it should have been. It would have been like watching a hungry child who was still too
young to have been taught the civilized nicities of the table.
Between bites, Rill questioned Jonathan about English school life. It was as if, being unable to absorb
an extensive education himself, he found the concept fascinating. Having finished his own meal,
Jonathan was happy to talk to the boy. *It’s odd. I should feel undomfortable here. Lord knows it’s
different from anything I’ve ever experienced before,* he thought. He’d been too small to be much
welcome in his mother’s kitchen, since she’d been quite ill by the time he reached the ’not underfoot’
stage. The vicar’s sister and his father’s housekeeper had made it clear that he wasn’t welcome in their
domain, not even when he offered to help with cleaning chores, and below stairs was out of bounds for
students when he was at school. His present landlady had welcomed him into her kitchen, but still, this
was different. There he’d clearly been the guest--the lodger. Here... *Rill may have something. This
place feels right to me. I feel comfortable.* Sinn, looking as dapper as ever, strolled in. "It seems that
once again I am the sleepyhead of our little group." He dropped a casual kiss on Rill’s head, "Good
morning, ma petit. Feh, how you can stomach such fare at this early hour never ceases to astonish me."
As he sat, the gypsy handed him a steaming cup of sweet smelling brown liquid. "I cannot bear
anything other than chocolate before I am fully awake." He drank deeply, leaving a creamy film over
his upper lip. He slowly licked it away, eyes fastened lazily on Jonathan. "Chocolate is the near perfect
food, n’est pas? It soothes, but also stimulates."
Jonathan shifted a little in his seat. While his life in the middle class had been fairly sheltered, he had
been exposed to the minor nobility at school. There the sons of baronets and impoverished viscounts
had delighted in scandalizing the ’lower class’ boys with their sly innuendos. He couldn’t say that he
disliked the Frenchman, but he definitely did not feel at ease with him, as he did with Rill.
Simion was watching Sinn with a certain guarded wariness, and Rill patted his companion’s cheek to
get his attention. The older man turned a gentle smile on the boy, eyebrows raised in question. "Can I
take Jonathan to see my soldiers now?" Rill asked. "The prince may want him soon, and there’s no
telling when there will be time."
"I’d like that," said Jonathan quickly. He had a feeling that Sinn would not be inclined to stir himself
from the warm comfort of the kitchen, and the prospect of spending some time with this simple, open
young man sounded very agreeable.
"Then of course," said Simion. "Take him, Rill. I will know where to find you, when the prince calls."
Rill hopped up eagerly, taking Jonathan’s hand to pull him from his seat. "They’re all lined up for
inspection," said Rill happily. "Just like the prince used to do with his own army." Simion’s teeth
clenched, but Jonathan only nodded, taking the words for careless chatter, assuming that the Draculea
family was many generations away from military power. He relaxed as they left the room.
Sinn looked after them, blowing idly on his chocolate. "I am surprised that our lord was not here
awaiting his newly found paramour."
Simion’s eyes drifted toward another door--one that would eventually lead to the underground
chambers. "He had to speak to someone."
There had been a time when Draculea had felt unable to enter this room. When he was in the upper
levels of the castle, in the library, gazing at the painting of Nicolae, he could almost find a moment or
two when the reality of his love’s death was not quite so REAL. But here... Here there was undeniable
evidence, cold and solid as the stone from which the statue was carved.
He stood just inside the large, low ceilinged room, gazing into it, gazing at what waited for him there.
The room was fairly lit by flickering torches--there were none of the more civilized candles down here
(they were too feeble to hold back the almost primordial darkness). The ceiling was a series of domes
overhead, the light not quite reaching to the top, and he could hear faint noises in the shadows that
nested there and in the fartherest corners--rustles and chittering that signaled bats above and rats
below.
Draculea moved onto the hard packed dirt floor, stepping slowly toward the figure that stood in the
middle of the room, the torchlight lending its whiteness an ethereal glimmer that might mimic the tiny
shifts of life, to someone who was not so completely aware of its inanimate nature.
Draculea came to stand before the statue. There had been no wind or rain here, but over the centuries
the slightly rounded mound that marked Nicolae’s resting place had gradually eroded, worn away by
the restless twist of Draculea’s body during the many times he had lain upon it, seeking closeness.
Draculea stared up at the face of the statue, eyes tracing the half-formed visage, loving memory filling
in details. At last he reached up, touching the cool cheek, and whispered. "I have been away a long
time. Forgive me, my love. I could not bear to see this... this proof that you were still beyond me." His
hand stroked down the statue’s arm, imagining the feel of warm flesh beneath the marble garments.
"This monument shows you as I imagine you have been all these years--pure, and beyond the reach of
time and corruption. But it came to tear at my heart, Nicolae. I preferred to gaze upon your portrait, the
one made by Signore Vittelli. It shows you as I remember you best, as you occupy my heart--warm,
happy, and alive, my heart--so alive."
He sank slowly to his knees, resting his forehead against the statue’s thigh. "And I have seen you so
once again. I had nearly given up hope, Nicolae. It had been so long."
He stayed like that for a long moment, eyes closed. There was a subtle sound. Logically he knew that
it had to be a bat shifting overhead, but it could--it could have been the sound of garments shifting as a
hand was raised toward Vlad’s head, reaching to give a comforting caress. Vlad looked up sharply, but
the statue was the same as it ever had been, as he knew it must be. Still, he felt a soft peace, one that
had been absent since his last night with Nicolae, stealing over him. Vlad, not expecting a visible or
audible response, but somehow feeling that he had been heard, whispered, "You understand, my
angel."
end part 79
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Chapter 80: Chapter 80 - Degrees of Madness
Author’s Notes: Notes: //written words// peignoir--noun: woman’s dressing gown: a woman’s
loose-fitting dressing gown, bathrobe, or negligee

Outskirts of London, England
The Seward Asylum
From the Journal of Dr. John Seward
10/10/82
//Thank God for the cooler weather. It costs us more in fuel and blankets than is comfortable, but the
inmates are much less fractious than they are during the hot summer months. It has been a week since I
was last forced to order the hoses turned on any of my charges, and I am grateful. I know forceful
actions are sometimes necessary, but it grieves me to be rough with some of these poor
creatures--especially the ones who are aware of their own damaged state.//
//The relative calm of the inmates is a boon, since I am currently short handed. I had to let two of the
orderlies go. I caught them tormenting one of the inmates, and this was not their first offence. It’s hard
to get decent help. Sometimes it seems that only the lowest, roughest thugs are attracted to these sorts
of jobs. I try to be careful, but there’s only so much I can do.//
//I feel it’s good riddance to bad rubbish with that pair. They always delighted in taunting the lunatics,
handling them more roughly than was strictly necessary. I suppose I should have done something
earlier, but as I said, labor is in short supply. They were too cowardly to provoke the stronger men, and
they left the women strictly alone, because they knew that would not be tolerated. No, they delighted
in harassing the weaker male patients, and I’m afraid they found a perfect victim in one of the newer
patients.//
//Robert Renfield came to the asylum only a few weeks ago. He is a middle class male in his
mid-to-late twenties. Accurate information is scarce because he has no family, and his employers and
acquaintances seem to have been remarkably disinterested in his particulars. He has occasional clear
moments, and I have cautioned the staff to alert me immediately whenever he appears to be lucid, but I
have gained scant insight into his life or psyche. Whenever I think we will begin to make progress, he
regresses into a more incoherent state.//
//I must admit that I find his case fascinating. How a simple legal clerk could so quickly descend into
madness is a puzzle that piques my interest. From all that I could gather he was a perfectly typical, if
not boring, young man: perhaps more reserved and isolated than most, but exhibiting no overt signs of
abnormality. The catalyst seems to have been a business trip to Transylvania.//
//Accounts of what happened there are sketchy to the point of being non-existent. All his employers,
who arranged his commitment, can tell me is that he was engaged in presenting possible estates to a
minor Romanian nobleman. Apparently the client’s domicile is located in a particularly isolated
near-wilderness. They speculate that the rigors of travel and the stress of new responsibilities
contributed to his collapse. I’m sure these were important factors, but I cannot believe that they alone
are responsible for such a dramatic breakdown.//
//While Renfield is not violent or flamboyant in his madness, certain unique aspects have captured my
attention. He has developed the obsessive belief that he can strengthen himself, and perhaps even
prolong his life beyond a normal span, by ’eating life’. This means that he believes that by consuming
small, living creatures (such as flies, other bugs, and even mice when he can capture them), he absorbs
their vital energy--along with their blood. I have witnessed the habit on several occasions, and, while it
is disgusting in the extreme, the man’s intense and absolute belief in what he is doing is weirdly
compelling.//
The letters had been growing fainter, and now the flow of ink ceased, leaving the nib of the pen
scratching futilely on the page. Dr. John Seward sighed in irritation, then took a moment to sit back.
He pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose. *Damnation.
Don’t they make spectacles that fit the face, but don’t pinch?* He knew the answer--they did,
providing one was willing to pay for a good fit, and patient enough to wait for manufacture. Both time
and money were in short supply, and he preferred to expend them on other things, but it didn’t stop
him from being petulant about the ridge they were wearing into his flesh.
He stretched in his chair, feeling sinews creak. *How long have I been at this?* He glanced at the
grease smeared paper holding a few bread crusts and cheese crumbs. He hadn’t had a dinner
engagement, so once again he’d had his meal at his desk, while he worked at his notes. He idly poked
a crust, then pulled out his watch and consulted it, blinking at the time. *Good lord, almost midnight.
I’d meant to turn in hours ago. Can’t do the poor blighters in my care much good if I’m woozy. But I
wanted to get a bit more down about Renfield. Maybe just a small pick-me-up?*
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, staring into it. Among other things there was an unlabeled
brown bottle, and a small, flat leather case. The case contained an injection kit--syringe and rubber
tubing. The bottle contained a mild solution of cocaine. *Very mild--weak, really,* he told himself.
One finger stole down to stroke the cork that sealed the bottle. He sighed, shutting the drawer. *No. If
I do, I’ll never get to sleep tonight. I’ll be so ragged out by the end of the workday that I’ll be dropping
by the time I’m expected at Lucy’s. I’d need another injection just to keep my eyes open, and the last
time I did that I ruined one of her gowns with tea--made a right prat of myself.*
He reluctantly shut the drawer, then distracted himself by refilling the pen. As he wiped the nib on a
blotter, making sure the ink would flow smoothly, he thought, *Just a bit more, then I’ll sleep.*
//Another interesting aspect of Renfield’s psychosis is his tendency to humanize both concepts and
inanimate objects. In his ramblings I have heard reference to both a rock, which was cruel and evil,
and a rill, which was gentle and kind. It makes an odd sense, associating a stone with harsh personal
attributes, and the more gentle flow of water with a more benevolent aspect.//
//The most interesting bit of all is his attitude toward sin. He claims that he was corrupted by sin, that
sin seduced him and forced him to commit acts he would never have done on his own, that sin is both
beautiful, and wicked. Yes, this is a common belief among the masses, but they believe that it is sin in
the abstract that ruins their lives. Renfield does not refer to sin as ’it’, but rather as ’he’.//
//He also claims to have met the devil, but this is of less interest, as it is a common delusion. His
description the infernal one is different enough from most to note here. Rather than seeing him with
horns, cloven hooves, and a forked tail, or as simply a dark man, he envisions him as elderly. The
devil, he says, has long white hair, and blue eyes, and though his hands are gnarled, he could easily
break a man. Another peculiarity: when I spoke to him about this manifestation, calling him by one of
the devil’s proper names (Lucifer), he replied, "No, no. Lucifer was his stallion. Rill showed me."//
His hand twitched, and a thick smear of ink flowed out. Swearing, John blotted it carefully, then
sighed. If he was marring his notes, it was time to go to bed. He closed the journal, and sat back,
staring into space for a moment. He was tired--very, very tired--but not sleepy. The thought of another
night, alone in his bed, staring up at the shadowed ceiling was repugnant. He stood, walked to the
small dresser beside his bed, and opened it, reaching for the bottle of laudanum.
The Westenra Estate
Lucy, her white silk nightdress covered by an oyster satin peignoir, was sitting at her vanity as her
maid brushed out her hair for the night. It rippled over her shoulders and halfway down her back in
soft, golden waves that could never be entirely smoothed. The maid was counting slowly.
"Two-hundred, Two-and-one, two-and-two, two-and-three..."
The young mistress of the house heaved a sigh. "Oh, that’s enough, Jenkins."
"But miss, you always do four hundred strokes, regular as clockwork."
Lucy looked sharply into the reflection before her, capturing her maid’s gaze. "Are you my mother
now, Jenkins?"
The woman blushed and stammered, "No, miss, of course not. I’m sorry..."
Sure that the older woman was sufficiently cowed, Lucy gave her a sunny, forgiving smile. "Never
mind. It’s just that I haven’t the patience for it tonight. Trot along to bed."
"Yes, miss." She stepped aside, putting the silver backed brush on the vanity. "Shall Miss Harker be
wanting chocolate tomorrow morning? I’m afraid she retired before I could ask, and I didn’t like to
disturb her."
"No, Mina would think that hot chocolate in bed was dreadfully decadent. She’ll make do with tea at
breakfast, and probably at a shockingly early hour." Lucy half turned, to look her maid in the face.
"So, don’t you go slipping into her room tomorrow morning."
"Won’t she be needing me to help her dress?" Lucy gave a trilling laugh. "Mina? Oh, no, she’s quite
self-sufficient. When she graduated from school she stopped buying any dress that didn’t button up the
front, because she no longer had chums to help her with it, and she wasn’t frivolous enough to
purchase something that would require the assistance of a lady’s maid."
"Huh. Fancy that."
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. She was well aware that some domestics were worse snobs than any of the
nobility. Many viewed a middle-class girl like Mina as a distinct inferior to not only those they served,
but themselves. After all, they were linked to the rich and titled, at least in their own minds. The
servant of a duke ranked higher than the servant of a knight, for instance, and servants employed by
’commoners’ were the lowest on the domestic social rung. Mina, untitled, rather poor, and willing,
even eager to work, was looked at askance. The staff often whispered among themselves, wondering
why a lady like Miss Westenra would choose such a girl as her boon companion. Some were of the
opinion that her father had made a mistake in sending her to that London school to learn history and
literature, rather than packing her off to a Swiss or French school, like most of her contemporaries,
where she would have learned the more genteel arts of needlecraft, music, art, dance, and
conversations... all the things that would suit her to be a proper wife to a man in her own social circle.
Lucy said coolly, "She’s very independent. It’s a quality I much admire." The maid caught the
reproving tone, and quickly muttered agreement before hurrying out of the room. Lucy decided that
she’d have to keep a close eye on Jenkins. Maybe it was time to get rid of her and get a French maid,
as her father had suggested.
Lucy spent a few more moments fussing with her appearance. She opened her robe and slipped the
sleeves of her gown down, then patted rice powder on her shoulders, examining herself in the mirror to
be sure the perfect, milky pale color had been achieved before arranging her clothes once again. After
a moment’s thought she caught her hair back loosely with a red ribbon, considered the effect, then
changed it for a white one. Finally satisfied with her appearance, she went to the door and peeked out
into the hall. If a footman or maid had been passing, she was ready with some quick errand. If it was a
maid, she’d demand fresh water for her ewer. If it was a footman, and he was handsome enough, she’d
ask him to come in and open one of her windows. She rather enjoyed doing that. The young ones
blushed so, worried about impropriety, but excited at being near the young lady of the house while she
was so casually dressed.
The hallway was empty. Lucy went out, shutting her door softly, and walked the several yards down
the hall to the room that had been assigned to Mina. The housekeeper, had it been up to her, would
have placed Mina in one of the other wings, in a less desirable room, but she knew better than to show
less than complete respect to Miss Mina’s little school friend. Mina was usually sunny and sweet, but
she could be a right minx when her wheedling didn’t get her way as quickly as she thought it should.
She tapped once on the door, then slipped in without waiting for an answer. Mina was sitting at the
room’s little writing desk. She was wearing a simple blue cotton robe, and her long brunette hair fell
over one shoulder in a thick braid. She had been writing, and she looked up at Lucy, then pulled off
her square, rimless glasses. "Well, aren’t you familiar, just barging in without waiting for an
invitation." Her playful tone was at odds with her words.
Lucy smiled, knowing that it would make her dimples flash. "Why do you object, Mina?" She walked
over to the bed, lifted the spread, and peered under it suspiciously. "Have you got one of the footmen
hidden in here?" Mina laughed. "Oh, no, of course not. You’re far too loyal to Jonathan. I know!" She
clapped her hands. "He’s come home! He couldn’t bear to be parted from you, so he flew back to be
by your side. In a fever of mad passion, he disdained the front door and climbed the ivy to slip through
your window." She peeked under the bed again. "Jonathan Harker, you rogue! Come out of there."
She looked up at her friend, and noticed that Mina’s smile had faded. "Oh, dear." She went over to her
friend and put a hand on her shoulder. "Poor, dear Mina. You’re missing him, aren’t you?"
Mina nodded, patting Lucy’s hand, then screwed the top back on her inkbottle. "I hadn’t expected to,
but I am. I’ve become so used to him, Lucy. He’s a very comforting presence." Lucy wrinkled her
nose, and Mina smiled again. "Yes, I know--he’s a bit boring, but he’s so nice. And I am rather fond of
him."
She’d turned back to the desk, gathering the sheets of paper spread before her into a neat stack, and
Lucy leaned down, resting her chin on the other girl’s shoulder. "Oh, that’s a lovely foundation to
build your marriage on--fondness."
"It’s more than many have. What shall you build yours on?"
"Position," said Lucy promptly. "I’m going to have a title, and pots and pots of money. Oh, and he
must be handsome and quite devilishly attractive, too."
Amused, Mina said, "Anything else?"
"Well, he has to have the right politics, and attend the right church. Oh, and he mustn’t beat me."
"High standards. What if he’s unfaithful?"
Lucy shrugged. "As long as he’s discreet and careful. If he brings me some sort of horrid disease I
shall poison his tea." Lucy pointed at the papers. "Mina, what is that?"
"I’m writing a letter to Jonathan. I can’t let him believe that I’m not thinking of him."
"No that would be bad form. But I thought you were keen to use that dreadfully complicated
typewriting machine."
"I am, but you know what a racket it makes. I’ll transcribe these tomorrow, and send it out with the
afternoon post." She fidgeted a little. "Lucy, do you suppose there’s any way I could get a London
postmark on this?"
"Why ever...? Oh. He doesn’t know that you’ve quit your employment."
Mina blushed. "He’d be so disappointed. I really didn’t have any good reason, Lucy, but it all seemed
to make such sense when we spoke of it."
"And so it does, Mina." She took her friend’s hands, pulling her to her feet. "Really, the idea of you
cooped up all day in that stuffy, dusty little back room," she caressed Mina’s cheek, "ruining your
beautiful eyes by squinting at those tiny figures." She lifted one of Mina’s hands, kissing her
fingertips, "Getting ink stains on you hands. It was too much to ask of you, Mina, really. And this is a
legitimate job. You’ll help me with all my correspondence," she smiled, "help me keep track of all my
beaus, and my engagements."
Mina made a helpless gesture. "Jonathan calls it dancing attendance. He says that a paid companion is
a forlorn creature--neither fish nor fowl, gentry nor servant."
"Are you certain he’s not a socialist?" When Mina smiled, Lucy hugged her. "Don’t worry about that
now. Let’s to bed. I’ll need to get up early so I can go back to my own room before the servants start
stirring abroad."
Mina lowered the gas while Lucy turned down the covers, then slipped out of her peignoir and house
slippers. "I almost miss our school days. No one thought anything of us sharing a bed then."
"No, because that’s what school chums do," agreed Lucy, sliding under the sheet.
Mina removed her robe, tossing across the foot of the bed. "We’ve only been out of school for about a
year now. Why have things changed so?"
"They just have." Lucy watched her friend as she slid into the other side of the bed, then she moved
rolled toward her, throwing an arm across Mina’s slender waist. "We’re supposed to have better things
to do than lie in bed together, whispering and gossiping."
"Oh, we do have better things to do." Mina took hold of the end of the ribbon and pulled slowly,
untying it. She threaded her fingers through the bright silk, leaned over Lucy, and pressed a soft kiss to
the other girl’s lips. She was answered with the flicker of a small, wet tongue. When Mina lifted her
head, Lucy was smiling at her wickedly. Mina began to unbutton her friend’s nightdress, baring her
breasts. "Much, much better things."
end part 80
Back to index
Chapter 81: Chapter 81 - Suitors

Pairing: None this chapter
Rating: NC17
Summary: More players in the drama are introduced.
Archive: Mailing Lists and WWOMB. Others ask.
Mina watched Lucy as she finished her primping, seated at her vanity. "Lucy, tell me you aren’t really
doing it."
Lucy glanced at her friend’s reflection in the mirror, her brown eyes wide and innocent. "Doing
what?"
"You aren’t having all three of those poor men over here at once."
Lucy frowned slightly. "Goodness, Mina, there’s going to be a whole slew of men over here today for
tea. What three do you mean?"
Mina slapped her shoulder lightly. "You are wicked! You know very well that I mean Arthur
Holmwood, Jack Seward, and Mister Morris."
Lucy pinched her cheeks vigorously, pinkening them. "But Mina, I could hardly leave any of them
out. Jack lives next door, Arthur is the most prominent gentleman in the area, and Mister Morris is a
distinguished visitor. It would be a deadly insult to leave any of them out."
"And the fact that all three of them are courting you is of no consequence?"
Lucy giggled, shrugging. "Oh, there IS that." She turned her head and glanced up at Mina, eyes
sparkling. "All right, I’ll admit that I enjoy having a fuss made over me, and with rivals present, there
will be some very fancy attendance being danced."
"And that means a lot to you, doesn’t it?" Mina said wryly. "You need the attention, and the
catering-to."
Lucy shrugged. "I’ve never pretended to be anything but what I am. Yes, it’s important to me."
"The men?"
Lucy heard the sharpness in Mina’s voice, and reacted immediately, getting up and going to her. She
sat beside her friend on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. "The men, but only because that is where
the power lies," she said softly. "You know that, Mina. While women have made great strides, we are
still far from being equal to them, at least in the eyes of the world. We all play the game--even you.
Do you deny that you’re marrying Jonathan for more or less the same reasons?"
Mina looked down at their clasped hands, then lifted them, turning Lucy’s hand, and kissed her palm.
She sighed, "No. He’s a sweet boy, and I know he’ll be good to me, but the main reason we’re
engaged is that it’s expected." She looked up at Lucy, brown eyes fierce, and said, "And I don’t want
to spend my life in a dusty office, typing my fingers to the bone. Or end like my mother, doing my
own cooking in a tiny house, with no help but a girl to come in thrice a week for the heaviest work.
Jonathan is personable, and clever. He isn’t ambitious," her voice took on a hard edge, "but I am."
Lucy kissed her. "And with you to guide him, he WILL succeed. You’ll marry him when he returns
from Transylvania?"
"As soon as is decently possible."
"Then I ought to go ahead and make up my mind." She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "I think I
should be ready to make an announcement this weekend. Let’s hurry down. It would be most
impolite if we weren’t there to greet our gentlemen callers."
Lucy’s father, Peter Westenra, welcomed the two young women into the parlor with a good natured,
"Ah, the flower of English womanhood!" He kissed his daughter’s cheek. "You’re just in time, my
dear. Watkins just headed for the front door, and I believe that will be Jack."
"Oops! This flower of English womanhood had best arrange herself, then!" Lucy quickly seated
herself decorously on a small love seat. "Mina, quick! Act interested--we mustn’t let him think we’ve
just been waiting for his arrival. He’ll get a swelled head."
The butler led Jack Seward into the parlor, saying, "Dr. Jack Seward."
Lucy held out her hands, face lighting in welcome. "Jack, how lovely!" She sounded as if she’d just
been given a surprise treat.
Jack had been shaking hands with Lucy’s father, and now his smile was wide, and almost foolishly
pleased. He started toward Lucy eagerly--too eagerly. His gaze was fixed firmly on Lucy, and he
didn’t notice the small footstool in his path. As he stumbled and fell, Lucy gave a small shriek that
was as much laughter as it was distress. Still she hopped up and hurried to help him to his feet,
exclaiming, "Oh, poor, poor Jack! Here, let me help you."
Mina went to add her assistance, and between them they got Jack to his feet and shepherded him
between them to sit on the love seat. He was overwhelmed by the feminine attention, protesting that
he was perfectly fine, even as he rubbed at his aching shins. Lucy sat beside him, saying, "Mina,
please get some sherry for my poor, wounded Jack." She batted her eyelashes at him. "Unless brandy
would be better? I don’t know about such things, but you’re a doctor. You must tell me what is
right."
Jack was about to melt under the admiration. "Sherry would be..."
"Sherry, Mina." As Mina went to the decanter on a nearby table, Mina continued, "Are you
CERTAIN you’re all right?" She touched his leg gently, and felt smug when she noticed his small
shudder. "Perhaps I ought to check and see if you’re bruised?" She gave a mock gasp, covering her
mouth. "Oh! What you must think of me--suggesting that I look at your bare limb."
"Lucy..."
Watkins was again at the room’s entrance. This time he was accompanied by a tall, rugged man
dressed in a Western cut suit, wearing boots, a string tie, and a dark Stetson hat. "Mister Quincy
Morris."
As Quincy shook hands with Mister Westenra, Lucy patted Jack again and said, "Mina, look after dear
Jack. I have to be a good hostess and greet Mister Morris." She stood up and swept over to the
American, hands outstretched, smiling brightly.
Mina handed Jack the sherry, noting how his expression dropped with disappointment. *Poor Jack.
You haven’t a chance, but you needn’t be jealous of Mister Morris. Lucy would never marry any
American--except possibly an Astor or a Rockefeller. Even those would be doubtful, since the
Americans don’t believe in titles. No, Quincy Morris isn’t really your rival.*
Quincy Morris was a cattleman from Texas. He owned a ranch larger than several English counties
put together, and ran enough cows to comfortably feed the beef-loving population of several more
many times over.
He was also a good-hearted, rather simple man who held high regard for women in general, and
’ladies’ in particular. He was no match for Lucy. He had been charmed at first sight, and smitten in
less than five minutes. Mina regarded him with almost as much pity as she did Seward. *There’s
another one who doesn’t stand a chance, and doesn’t HAVE a chance. It’s just as well. Lucy can
barely stand being here in the country, away from the bustle of London. She’d never survive in the
wilderness of Texas. She’d go mad, and drive him mad along with her.*
She was flirting with him shamelessly, but doing it in such an innocent manner that she seemed totally
unaware of what she was doing. Mina knew that Lucy was perfectly aware of the effects that her
actions were having. Mina assessed the soft look in the Texan’s eyes, and found herself sympathizing,
rather than pitying. Lucy could make you want to protect her and care for her. It was one of her
greatest strengths.
Quincy said quietly, "Miss Lucy, we haven’t known each other long in days, but I feel as if I know you
well. Sometimes... Sometimes when you meet someone, it’s as if you’ve known them forever."
Lucy made a pretty little expression. "Oh, Mister Morris, that is the sweetest sentiment."
"I was wondering... Do I dare hope...?"
Watkins appeared once again, his bearing just a little straighter, his expression a touch more haughty,
and began, "Lord..."
The slim, dark haired man who strode smiling past him was greeted by Lucy with a squeal of,
"Arthur!" as she abandoned Quincy to rush to the newest arrival. The enthusiastic greeting of another
man must have stung Quincy. He had to have recognized the emotion and intention in it, because
Mina saw the fragile hope die in his eyes. The truly sad thing, though, was that the deeper emotion
(perhaps even love?) did not die also.
Arthur Holmwood accepted Lucy’s greeting with the satisfied, smug smile of a man who took it as his
due. Mina felt a jab of bitterness, but could she really fault him for this? It had been bred into him.
All his life he had known nothing but power, privilege, and adoration. He’d never wanted for the most
trivial of things, so it was difficult for him to consider that he might be denied anything important.
Lucy and Arthur whispered together for a moment, then his smile broadened, and he went to speak to
Lucy’s father. The two men left the room together, and Mina excused herself from a now forlorn
Jack. She took a whiskey to Quincy, then hurried to Lucy. "Well?"
Lucy’s smile was as smug as Arthur’s had been. "You’ll just have to wait, with everyone else."
"You wicked thing! Well, I don’t have to wait--I know."
"What do you know?"
"That you’ve chosen Lord Holmwood. The only possible reason for your father and he to scurry off
together for a cozy private chat is that he is asking for your hand." Lucy smiled slowly. "I know you
too well, Lucy. You can’t keep anything from me."
She laughed, leaning over to kiss Mina’s cheek. "I wouldn’t want to, Mina. Dearest, dearest Mina."
She took Mina’s hand, her voice lowering, and whispered, "I will marry Arthur, and we will get on
well. I’ll make him a commendable wife, I will give him an heir, and we will both live our own lives.
I’m very fond of him, but you--Mina, our souls belong to each other. We’ve always known that. It’s
rather like Mister Morrison said--sometimes you meet someone and instantly, it’s as if you have
known them from the beginning of time."
Mina nodded, and the two girls embraced. The men in the room saw only two close friends sharing a
warm moment. Mina, her lips close to Lucy’s ear, murmured, "We’re so lucky, Lucy. We are
unique. No one--no two people have ever shared anything like this."
~*~*~*~*~
"Prince Draculea, Rill has mentioned that you have a library."
They were once again in the small room where Jonathan had spent his first evening. The prince,
seated across from him at the small supper table, folded his hands. "Yes. Long ago, it was the finest
private collection in this part of the world."
"I’d love to see it."
"You like books?"
Jonathan smiled. "My first ambition was to join the church, and the second was to be a librarian."
"That sounds very like you." The prince studied the young man, his eyes unreadable. "Not now,
Jonathan." Jonathan was a little surprised. So far, the prince had denied him nothing, sparing no
effort to cater to Jonathan’s needs and, indeed, whims. The prince noticed his disappointed
expression, and said, "I didn’t say never. Just--not now."
"I see." He didn’t, though. He wondered if there was anything in the library that Draculea felt was
unsuitable for the eyes of an outsider. *Perhaps it’s only that it has fallen into disrepair, like the rest of
the castle.* The thought of a fine collection of books lying neglected didn’t exactly offend Jonathan,
but it made him want to DO something about it. "I was wondering if you’d come to a decision about
the properties."
Draculea sighed. "You are a conscientious young man. You won’t rest till I give you an answer, will
you?" Jonathan smiled. "There are several that I find attractive. I certainly want two in various parts
of London, but I also want something a little farther out. What was the one you were telling me
about--the one that’s close to your fiance’s friend’s home?"
"Carstair’s Abbey. It’s not in the best of shape, but it wouldn’t take much to fix it up. If you’re truly
interested, my firm could contract the work out, and have it ready any time you wished to go over to
England."
"That will not be necessary." He made a vague gesture. "As you have seen, I am not overly
concerned with such things. Please write your employers making the arrangements. Simion will see
that letters of credit are arranged at the Bank of London to cover the transaction."
Jonathan beamed. "Thank you, sir!"
Draculea returned his smile. "This pleases you, my friend?"
"It means that I have fulfilled the trust that my employers, and others, placed in me."
"Duty. Yes, you would be devoted to that."
Jonathan hesitated, then said, "Prince, you are a constant source of surprise to me. Are you really so
wise, or am I so transparent?"
Draculea chuckled. "Not precisely transparent." His eyes gleamed. "It’s only that some people are
easier to know than others. You have depths, Jonathan, but none of them are devious."
Jonathan regarded the prince, and noted that there seemed to be more color in his face than usual.
*Perhaps it’s the firelight. I’ve always heard that firelight and candlelight was flattering to women. I
suppose the same can hold true for men. He looks revitalized. I’d almost swear that his skin is less
crepey, and that his hair is darker. He’s a handsome man now. When he was younger, he must have
been... beautiful.*
They talked for a long time. Near dawn they parted, with Jonathan heading up toward his room. He’d
reached the top of the stairs, when he was startled by someone stepping out of the shadows. It was
Sinn. He noticed Jonathan’s startled look and gave him an ingratiating smile. "Did you have a nice
chat with the prince?"
"Our conversations are always most stimulating."
"Stimulating--there’s a word to conjure with." Sinn stepped closer. "He keeps you to himself. We’ve
hardly had any time together."
Jonathan fought down the urge to step back. "The business..."
"Piffle. You know very well that he could have conducted the business the very first day you arrived.
No, Jonathan, you are being kept here as a... companion."
"But he has companions--Rill, Simion, you, Rock..."
"We’re not the companions he wants. We can’t give him what he needs, though heaven knows I’ve
tried," he smirked. He moved closer. "Rock hasn’t made an effort, but he served a purpose, for a
time. But he’s been waiting for you..." He smiled. "For someone LIKE you, for a long, long time."
He reached out, and Jonathan stepped back so quickly he almost stumbled. Sinn laughed. "You
needn’t fear me, mon petite. I’m a sensible soul. I won’t try to trespass, not when I know what the
results would be. I just want to let you know that I’m your friend." This time he did touch Jonathan,
delicately straightening his collar. "Not everyone in this castle can say that, Jonathan. Remember it,
won’t you?"Still smiling, he backed away, moving into the shadows. The last Jonathan saw of him
was the gleam of his smile, and a brief red flash.
But that had to be a mistake.
Sinn’s eyes were green, weren’t they?
end part 81
Back to index
Chapter 82: Chapter 82 - Exploration

Pairing: None this time
Rating: NC17 for series
Summary: Jonathan’s exploration of the castle leads to a troubling discovery, and the edge of danger
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB. Otherwise ask.
Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable media characters here, I don’t own them. I derive no
profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses
who portray them. Various minor characters (Nicolae, Lena, Elizabeta, Sinn, Rill, Rock) are the
copyrighted creations of the author.
Warnings: Cliffhanger ahead--a mother of one. Those of you who hate that might want to wait till the
next chapter is out to read this.

"And the Turks are massed, just MASSED here, you see?"
Rill waved at the ranks of tiny, painted men ranged on the big table. They were in a chamber deep
within the castle. It must have at one time been an important room, for it was quite large, with a high
ceiling. The walls were hung with pretty tapestries, and the floors covered with soft rugs. Jonathan
had a feeling that Simion had prepared the room for his friend, making everything gay and
comfortable for this sweet young man.
"Yes, it’s quite a fierce horde," said Jonathan. He reached toward them. "May I?"
"Oh, yes, of course." Rill hurried around the table as Jonathan picked up one of the figurines. The
table was as large as the communal dining table at his former school, and the headmaster had assured
the boys proudly that it was the equal in size of the one that the queen herself used for state dinners.
The entire surface was spread with the toy armies, and Jonathan had no doubt that each warrior had
been placed with judicial consideration.
Rill pointed out the features. "Do you see the helmet, and the armor? The Turks wore leather armor,
so it’s painted brown. And the face and hands... It took me forever to mix the paint to the right tint.
Simion helped me, though. He’s seen lots of Turks. This one is a spearman." He frowned. "The
spear isn’t very sharp. I wanted to sharpen all the spears, but Simion said it wouldn’t be a good idea.
He said that if I tripped and fell on them it would be worse than falling into a patch of thistles."
Jonathan winced at the thought. "He’s very right."
Rill nodded vigorously. "Simion always is. Now," he indicated another, much smaller force, opposite
the Turks. "Here are the brave Transylvanians."
"They aren’t so many as the Turks, are they?"
"No, but they are very fierce! They are fighting for their homes and families. This makes them
brave." He examined the layout critically. "There’s one more thing they have that the Turks don’t
have, and it’s very, very important." He went to a cabinet and opened it. A moment later he returned
with two objects, and showed the first to Jonathan. "Simion gave me this."
Jonathan took the toy and examined it. It was a carved wooden horse. It seemed very old, but well
kept. It’s surface was glassy smooth with handling and loving polishing. "Oh, my! It’s remarkable,
Rill. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so lifelike. He looks quite ferocious."
"He was. This is Lucifer, he was the prince’s war steed. He was as much of a warrior as any man who
served in the army. Simion said he once saw Lucifer save the prince’s life. Prince Draculea had
struck at a Turk, and his sword was lodged in the man’s bone. As he tried to free it, another Turk
rushed to spear him. Lucifer bit at the man, and tore his throat out."
"That’s absolutely terrifying."
Rill nodded cheerfully. "But he had to be special, because he carried the prince." Rill showed
Jonathan the second figure. It was wooden also, a man just the size to sit on the horse. Jonathan
accepted this, also. It was a wonderfully clever object, with the limbs jointed so that it could be posed
in any number of positions. The details of the carving were remarkable--from the hand that gripped a
silver sword that was nearly as long as the figure was tall, to the straps of the armor.
Jonathan stared at it. There was something so familiar about it. He searched his mind, trying to
remember ever having seen an image like this--a big man, a warrior in full battle dress. For a moment
Jonathan felt very odd, rather like he had on the road when he first saw Draculea. The feeling was
familiar and alien at the same time. His eyes were drawn to the tiny face, half covered by the carved
helmet. He found himself staring at it, mesmerized, as if he could discern the features.
"Jon?"
Jonathan shook his head slightly, the haze that had been creeping over him falling away. It was
ridiculous. The face of the figure was no more than vague hollows and bumps, indicating the
placement of eyes and nose. He’d have to be mad to think it actually resembled anyone. "What,
Rill?"
"Nothing. It’s just that you went away for a moment."
He handed the toy back to Rill. "But I haven’t left the room."
"Not like that," said Rill. He touched his own forehead. "You went away here." He frowned, then
touched his chest. "Or maybe it’s here."
Jonathan started as a cool, slender hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked around quickly to find Sinn
smiling at him. "For such a simple soul, it is amazing how fanciful Rill can be, yes?"
"It’s a gift to be able to look at the world with wonder," said Jonathan, a hint of reproof in his voice.
Sinn shrugged. "It is a curse if that wonderment is disillusioned, but there is no reason that should
ever happen to Rill." Sinn reached out and absently ruffled the boy’s curls. "He’s quite the pet here.
Rill, you’ve been showing Jonathan your toys for hours now."
Rill blinked. "Have I?" He gave Jonathan an apologetic look. "I often lose track of time. Simion
says it’s to be expected, since time doesn’t mean as much to us as it does to..." Sinn cleared his throat
pointedly, and Rill hesitated, then said, "to people who have to... to deal with the outside world.
Schedules and obligations. Oh!" His eyes flew wide. "I haven’t been to see the horses. They’ll be
missing me."
"The gypsies care for them well enough," said Sinn.
"But they don’t give them sugar or apples. Jon, do you want to come?"
Before he could answer, Sinn said, "Rill, the weather is filthy. It’s chilly, and there’s a nasty fog. You
don’t want to risk our guest taking a chill."
"No. It’s better I go alone," Rill agreed.
"But what if you take ill?" asked Jonathan.
Rill gave him a puzzled look, and Sinn said, "We don’t suffer from the usual physical ailments." He
smiled. "Something in the water, no doubt."
Rill started for the door, but then paused and looked back at the two men. He looked from Sinn, to
Jonathan, then back again, and finally said, "Sinn, you come with me."
"Not tonight, Rill."
"No, I think you should come with me."
"I prefer to stay and keep our guest company."
Rill’s voice was firm. "I think the prince would rather you come with me."
Sinn gave Rill a sharp look, which the boy returned with a level stare. Jonathan had a sense of
something unspoken passing between them, something very like an argument. Then Sinn seemed to
relax a little, and his smile became indulgent. "If you wish." He gave Jonathan a rueful look. "You
see that we refuse him nothing." They left.
The prince had been gone when Jonathan awoke, and Simion said that he had decided to go
riding--something that he had not done for some time. The steward was obviously pleased that his
master was feeling more vigorous than he had of late. He thought about going to his room and writing
a letter to Mina. He supposed he should, but somehow it seemed more like a chore than a pleasant
activity.
He decided instead to explore the castle a bit. He took a candle and stepped out into the hall. After
considering for a moment, he turned and moved off into a section of the castle that he had not yet
visited. He didn’t have to go far before the surroundings were completely unfamiliar. Judging from
the dust on the floors and the cobwebs near the ceiling, this area had been unoccupied for a very long
time.
He tried various doors along the hall. Some were locked, and some opened into rooms that were
empty of everything but shadows. Finally, though, he came to one that seemed to be used for storage,
and he entered. It was almost packed with heavy pieces of furniture. Jonathan squeezed between
them, examining them as he went. All were obviously old, but also quite obviously neglected. He had
the feeling that rough handling would cause many of them to crumble to splinters and dust.
He noticed two interesting object against the far wall--two tall, flat, rectangular shapes draped in what
looked like old tapestries. He made his way to them, and pulled the tapestry off the first. He jerked
back in mild alarm as there was a flash of light, and someone seemed to reach toward him--then he
realized that it was a mirror. The surface was tarnished and thickly coated with dust (it must have sat
unattended a long time before it was stored), but it still reflected. Jonathan moved the candle closer to
the mirror, and made a sound of disapproval. The mirror was broken, a thick web of cracks radiating
from the center, and several shards were missing. He wondered why the glass had not been either
repaired, or discarded. But judging from the mirror’s place in the room, and the age of all the other
discards, the accident had happened so long ago that no one living would remember it. He turned his
attention to the other object, unshrouding it.
It was a painting, a life-size portrait, but it had been destroyed as surely as had the mirror. It was of a
woman--he could tell from the clothing. Unlike the mirror, there was no speculating that the damage
had been caused by accident. All the ruin was limited to the head and upper body--that area was
nothing but hanging flaps and strips of canvas. And it hadn’t been torn--it had been sliced--or rather
SLASHED. Someone had deliberately set out to destroy the image.
Jonathan studied it, thinking, *This was done in a rage. Who was this person, and who hated her
enough to want to do this?*
He set the candlestick down on a close-by table, then reached up and began to carefully lift and
arrange the various scraps. He held them together as best he could, but there were so many of them
that one or two were always escaping his grasp. Just as he thought he’d be able to get a good look at
the subject’s face, a section would fall away. Finally, though, he managed to get it as whole as it
would ever again be, and took a look.
His hands dropped in shocked surprise, leaving the portrait once again in disarray. "It isn’t possible,"
he whispered. The seamed, distorted visage that had been displayed was more than familiar--it was
known. As much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t. It was the very image of Mina--as lifelike as if
she had posed for it herself. Oh, the hair was dressed differently, but it was the same color. The eyes
were the same--dark, tilted, and self-absorbed. The mouth was shaped the same, with the same hint of
petulance and determination. Behind the shock of this recognition was an admission that yes, those
were the qualities he saw... had ALWAYS seen in Mina--and they were not attractive.
*I can’t believe it. My eyes have to be playing tricks on me. That woman has been dead for centuries,
and Mina’s family doesn’t even come from this part of the world, so she can’t be an ancestress.* He
started to reach toward the dangling strips again, then stopped, and slowly lowered his hand. Picking
up the candle, he turned and quickly made his way back to the hall, resolutely turning his back on
something that he couldn’t, and didn’t WANT, to understand.
When he closed the door to the room, he felt a sense of relief, but his breathing didn’t slow to normal
till he had made his way back to a familiar section of the castle. He took a moment to lean against the
wall, letting his head rest against the cool stone as he tried to order his thoughts.
He had thought that Castle Draculea must hold many secrets, but he had never thought that some of
them might relate in any way to himself. Again he tried to tell himself that he hadn’t seen anything of
significance in that stuffy, dim room, but somehow the words had a hollow ring. He made his way
down to the ground floor, hoping to find Simion or the prince--someone who would offer sane and
normal conversation--anything to take his mind off the feeling of unreality that had settled over him.
Rock had followed Jonathan from the moment he left the playroom, staying far enough behind to
blend into the shadows. He’d watched as the young man had entered the storage room, and he’d felt a
touch of satisfaction. So the prince’s new pet wasn’t quite so perfect. Perhaps he hadn’t been strictly
forbidden to explore the more distant reaches of the castle, but the directive had been implicit.
The very fact of anyone in this world being cared for or treated well rankled Rock. The fact that it was
his master who had found someone to cherish enraged him. Rock had never been entirely sane. The
early abuse at the hands of his father, and then what he had to endure as young man making his way
among the predators of the world, had erased all of the tender emotions long before he fell under
Draculea’s sway. When he was resurrected as a vampire, there was no better nature there to keep him
from becoming a
complete monster, and in the intervening centuries, forced to live under Draculea’s iron rule, he had
been edging steadily toward uncontrolled madness. He’d come very close to the edge when he’d been
allowed to indulge himself with Renfield, and now the cautions that had bound him had worn thin,
become fragile. He looked upon Jonathan, knew that Draculea considered the young man his own,
and knew the best way to hurt his master, while pleasuring himself.
He moved ahead of Jonathan, swift and silent, down to the great hall. He went straight to the library,
took the key he’d stolen from Rill, and unlocked it. He slipped inside and quickly lit some of the
candles around the room. There wasn’t time to light all of them, because he could hear Jonathan’s
footsteps crossing the Great Hall. He hurried to the door and made sure that it was ajar, just a
crack--just far enough for the dim glow of the candles to slip through. Then he went and concealed
himself behind a tapestry hanging at the side of the room.
Jonathan had made his way through the unlit hall so many times that his pace had grown much more
steady and assured, but now he slowed down. There was something different--something small, but
significant. A thin slice of light lanced into the room, coming from a barely open door. He paused,
and considered for a moment. *It’s the library. I’ve never seen the library open before.*
He started toward it, moving slowly. *Perhaps the prince has returned from his ride. Rill said that he
spends a lot of time in the library. I imagine that it must be quite nice and cozy if it’s one of
Draculea’s favorite rooms. I’d love to see it.* He was drawing closer. *But he said that I wasn’t to
see it now. That was yesterday, though. Perhaps he’d be willing to show it to me now. He might not
even be there. Simion might have just repaired it for him, lighting the candles.*
He was standing before the door, within arm’s reach. *Perhaps he WANTS me to explore the library.
He might have left the door open for just that reason.* Even as he thought this, part of his mind was
scolding him for the feeble rationalization. *Wishful thinking, Jonathan. If he wants you here, he will
invite you, won’t he? Yes, the door has been left open by mistake. I’ll go on to the small room, and
see if he’s there. If he isn’t, it will be a
pleasant enough place to wait.*
Jonathan started to turn away, but hesitated. Reaching out toward the door, he thought, *I’ll just close
the door for him.* His hand settled on the cool handle, he paused...
...and he stepped forward, slowly pushing the door open.
end part 82
Back to index
Chapter 83: Chapter 83 - Confronting

Pairing: Not exactly
Rating: R
Summary: A confrontation in the library, and for Jonathan things become both clearer, and more
confusing.
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB
Sequel/Series: No
Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, and I don’t own them. I derive no profit
from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who
portray them. That said, no portions of this work are to be reproduced or archived without the express
permission of the author. Some supporting characters (Nicolae, Simion, Rock, Rill, Elizabeta, Lena,
etc.) are original and copyrighted, and are not to be used without the express permission of the author.
Warnings: WARNINGWARNINGWARNING! Rock’s a bastard, and this has an absolute MOTHER
of a cliffhanger, but I’m beginning the next chapter IMMEDIATELY.
Well, after I get eight or nine hours of sleep. I’m sorry folks, but I’ve been working on this most of
the day, and I HAVE to get to bed for health reasons. I’m not sleepy, but I’m TIRED. Besides, y’all
DESERVE the best I can give, and this is going to be an important chapter. I don’twant to shirk on it.
Have patience, and have faith.

Seward’s Asylum, Outside London
"Renfield."
The slender man in the baggy inmate pajamas was standing at Dr. Seward’s office window, leaning in
close. Seward thought about saying something to him about it, telling him not to smear it, but he
realized it wasn’t really necessary. Renfield had been in his office several times, and he was always
fascinated by the window, but he never touched it. He would stand with his nose a scant inch from the
glass, his hands spread before it like pale stars, even close--but he did not make contact.
Seward had learned that, despite his bizarre diet, Renfield was at heart a fastidious man. While other
inmates wallowed in squalor unless the staff cleaned their cells, or forced them to do it, Renfield kept
his tiny space immaculate. Seward reflected that he supposed a medieval monk would not have been
displeased with the scrubbed, austere room. While many of the unfortunates of his sanitarium
collected pathetic bits of trash to ’ornament’ their cells, Renfield had asked for only one thing--a cross
to hang over his glassless, barred window. Seward had rather hated to refuse him, but a wooden object
was out of the question--too much potential as a weapon.
Renfield had gotten around this in a rather ingenious way. When refused, he had asked for a bible, and
that wish had been granted. Renfield had carefully ripped pages out, rolled them into tubes, and tied
them together with thread. He made several, and they were now lashed to the bars of his window,
slowly disintegrating in the moistness of the English climate.
Renfield cocked his head, staring out at the deepening dark, and Dr. Seward spoke to him again. "Will
you be wanting to go back to your room soon, Robert?"
"Soon, but not just yet," said Renfield faintly.
*That’s unusual. He doesn’t like to be out of his room after sunset. I’ve known some patients to begin
to feel that their cell is their home, but not usually this soon after their commitment. He’s happy
enough roaming the communal areas during the day, but when darkness falls, he wants to be in his
cell, with the door carefully locked.* "You should go now."
"No. I want to see the moon rise. I want to see if it’s like I feel it will be."
"I could tell you."
Renfield shook his head. "You wouldn’t know. It wouldn’t talk to you, like it talks to me."
*One moment he sounds as sane as any young gentleman at a middle-class tea party, then next he
sounds as mad as a hatter.* "What will the moon say to you?"
Renfield turned back to him with a frown. "How should I know? Do you know what a friend will say
when he comes to visit? I’m not psychic, you know. I can only guess."
"What do you guess?"
He slipped Seward a sidelong glance, and there was a disconcerting slyness in his expression. "Oh, I
can’t tell you. It’s a secret."
"Tell me." Renfield shook his head, and Seward made his voice firm and no-nonsense. He couldn’t
afford to lose control of this relationship, but he wanted to give Renfield the illusion that this was a
give and take affair. "I’m good at keeping secrets, Renfield."
"Are you?" He gestured at the leatherbound journal that laid at the edge of the desk. "You write it all
down in that, and in your notes. All the secrets that everyone here tells you. What if someone were to
read that--like I did?"
Seward could feel the color draining from his face. "What do you mean?"
"Do you remember that time we were having a talk, and the man who paces all the time tried to kill the
woman who sings? You left me here while you saw to them."
"But I told the warders to take you back to your room."
"So they did--eventually." Renfield drifted over to the desk and skimmed one finger along the edge.
"You can learn so much about a man by examining his lodgings, and his office. You spend so much
time here that it’s rather two for one, isn’t it?" He kept his chin tipped down, but lifted his eyes to
Seward, peeking at him. "You’re a trustful man, Doctor--that rather surprises me. I would think that
with what you see of human nature in here you would have become more hardened."
"We’re not here to discuss me, Robert."
"Which do you use more often--the cocaine, or the laudanum?"
Seward could feel himself paling. "Those are legitimate medicines, and I am licensed to prescribe
them."
"I never said you weren’t. Dear, dear--such defensiveness. One would think that I’d accused you of
something, Doctor."
Now Seward could feel himself flushing. "You enjoy playing games."
The change in Renfield was abrupt. He flinched, and the haunted look was back in his eyes. "No! I...
I don’t like games, not the sort of games you mean--games of the mind--the will. No." He closed his
eyes, expression going stiff. He whispered, "Sinn played games. I always felt something was wrong,
but I didn’t know... My thoughts were so clouded. But when I sleep here, there are dreams." He
moaned softly. "Such dreams. And I know they’re true. They show me what he did to... What he
made me do. Rough,
hurtful things." He swallowed hard. "Sexual things. I never wanted to hurt anyone. All I’ve ever
wanted was to be... to be tender."
*Here’s part of his problem. He feels guilt over an entanglement.* "Robert, you have to realized that
this person did not MAKE you do these things. Perhaps he persuaded you, against your better nature,
but he could not have FORCED you."
Renfield opened his eyes, and his gaze was bleak. "So you believe. Doctor--haven’t you ever met
someone with a will stronger than your own?" For a fraction of a second an image of Lucy flashed
through Seward’s mind--that soft smile, with steel behind it. "Someone who could persuade you to do
anything--to even violate your deepest reservations?" Seward said nothing. He knew that if Renfield
had read his journal, he would have read about Lucy--his abject desire, which led him to continue
pursuing her, even when it was clear that she saw him as nothing more than an amusement, someone
to flatter and cater to her while she picked and chose among other men.
Renfield’s smile was ironic, and sympathetic. "I’m not sure that Sinn wasn’t worse than Rock.
Rock’s torments were physical. He didn’t touch me--not the REAL me. And I didn’t let Rock have
what he really wanted." Renfield frowned, cocking his head in thought. "At least I didn’t give him
what he asked for. But I’m afraid that he got it anyway."
"What did Rock want?"
"It wasn’t Rock, really. It was the devil. I’ve told you that. The others are just his minions."
"Then what did the devil want?"
"What he always wants--an innocent. Someone pure and good to corrupt, to make his own, to win
away from the light."
"And you weren’t that innocent?"
"Don’t be stupid." Again Renfield seemed to have stopped drifting, and his voice was curt and
pragmatic. "I’ve known what I am for a long time, Doctor, and it’s not innocent. Not evil, but
definitely not innocent." He went still for a moment, then said quietly, "Is the moon up yet?"
Renfield’s back was too the window. Seward peered past him and saw that the sky had darkened
completely, and the moon was beginning to peek over the nearby treetops. "Yes."
Renfield drew in a deep breath, steeling himself, and went to the window, peering out. Fascinated,
Seward watched as Renfield stared out into the night. Then he reached out, and this time he touched
the window, pressing his palms against it, then resting his forehead between them. There was a tiny
squealing sound, and Seward realized it was the sound of Renfield’s nails on the glass. It took Seward
a moment to realize that Renfield was speaking. His voice was almost inaudible, scarcely more than
formed breathing. "Nonononono. Oh, God, why are you so cruel? Couldn’t you spare him that?"
Renfield was silent for a moment, and Seward felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as the man
nodded slightly. Seward could almost fancy that if he listened closely enough he’d hear another voice,
speaking to the madman. "Yes, yes, I see. I can understand. He would be loved, he would be
cherished above all things, and he deserves that. I could be content with that. But the others there...
He’s in danger. They’ll hurt him. He doesn’t know." Renfield tipped his head back, gazing off into
the black depths of the sky, lifting his voice. "Someone has to help him. Someone has to protect him.
They have to." His voice rose in a sudden shriek. "THEY HAVE TO!" His hands jerked into fists
and, before Seward could move, he smashed at the glass.
There were few glass windows in the asylum--most were graced only with bars and shutters. What
glass there was had been special ordered, thicker and sturdier than most. Seward had seen a large man
try to throw himself through a closed window and barely crack it. Renfield’s fists smashed through
the glass, throwing off a glittering spray of shards. Seward leaped into action, dreading that Renfield
might use the broken glass to slice his wrists open. "Guards!" he shouted, as he darted around the desk
toward Renfield. Renfield jerked back his hands, the glass gashing the backs, and drew back to strike
again. Seward caught him from behind, pinning his arms to his body. "Stop it, Robert!"
Renfield was still screaming. Between Seward and the guards, they managed to buckle him into the
jacket, though he fought them with surprising strength. When he was restrained, the guards prepared
to drag him back to his cell. He’d degenerated into incoherence by then, but just before he was taken
away, his eyes fixed on Seward and he said, "Doctor... Doctor, wouldn’t the devil protect what was
his? Wouldn’t he protect his own?" The guards pulled him away, and his voice rose again in a
scream. "Tell me he would! For God’s sake, tell me he would..."
Castle Draculea
Jonathan moved into the library, his step hesitant. He paused just inside the door, gazing around
curiously. He couldn’t see much. Though not on the scale of the great hall, the room was still large,
and there were only a few candles lit, mostly near the door. Most of the room was lost in shadow, and
he could only pick out vague impressions.
He could tell by the feel and the sound of his few steps that the room was at least two stories tall, but
the space above his head was so dark that he might as well have been looking up into an overcast night
sky. But there was something different about this room from the other large rooms he’d explored in
the castle. This one had a feeling of life, and use. There was no dampness, no scent of dust or
mildew. It smelled most pleasantly of wood smoke, beeswax, leather, and the slightly musty,
indestinctive aroma of old books.
He hadn’t experienced this sort of atmosphere often, since his father’s office at home had felt
somehow antiseptic--strictly a place for cold business, not relaxation, enjoyment, or contemplation.
But he somehow recognized the aura of the room, and found it oddly comforting. He realized that it
was the most at home he’d felt anywhere since his mother had died.
He looked around, trying to make out details. From what he could tell, the walls were lined with
shelves, reaching up far over his head--perhaps to the ceiling. All the shelves seemed to be filled with
books of all sizes and neat piles of loose papers. He took a step deeper into the room, then another,
letting the door swing shut. He could make out the shape of a bulky piece of furniture before him. It
didn’t look like a chair or sofa. Curious, Jonathan turned back and pulled a candle from a sconce
beside the door, then went toward the object.
It was a table, obviously used as a work desk. Jonathan studied the contents, reaching out to touch an
item here or there. There were several quill pens lying to one side, beside them a small knife that must
be used to sharpen the nibs. Jonathan remembered his mother telling him that her own grandmother
had been able to write an exceedingly fine hand, using the most elegant snow-white feather pen, and
Jonathan found himself smiling at this quaint antiquity. He opened a small, delicately-carved wooden
box to find blotting sand. Nearby was a heavy, burnished inkwell. The flickering candlelight
glimmered on it mellowly, and Jonathan lifted it for a better look. He realized with no little surprise
that it was gold--probably solid, not plated, if its weight were any indication. He put it down again,
quickly but carefully. It wouldn’t do to be found fondling his host’s valuables.
He noticed a clear, fat bead of liquid wax trembling on the upper rim of the candle, and stepped back
quickly, before it could splash down on the desk. He collided with someone--a cool, solid body, and
whirled, startled.
Rock regarded him, a small, secretive smile barely curving his lips. "I knew you wouldn’t be able to
resist this room forever."
"I didn’t mean to intrude..."
"Oh, you’re not intruding--intruding indicates that the person you’re speaking to is annoyed by your
presence. I’m not, so you aren’t intruding. You are, I believe, trespassing. Didn’t the prince ask you
not to come in here?"
Jonathan could feel himself flushing. "Yes, you’re right. I shouldn’t have come in. I didn’t intend to,
truly. The door was open, and I was just going to shut it, but somehow..." He lifted his hands
helplessly.
"No need to explain to me. Personally, I see no sense in him denying you entry. After all, this IS your
room."
Jonathan had found Rock a bit strange from the moment he met the sullen young man, but he’d always
made sense before. "I beg your pardon?"
"It’s your room. He made it for you."
"I don’t understand." His eyes flicked toward the walls of books. "It must have taken generations to
build this collection. The prince didn’t know I was coming until less than a month ago."
"Oh, he’s been expecting you much longer than that. He’s been expecting you for... lifetimes."
*He’s making no sense at all.* "I really shouldn’t be here now." He started to move past Rock toward
the door.
Rock put out his arm, blocking Jonathan. "Not just yet. You haven’t seen the centerpiece of the
room. You really must see it--it’s a true work of art. Sinn says that it would be welcome in any
museum in Europe, and Sinn knows about these things." Jonathan stared back at him, body beginning
to tense, and Rock’s smile widened. "It will only take a moment--it’s just on the other side of the
room. And I swear to you, it’s an experience you’ll never forget." He took hold of Jonathan’s sleeve.
"Come." Jonathan had stiffened, but he allowed Rock to lead him deeper into the room, thinking that
it might be better to humor the man.
They came to a fireplace, and Rock gestured at a large painting hanging over it. Jonathan squinted up
at it, but all he could make out in the fitful light of the candle was that it was a life-sized portrait.
Rock was studying him, something disturbingly avid in his expression. Jonathan looked at him and
said politely, "Yes, it’s very fine."
Rock snorted. "I’d forgotten how feeble human eyesight can be. Give me the candle." He took the
candle impatiently. A splash of hot wax fell on the back of Jonathan’s hand, and he gasped at the
sting, lifting it quickly to his mouth to suck on it. While he tended to the small hurt, Rock used the
candle to light a small oil lamp on the mantle. A soft, golden glow illuminated the immediate area.
"There--that should be sufficient. Look now."
Jonathan glanced up at the picture. It was obviously an antique, and done by a true artist, not just a
painter. Even the style was vaguely familiar. Jonathan felt that if he had time to study it, he might be
able to name the artist. The subject was sitting at a table, and Jonathan realized with a tiny thrill of
emotion that it was the very table behind him. It was almost identical, down to the items scattered on
its surface. The sense of history was almost enough to inspire awe--knowing that he was about to see
the image of someone who had actually used that table, worked at it, perhaps dreamed at it, so many
years ago, when it was still new. He looked farther up, his interest piqued.
The dark hair flowing past the shoulders at first made him think that it was a portrait of a young
woman, but then he looked closer. The wide mouth was firm, and the finely cut features masculine.
The hair tumbled low on the forehead, and Jonathan could imagine one of the long, scholar’s hands
pushing it absently back into place. The eyes were large and dark, and seemed to slant slightly. The
expression was warm and lively, as if the subject was gazing out of the picture, looking directly at
someone very important to him.
The portrait was well illuminated, but somehow Jonathan felt as if it weren’t quite in focus. He
frowned, studying it intently. Suddenly something seemed to shift. It was as if a layer of gauze had
been ripped away, leaving a clear, undeniable image. Jonathan froze, his heart suddenly hammering in
his chest, his head light. *It’s me. It doesn’t just LOOK like me, it IS! Aside from the hair length, it
couldn’t be a closer likeness if I’d posed for it myself. Good lord, it’s as true a likeness as the
photograph I had taken. I think it’s actually better, because this one has the tint of life...*
A hand tightened on his arm, throwing him out of his stunned contemplation. "Yes, you recognize
yourself, don’t you?" There was dark satisfaction in Rock’s voice.
Jonathan whispered, "My family doesn’t even come from this area--my ancestors are all English. My
father never lets me forget that fact. This is impossible."
"And yet here it is. You still haven’t learned, have you? What might be impossible elsewhere is not
even improbable here, Nicu."
Jonathan’s head swiveled around toward Rock. "What did you call me?"
Rock’s smile widened to a sharp grin. "I think the proper name is Nicolae, but the pet name, the
lover’s name, is Nicu, yes?"
Jonathan jerked away. "It’s my mother’s name for me. She’s the only one who has ever used it."
Rock was shaking his head. "No, not the only one--not even the first one. Can’t you remember
anyone else using it? Try. Think very, very hard. A voice whispering in the dark, or calling from far
away..."
Jonathan shuddered as a brief memory flicked through his mind. He was very small, kneeling in the
darkness of his bedroom, before an open window. He had closed his eyes, and a breeze had moved
against his cheek, like the soft caress of cool fingers, and he heard... *Didn’t I hear? Mama was there,
and she didn’t hear, but then why was she so frightened? Someone was calling me, and the voice
sounded so sad.*
Again he felt a cold touch on his face, but it wasn’t gentle. A hard hand gripped his jaw, pushing him
back against the face of the fireplace. "I never met you your first time on Earth--if it WAS the first
time. For all I know you and that devil have been dancing with each other from the beginning of time,
and will continue till Armageddon. I don’t care. You’re here now." Rock’s touch softened till he was
cradling Jonathan’s face, and his voice was almost thoughtful. "And you’re beautiful. All that
nonsense about fate and destiny aside, I can see why he wants you."
Jonathan had been alarmed, but the look in Rock’s eyes brought on a flare of true fear. "You’re mad."
Rock nodded agreeably. "Yes."
end part 83
Back to index
Chapter 84: Chapter 84 - Found Love Lost

Pairing: Not exactly
Rating: R
Summary: Rock gets his, but not till something very bad happens.
Sequel/Series: No
portray them.
That said, no portions of this work are to be reproduced or archived without the express permission of
the author. Some supporting characters (Nicolae, Simion, Rock, Rill, Elizabeta, Lena, etc.) are
original and copyrighted, and are not to be used without the express permission of the author.
Warnings: Graphic violence, but believe me--Rock deserves it all. And another cliffhanger. Sorry.
Hopefully there won’t be any more as hairy as this one.
Rating: NC17

Jonathan pulled away. The fact that Rock LET him go, with no attempt to hold him was, ironically,
more frightening than reassuring. His mind was racing, but there was no order to his thoughts.
Uppermost was the desperate need to get away from this madman, but there was so much more--brief
images and impressions, too quick and insubstantial for him to grasp firmly. A slashed portrait in a
musty room, his own face looking out from an untouched portrait, a voice calling in the night, pale
blue eyes that were somehow familiar, a smashed mirror, a sweet-coppery wine that was somehow too
thick, a musky scent, and an alien, but somehow familiar and delicious ache deep in his body...
Jonathan shook his head violently. He wasn’t sure what he was protesting, but he felt as if he were on
the verge of either plunging into madness, or rising to a new level of awareness. He edged away from
the blonde man, watching him warily. He wanted to get away, not only to seek safety, but to find a
little quiet and privacy to try to understand what was happening to him.
Rock watched the young man as he tried to sidle away, and he felt a surge of vicious glee. Renfield
had been good, but in the end, unsatisfying. He had only been important to Draculea as a means to
find... this one. For centuries Draculea had held sway over him, crushing Rock to his will, using him
when he desired, beating him when Rock annoyed, or disobeyed--OWNING him. And now... Now
the center of Draculea’s existence stood before him--vulnerable. Rock felt two physical
sensations--his lengthening fangs pricking his inner lips, and his cock stiffening. He wasn’t sure
which lust he wanted to slake first.
"Where are you going, Nicu?" Rock’s voice was soft, but it sent a shudder through Jonathan.
Jonathan continued to inch toward the door, but he responded almost unconsciously. "Don’t call me
that." Rock was reaching toward him, and Jonathan blurted, "Don’t!"
"Mustn’t touch the pretty one? Yes, that’s how it’s been. The only one I’ve been allowed for ages
was Renfield." Rock gave a guttural laugh that chilled Jonathan’s blood. "Oh, and he was tasty. He
fought me for a long time, and I rather enjoyed that. Sinn had him first, though. You--I’d wager
you’ve never been with maid, nor man." As distracted by apprehension as he was, Jonathan could feel
the blood rising in his cheeks. "Ah, yes," Rock crooned. "I’d always heard that the English were
carnal laggards. You’ll be better than Renfield. You’re still fresh." Jonathan had always acquitted
himself well in his school athletics, and he’d kept himself fit, but Rock sprang at him so quickly that
he felt slow, and dull-witted. Suddenly Rock had him by the throat, grip not quite tight enough to
crush, but tight enough to control.
Jonathan found himself shoved back, sprawled over the table. Rock moved swiftly, kicking the
Englishman’s feet apart, further unbalancing him. He fell upon the young man, wedging himself
between his spread thighs. Jonathan jerked in shocked horror as he felt the hard nudge of Rock’s
erection against his crotch. This maniac was AROUSED.
Rock let go with one hand and reached down, wiggling between their bodies, and began to rip at
Jonathan’s fly. Jonathan clutched at the hand on his throat, gaining no slack. As he felt buttons rip
away, he balled up his fist and punched Rock in the face as hard as he could. Rock’s head snapped
back, but he didn’t loosen his hold. When he looked back down at Jonathan...
Something was wrong--terribly wrong. The face was still recognizable, but as a freakish parody of
Rock’s normal visage. It was ridged, distorted, with blood-red eyes. He grinned at Jonathan, and
there was the gleam of fangs. The creature pressing him down on the table cooed, "What’s wrong,
sweetness? Am I too cold? I can remedy that, but I’ll have to feed first, and I can’t be sure that I’d
have enough self-control to let you live through that." His laugh was raspy. "Not that it would stop
me from fucking you."
Jonathan did not lose himself to madness as Renfield had, but it was too much for him. Fear led to
hysterics. He began to fight frantically, and loosed all his breath in a long, desperate scream. There
was a thunderous crash as the library door swung open violently. It was so loud that, as intent as he
was on his victim, Rock looked around. Rill stood in the open door staring at the struggling pair, his
eyes wide and disbelieving. Rock snarled, "Get out!" His brother had never failed to obey him when
he used that tone. Oh, Rock expected him to run to Simion, or the prince, but all that meant was that
he’d have to be quick in taking what he wanted. He turned back to Jonathan, ripping his shirt open to
bare his throat. Rock didn’t see the transformation that came over his younger brother. The hurt and
dismay melted away, replaced by outrage. The attack took Rock completely by surprise.
The weight on top of Jonathan suddenly doubled, almost crushing him, but only for a moment. Over
Rock’s shoulder he caught a brief glimpse of another nightmare face. But like Rock, the new creature
was still recognizable, and that wrung another scream from Jonathan. It was Rill, it HAD to be. He’d
never seen the young man with anything but a sweet, gentle expression, but now... Now the features
were twisted with both the transformation, and blazing rage.
Rill dragged at Rock, and all three men tumbled to the floor, thrashing. Rill was shouting, "No, Rock!
He’s the prince’s love. He’s my friend, my FRIEND! You hurt Robert, you hurt Jon, you hurt ME!
You hurt EVERYONE! You’re bad, Rock! You have to stop."
"Get away, you worthless simpleton," Rock snarled. "He’s mine now, and I’m not giving him up. I’m
going to take away the one thing Draculea loves, and nothing is going to stop me."
"I WILL!"
Rill rose to his feet, locking his arms around Rock’s waist, and literally tearing him off of Jonathan.
"Run, Jonathan! Run to Draculea." As the two creatures grappled, Jonathan hastened toward the door,
crawling till he could get his feet under him. He was still in the grip of panic, and all he could think of
was escape.
Rock had been surprised by his brother’s aggression--Rill had never dared to oppose him physically.
What Rock hadn’t counted on was that Rill wasn’t fighting for himself--he was defending someone
else. Prince Draculea had rescued Rill from a life of pain and degradation, he had brought him to
Simion--the love of Rill’s life--and now Rock was trying to hurt the only person that could make
Draculea happy again.
Rill knew exactly what Rock was capable of, and he was determined that the Master’s reborn beloved
would not suffer. But the memory of all the beatings, rapes, humiliations, and exploitation that Rock
had inflicted on him rose up, too, and poured forth in Rill’s attack.
They rolled on the floor, scratching and biting, snarling like animals, smashing at each other. They
staggered to their feet just as Jonathan jerked open the door and made his way out, and Rock managed
to throw Rill off, determined to follow his prey. Rill reached out instinctively, groping for a weapon,
and his hand closed on the knife once used to trim quills.
Rill leaped on Rock, burying his free hand firmly in the other vampire’s strawberry blond hair, and
jerking him back hard enough to snap a mortal’s neck. The blade was small, but very sharp, and Rill
reached around, slashing it across Rock’s throat. Had Rock been human, a spray of blood would have
fountained out, and he would have bled to death in a matter of minutes. Instead dark, thick blood
welled out of the wound as Rock shrieked in pain and rage. There was no heartbeat to propel it, so it
dripped down, soaking his shirt, but slowed almost immediately.
Rill realized the futility of his gesture, but wasn’t prepared to give up. He released Rock, and his
brother staggered, swearing and wiping at the gore, vowing to kill Rill, and Simion. The threat to his
lover only spurred Rill on. His groping hand fell upon the heavy gold inkwell, and he snatched it up.
Rock had only gone two steps when Rill smashed the inkwell against the back of his head. There was
a dull thud, and ink sprayed out, dying Rock’s hair. Rock staggered, and Rill struck him again in the
same place, bringing him to his knees. Rill knocked him prone, straddling him, and raised the inkwell
high, then brought it down with every bit of strength he had.
Jonathan heard a second thud, and this time it mingled with a sickening crunch. It was followed by
another, and another. He fled blindly into the darkness of the great hall, only to once again run against
someone in the dark. This time the hands that gripped his arms were warm, but he still screamed.
"Jonathan, what it is?" Simion exclaimed. His eyes flicked over the young man, quickly taking in his
torn clothing and his wild eyes. His expression hardened, and he hissed, "Rock?"
"I don’t know." The whisper was bewildered. "I don’t know what he is."
Simion’s eyes jerked toward the open library door, as he heard deep sobs, mingled with angry cries.
He had comforted Rill through many nightmares in the early days, when his brother’s past abuses had
come back to haunt the young vampire. The sounds were familiar. "Go lock yourself in your room."
"I have to get away from here."
"Harker, think! Remember the wolves. You’d never survive to reach sanctuary. Go upstairs--you’ll
be safe there. Let me go help my lover." He set Jonathan aside and ran for the library as the young
man began to grope his way toward the stairs.
The scene that greeted Simion when he arrived was as gruesome as any he’d ever seen. Rock was
sprawled on his face, with Rill on his knees, straddling his back. The younger vampire’s arm was
rising and falling in an erratic rhythm as he pounded Rock’s head. Simion recognized the weapon as
Nicolae’s prized inkwell. There were dark splashes spread around Rock’s head, and it was hard to tell
what was ink, and what was vampiric blood. Simion briefly thought that it was ironic justice that
Rock was being beaten to a pulp with the possession of his intended victim.
At the sight of his beloved finally giving back a small portion of the pain he’d endured, a fierce
exultation rose in Simion. But this wasn’t Rill, and Simion knew that he needed to stop this. When
the red rage left him, Rill’s gentle nature might torment him. "Rill." No response, and the inkwell
descended again. Simion strode over to the pair and caught Rill’s arm as it rose. "Rill, stop!" For the
first time in their life together, Rill turned to Simion as Nosferatu--his face distorted, eyes blazing,
fangs exposed. "Rill!"
The boy responded instantly, the ridges of his face softening almost to normal, and the frenzied light
going out of his eyes. "Simion, he was going to hurt Jonathan."
"I know." Simion took the inkwell from him. It was somehow slick and sticky, all at once, matted
with gore, hair, and pulpy gray matter. He laid it aside, and pulled Rill up into his arms. "You saved
him, Rill."
"I did," he murmured, almost wonderingly. Then his voice strengthened. "I did." He looked down at
his brother’s body and said quietly, "Did... did I kill him?"
"I don’t know." Simion squatted down to examine Rock. The back of the vampire’s skull was a mush
of flesh, old, gelid blood, and bone chips. The blood didn’t flow, and there was no movement of
breath--but that was normal for a vampire. Simion shoved at him roughly. The mutilated head rolled
limply. Rock face had relaxed to its normal state. His eyes were open and unblinking. "It’s hard to
tell. I think he might well be." He looked up to find Rill biting his lip. "You will not chastise yourself
if he is," he ordered.
"No," Rill agreed--but his tone was sad. "Simion, I think we need to go tell the prince what happened.
It might not be good if he just walked in on this."
"I think you’re right. He should be returning from his ride any moment now. Come, we’ll meet him
on the steps." They went out to stand before the castle entrance. They could hear hoof beats
approaching at a leisurely pace, and Simion smoothed Rill’s ruffled hair back, running his fingers over
the fast vanishing sharp contours of his face. "He’s going to be very proud of you, my love. Almost
as proud as I am."
In the library, there was a low moan. Rock twitched. Limp fingers flexed, then scratched weakly at
the stained rug. Gradually, painfully, the living corpse worked its way to its knees, head hanging like
that of a sick and weary animal. He clutched at the table, and managed to stand, but when he let go to
take a step, he fell again.
It didn’t stop him. He crawled on his belly, dragging himself through his own blood. When he
reached the door, he used it to rise. This time when he relinquished his brace he staggered, but did not
fall. He made his way out into the great hall, driven only by his madness and his consuming need to
inflict death on someone--anyone.
Jonathan had intended to go to his room and lock himself in. But he realized that he had never felt
secure there. Like most young people of his social class, he had read trashy Gothic novels, which had
featured grim castles not unlike Castle Draculea. Those haunted domiciles had always been well
supplied with secret passages, and somehow Jonathan could not dismiss as rubbish the idea that this
place was a real reflection of those fictional places.
Rill, no matter what his state, had saved him from Rock. Simion had directed him to safety. He didn’t
want go any farther from their tenuous protection. He crouched in the shadows at the top of the
staircase, staring down into the hall. There was a candle in a sconce at the foot of the stairs, casting a
small, watery pool of light that barely illuminated the front door just beyond it.
After Rill’s cries had died away, the castle had become very quiet. Jonathan heard a faint sound, a sort
of scraping thud. It came again, and then was repeated. A figure shambled into the light. It was
Rock, but there was none of the lithe assuredness he’d shown before--now he moved like a lame
drunk.
His head hung so that his chin rested on his chest as he clung to the banister. He moved further into
the light, and Jonathan got a look at the ruin of his skull. He cried out involuntarily, and Rock’s head
jerked up suddenly, dull eyes locking on Jonathan. He smiled horribly, and started up the stairs, his
movements now purposeful.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Draculea rode into the courtyard, a little surprised to see Rill and Simion waiting for him. He pulled to
a stop before them and dismounted, tossing the reins to the Rom who ran to take them. He was in a
good humor, but it quickly dissolved as he noticed details. Simion was scowling, and Rill looked
almost stricken. Draculea smelled blood, and noticed that Rill’s hands were befouled with it--vampiric
blood. Considering Sinn’s devotion to avoiding all conflict, Draculea knew whose blood it was, and
that told him the probable reason that blood had been shed. He growled, "Where is he? What did he
do?"
"In the library," said Simion. "I think he lured Jonathan there." He could see the rage filling
Draculea’s eyes and said hastily, "But Rill stopped him." He took hold of the boy’s wrist and held up
his hand, showing Draculea.
Draculea reached out, cupping Rill’s face in his hands. "My good, brave boy."
Rill smiled tremulously, but there were bloody tears at the corners of his eyes. "I think I killed him."
"What did you use, Rill?"
"I cut his throat, and... and..." He curled his hand into a fist, and made violent smashing gestures.
Draculea frowned. "It isn’t enough."
Simion said, "I examined him, Domn. There was no response at all."
"Simion, I’ve studied on the mortality of my kind, and found the prescribed methods of execution.
What Rill described would not be enough. Oh, it would no doubt incapacitate him for some time.
You remember how long it has taken him to recover from some of his more severe punishments. No,
Rill--I’m fairly sure you haven’t actually killed him." He wanted to sigh when he saw the relief in the
boy’s eyes. "But you’ve slowed him down. I thank you for that." He turned his eyes toward the
door. "It will make it that much simpler to..."
A terrified scream split the air. Draculea surged past the other two men, darting into the castle. The
hall was empty. His eyes fell upon a dark smear on the banister just as another scream came from
upstairs. He charged up, a red rage taking hold as he ran.
Jonathan fled from his grisly pursuer. He didn’t know where he was going, he was just desperate to
get as far from this unholy thing as he could. He went up another staircase, and found his way blocked
at the top by a heavy door. Sure that it must lead to a tower room, Jonathan turned to go back down.
There was no chance to retrace his steps, though. Rock appeared at the foot of the stairs, gazing up at
him with a mixture of animal lust and smug triumph. Jonathan turned and threw himself against the
door.
It swung open, and he stumbled out into open air. He was on the roof of the castle, rough stones
stretching out in every direction. It was like finding himself on a desolate plateau. He could hear the
heavy fall of footsteps as Rock climbed toward him. As the vampire emerged into the moonlight,
Jonathan began to back away, looking around frantically for any means of escape.
He retreated as Rock advanced, edging closer and closer to the side of the castle. Jonathan found
himself against the low wall that rimmed the roof. Behind him he could hear the liquid rush of the
river, far below. Staring at the horror approaching him, the sound of the running water was beckoning,
almost seductive.
"Come here, pretty," Rock rasped. His voice was thick, sounding clotted. "Come to me and I’ll be
merciful. I’ll just kill you instead of turning you."
Jonathan had only a suspicion of what the vampire was threatening, but that suspicion edged him even
further into hysteria. He scrambled up onto the low wall, balancing there precariously. As he stood
upright, he saw Prince Draculea come through the door. His gray hair and his long cloak were
whipped back by a sudden strong breeze, and there was something shocking familiar about the image.
"ROCK!" It was a howl full of loathing and promised agony. Rock looked back at Draculea, and his
face was a rictus of hate and insanity. Still sneering at the prince, he reached back toward Jonathan.
Jonathan saw the hand reaching toward him, and shifted, trying to avoid it. The ancient stone of the
wall crumbled beneath his heels, and he began to overbalance.
Jonathan knew what was happening. The moment seemed to freeze as his eyes found those of
Draculea. Instead of windmilling his arms in what would have been a futile attempt to gain balance,
he found himself extending them toward Draculea, and an unconscious cry broke from his lips as he
began to fall. "DOMN!"
Draculea had heard Nicolae speak that word so many times in so many ways--warm, tender, teasing,
scolding, loving. In this single horrible, wonderful moment, he knew that it WAS Nicolae before
him. Then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness as he plunged from sight.
Draculea crossed the remaining space with preternatural speed, falling on Rock with four hundred
years of rage and grief. In the second it took him to reach the other vampire he had transformed fully,
and was more demon than man. His hands were like talons, the nails as hard and sharp as small
daggers. As he seized Rock’s throat, they stabbed into the pale flesh. His thumbnails drove into the
wound that Rill had opened with the penknife, and Draculea jerked. The nails ripped through flesh
and the tough fibers of Rock’s larynx. Any curse or cry Rock might have made was reduced to a
wheezing gargle. Draculea shook him like doll, twisting his fingers in the wound, probing deeper, till
his nails grated against bone in the back. Then his shoulders tensed, and he twisted hard. There was a
crack as Rock’s spine broke. With a roar, Draculea wrenched hard. There was a wet, meaty sound,
and Rock dropped limply. His head, however, remained in Draculea’s hands, but not for long. The
entire beheading had taken only seconds. Draculea tossed the head aside impatiently and lunged to
lean over the wall, eyes desperately probing the darkness below.
There was the sound of running water, then a splash, and a faint cry. "Domn... please..."
Without another thought, Draculea launched himself over the wall, into the night.
end part 84
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Chapter 85: Chapter 85 - Swept Away

Near Castle Draculea, Transylvania
He should have done as Rill had advised. He should have run to the prince. Draculea was old, but still
undeniably powerful, and he controlled Rock--that much had always been evident. Instead Jonathan
had waited at the head of the stairs, too afraid to go in search of the mysterious master of the castle,
and it had cost him dearly. The horror that was Rock had shambled after him. He should have been
dead, he HAD to be dead--no man could have continued to walk with that red ruin where the back of
his skull had been. But that was the point, wasn’t it? No LIVING man...
Jonathan had fled, but there was nowhere to go but deeper into the castle--and higher--farther from any
true means of escape. Then he’d found himself on the roof, surrounded by open space, but with
nowhere to run. Deep falls yawned on all sides, and still the creature came for him. He’d retreated as
far as he could, in his desperation finally climbing up on the low wall. If worse came to worst, there
would be that escape. He had no doubt that the fall would be kinder than whatever the Rock-creature
planned to visit on him.
But he hadn’t reached that point when the door to the roof burst open once again, and Draculea strode
out. He was coming to save him--Jonathan had no doubt of that. The prince glared at Rock, calling
him with the voice of a righteous executioner. Here under the open sky his flowing hair seemed
darker, and his wrinkles seemed to disappear in the moonlight. This must have been how he looked in
his prime--dark and fierce, strong and proud.
But Rock was still defiant. He reached back toward Jonathan, and the young man knew that he would
be as vicious and hurtful as possible, his hatred of Draculea spurring him on to even greater violence.
Jonathan moved instinctively--he had no intention of killing himself. He was only trying to avoid that
clutching hand, but... Ancient stones, leaning an inch too far, perhaps a slight wind... Fate conspired,
and he started to fall.
He couldn’t say why he did it, but it was instinctive. He reached out to Draculea, feeling that he was
the only being in the world that could save him. He was the only one who had EVER saved him, ever
made him feel safe, and happy... and loved. The single word that burst from his lips somehow
encompassed all the strange, strong emotions welling up inside him. "DOMN!" It was a plea, a
demand, a cry of fear, a declaration of belief and trust...
Then he was gone, hurtling through rushing darkness, his breath being torn from his lungs as the last
of his sanity was temporarily ripped from his mind. It didn’t feel as if he fell into the water--it felt as
if the water rose up and struck him.
Now the terror of what had pursued him joined with the terror of drowning. Jonathan’s only
experience with swimming had been in the shallow, placid pond at his summer retreat. It had been
surrounded by tall trees, their branches stretching out to meet over its center. The only part open to the
sky was quite small. It was always so smooth and calm that it reflected the clouds passing above as if
it were a mirror. In all the times he had visited it, Jonathan had only seen the water disturbed once,
spreading ripples marking where a frog had leapt from his lily pad.
How different this was. There was nothing gentle or serene about this water. It pounded, it roared, it
sucked him deep, only to toss him up again. Each time he broke the surface, Jonathan struggled
desperately for air, dragging in what he could before he sank again. He would have tried to rise, but
he was tossed and spun so that he had no sense of direction. He caught occasional glimpses of flashes
of light, but had no way of knowing if this was the starry sky, or merely the a result of lack of air. He
truly did not know in which direction to strive. All he knew was that he was being swept along at a
dizzying pace.
It was icy cold, so cold that the sting from the chill rapidly began to fade to numbness. As frightening
as that was, perhaps it was a bit of a blessing. The pain when he began to bang against the river rocks
wasn’t as intense as it might have been. Once or twice he bounced off large boulders, and each time
he rebounded into a section of the river where the current was not quite as strong--and flowed toward
the banks. There came a time when he was tumbling over stones, being rolled over them. Finally the
force of the water was not enough to move him from where he had come to rest--and there he stayed,
too dazed and weak to move. He was barely conscious enough to roll onto his back, bringing his face
up out of the water. Then he gave up the struggle, and allowed himself the escape of oblivion. He lay
there for a few moments, his dark hair waving gently on the ripples that washed along his body.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He had never flown. He did not believe it was possible, despite the legends. Draculea knew better
than most how a man could rise to extraordinary efforts in certain situations. If it had been possible he
was sure that he WOULD have flown now. As it was, his descent toward the river was not a
fall--there was purpose behind it. Every fiber of his being strove downward, toward where his beloved
had disappeared.
Draculea entered the water cleanly, and immediately began to swim. Yes, the current swept him
along, but it wasn’t as wild and uncontrolled as it would have been for anyone else. He had a goal.
As he swam he used all his enhanced senses to try to locate Jonathan, seeking the warmth of a living
body, the pale flash of a frightened face, a faint cry for help. There was nothing. Draculea did not,
COULD not give up. Jonathan had been swept this way--no mortal man could have forced his way
back against the current. Draculea had to find him, and find him before the breath of life had left his
body.
Vlad hadn’t really planned exactly how he would keep his reborn love in his life, hadn’t planned out
the exact direction their reunion would take. He had felt their bond the moment he’d seen the
photograph, though it had been distant, and a little dim. The wine he shared with his guest each night
had been mingled with his own blood, and he’d felt that bond growing stronger and deeper. Perhaps
he would simply continue, once the young man’s spirit awakened to the true nature of their
relationship. After all, Simion had
survived the entire span of separation as youthful and healthy as he had been the day of Draculea’s
entry into the world of the undead. But Simion had been vigorous and uninjured when he first drank
from his master. If Jonathan was dying when Draculea found him...
Could he do it? Could he bring his beloved over into his own dark world? Nicolae had been such a
child of the light, so bright and beautiful, full of life, devoted to his God. Yes, Draculea knew that he
had held the boy’s heart, that Nicolae had loved him above all things on this Earth, but would he want
to give up the sun on his face, and his assurance of a new life beyond this one? There was no time to
agonize. If Jonathan was near death, then Draculea would gently bring him the rest of the way,
trusting that he would have time to make up any loss that his love might feel. But first, he must find
him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Father Josef made his way along the path that ran beside the river, his steps slow and heavy. He was
very weary tonight. One of his parishioners had died tonight. He had only been guiding this flock for
a few months, but he’d come to know the old lady well, and the loss saddened him.
Lukas, the parish porter, followed behind the priest. He was a big, hardy man, with little fear in his
nature, but now... Now he almost crept along, eyes darting constantly among the surrounding
shadows. "Father," he said quietly, "please, speed your steps."
"Peace, Lukas," Josef said tiredly. "You have been as nervous as a cat since the moment we left the
rectory. I had to send you into the next room so that old Maria would not be disturbed in her final
moments." He paused and turned to look back at his houseman. "You’ve never been like that before.
The other death beds I have attended did not seem to disturb you so."
"They were attended while God’s good sun blazed above, Father. I fear nothing in the light of day."
As tired as he was, Father Josef found himself chuckling. "Come now, Lukas. Surely you’re too old
to fear the dark?"
The look that the man leveled at him was serious. "You were born and bred in cities, Father, and you
haven’t lived among us long. There are things in these mountains, things that roam the night, that are
not to be trifled with. Fear is not foolish if there truly is something to fear. Now please, hurry. I
would not have accompanied you if Maria had not been my own mother’s sister."
This disturbed Josef. Lukas was devoted in his service to the Church, and the Church’s
representatives. He worked tirelessly to keep the chapel and rectory in good repair, and did all that he
could to see that Father Josef’s life was comfortable and untroubled. The thought that Lukas might
refuse to assist him at a parishioner’s deathbed would never have occurred to him. But now that he
thought about it, Lukas never went ANYWHERE after sundown. When he’d first arrived in the
village, Josef had been waiting for the time that he’d have to discipline his porter for spending too
much time at a local tavern (he’d been warned about this by the older priests before he left the
seminary to take up this position). That had never been a problem. Come dusk, Lukas was settled in
for the evening. *And no parishioner visits me once the sun has gone down,* he thought with growing
surprise. *I’d prepared myself to be disturbed at all hours of the day and night, but it hasn’t happened
here.*
"Father, please."
Josef noted the man’s anxious expression, and nodded, turning to resume his walk. They’d only gone
a few yards, though, when he stopped again. Peering off toward the nearby river, he said, "Lukas,
what is that?"
Lukas glanced over, then said quickly. "Nothing, Father. Moonlight on the water."
"No, you’re wrong. There’s something washed up into the shallows." He took a few steps off the
path, squinting toward the mysterious object.
"Then it’s a some poor creature that fell into the water and drowned." The man gripped Father Josef’s
sleeve, tugging at it. "Come!"
Josef stiffened in surprise. "Lukas, that’s a man!" He started down the gentle slope toward the
riverbank.
Lukas called after him, "We cannot help him now, Father! Let us go back to the rectory and pray for
his soul, then we can come back in the morning." The priest did not turn, did not even hesitate. Lukas
glanced desperately up the path. Only a few hundred yards away he could see the soft gleam of light
from the rectory’s windows, signaling safe haven. He looked back to see the priest splashing into the
shallow water toward the body. With a groan, Lukas followed.
Josef squatted beside the young man, groaning with dismay and compassion. He was young, surely
not much beyond twenty. There was a nasty bruise and gash marring one pale cheek, and Josef knew
that the rest of his body would probably bear evidence of rough contact with river stones. "Sir!"
There was no response. One limp hand drifted slightly as another ripple moved toward the bank.
"Heavenly Father, please, let him still be in this mortal realm." The hand was cold, but when he
pressed his fingers firmly to the wrist, Josef felt a strong pulse. "Praise be!" He looked back to find
Lukas approaching. "Lukas, he lives! Help me."
The man stopped, staring at the young man with a curious intensity. "Are you certain, Father?"
"What? Lukas, what difference would it make if he were dead? We could not, as Christians, leave
him here."
"Father," the man’s voice was harsh, "Is he warm?"
"What...? Lukas, the river water..."
"Does he breathe?"
Josef made his voice sharp with command. "Lukas, come here and..."
"DOES HE BREATHE?"
Josef stared at his porter in astonishment. Never before had Lukas shown anything but respectful
deference. But now there was something both frightened and determined in the man’s eyes. Josef laid
his hand on the man’s breast, and felt the slow rise and fall. "Yes, Lukas," he said quietly. "He
breathes."
Lukas hesitated, and his eyes drifted up the river. Higher up the mountain, the castle was silhouetted
against the moon. There was a moment in which the priest sensed a fierce inner struggle in his
houseman, then Lukas hurried down. "Move, Father. This must be done quickly."
Josef stepped back, and watched as the big man bent and pulled the limp body into his arms. He
turned immediately and started up to the path. "Follow quickly, Father. You do not want to be outside
blessed walls if someone misses him, and comes a’hunting."
The priest almost had to run to keep up with Lukas. He was surprised to see Lukas turning toward the
chapel instead of the rectory. "Lukas, no. Take him to..."
"We take him here, Father. A pew will serve as well as a bed for one in need." He gave him a hard
look. "Trust me on this, priest. There are things that they did not teach you in your school." His
expression softened at the bewilderment and irritation on Josef’s face. "Father, if you want him to
live--more importantly, if you are concerned for his immortal soul, do as I say." There was such quiet
conviction in the porter’s voice that Father Josef found himself unlocking the chapel door with no
further protest.
The interior was dim, lit only by a few guttering votive candles before the icon of the Virgin. Lukas
quickly deposited his burden on the front pew, then shoved past Father Josef as the other man went to
check on the man. Josef heard Lukas locking the door. He looked up in surprise, though, when he
heard the dull thud of the crossbar being dropped into place. The crossbar, which effectively bolted
the chapel off from the outside world, had been kept as a symbol of sanctuary. Josef had never heard
of an instance in which one had actually been USED. "We need more light," he directed.
Lukas chewed his lip in indecision. "Father, the windows are undraped. It would be better if we did
not give evidence of our presence."
The usually mild mannered priest had to bite back an oath. "I need light to tend to him!" Lukas
reluctantly fetched several candles from their mounts upon the walls. He lit them, then fixed them
upright at each end of the pew, giving weak, but sufficient light. "There’s a heavy cloth from when
you whitewashed the vestibule last month. Fetch it."
While Lukas did so, the priest checked the young man once again, making sure that his pulse and
breathing were strong. It was a miracle that he hadn’t drowned, or been beaten to death against the
rocks. He’d had a look at the parish’s records, and every year they lost one or two people to the river.
He was determined that this man would not share that fate.
Lukas returned with the cloth. As Lukas placed it over the back of the pew, Father Josef said,
"There’s blood in his hair, but I don’t think the wound is serious. The bone beneath seems whole, and
the bleeding has stopped."Lukas silently leaned past the priest and pulled open the young man’s collar,
staring intently at his exposed throat. His eyes seemed fixed on a slight bruising, and Josef said, "The
rocks." He pulled open the shirt, working it down the victim’s arms, and removing it. "Look, here,
and here." He pointed out livid bruises and scrapes on arms and torso. "I recognize him now. He was
on the coach that came through..."
"I remember. And I know where the driver said he let him off, and why," Lukas grunted. Then he did
an odd thing. He pulled his crucifix out of his shirtfront, bent down, and pressed it against the man’s
shoulder, holding it there firmly. Josef was shocked when the man jerked, murmuring in discomfort,
but did not regain consciousness. Lukas pulled back, and Josef was even more shocked to see a deep
pink cross etched on the man’s white skin. It reminded him of the time, long ago, when he’d
unthinking picked up a poker too near the point. He hadn’t been injured, but a bar of tender, reddened
skin had graced his palm for several hours. Lukas was saying, "No blistering, no charring. I suppose
he’s harmless enough."
*What does he mean? How could this poor creature be a threat to anyone while he’s in this state?*
"Lukas, there is still unblessed wine in that cabinet--the plain bottle. I need to try to bring him
around."
Lukas went for the wine while Josef stripped the young man to his drawers, then used the cloth to
begin drying him. He rubbed vigorously, trying to draw the blood back into chilled areas. It seemed
to be working, as the skin gradually took on a healthier tone. Soon the man was rolling his head
slightly, making soft, troubled sounds. Lukas had found an unsanctified cup in the cabinet also. Now
he filled it with wine and handed it to the priest, slipping his arm gently under their patient’s neck to
lift his head slightly.
The man’s lips remained closed, wine trickling down his throat, and Josef said, "Young man? Please,
you must drink this. It will give you strength."
His lips parted, and Josef carefully dripped the wine between. There was a brief, frightening moment
of choking, then his throat worked, and he swallowed. A slight frown creased his forehead, and Josef
was elated to hear him speak, even though the words were faint, and made little sense. "Other... want
the other." Father Josef quickly fed him more, and he swallowed obediently. But once he had
finished, he murmured, "Want the other wine. Sweet... warm..."
Josef set aside the cup and slapped the young man’s cheek lightly. "Listen to me. You need to open
your eyes now. Can you?" The man’s eyelids twitched, then opened a slit. "Good! Very good."
"What...?" There was such pained bewilderment in his voice.
"You’ve had a bad accident, my son, but you’re safe now."
"Safe? What... what happened?"
"We pulled you from the river. It is only through God’s grace you were not drowned, or dashed to
bits. What is your name, young man?"
"Ni... Ni..." He winced, a hand fluttering to his head. "It hurts." Confusion washed over his face, then
cleared, but only a little. "Jonathan. I’m Jonathan Harker." Suddenly his eyes flew wide, and he tried
to sit up. "Oh, God! Where am I?"
It was Lukas who pushed him back down, holding him firmly, but carefully. "You’re safe, Jonathan
Harker. You’re safe on consecrated ground."
"How did you come to this sad state?" asked Josef. "You spoke of wine. Did you take too much? Is
that why you fell into the river?"
"No," Jonathan said firmly, then, more hesitantly, "I don’t think so." Suddenly a look of horror
entered his eyes. "No! He... it was going to kill me, I know it. Kill me, or do something
unspeakable."
"Tell me what happened," Josef urged.
"I’m not sure," said Jonathan helplessly. "I can’t remember. I have no idea how I got into the river."
"Then tell me what you DO remember."
Jonathan scowled. "I was looking for someone--my host, I think." Neither the priest nor Jonathan
noticed Lukas cross himself quickly. "The library was open, and I went inside. I was looking around,
and... and..." He made a small sound of frustration. "I keep thinking that I looked into a mirror, but
why would there be a mirror there? Then something happened. I don’t remember what it was--I just
know that I’ve never been so afraid in my life. I was in danger. I was going to die. I ran. It’s all a
blur after that."
"Do not trouble yourself," the priest soothed. "You have a head injury. Some memory loss is not
unusual."
"I’ve heard that," Jonathan agreed. He lifted troubled eyes to the priest, "But I still don’t understand
this. You see, I desperately want to remember, but somehow I’m afraid, too." His expression
crumpled. "It’s as if remembering could either save me, or damn me."
end part 84
Back to index
Chapter 86: Chapter 86 - Out of Reach Again

Rating: R
Summary: Draculea locates Jonathan, but he is held at bay.
Sequel/Series: No
permission of the author. Some supporting
Characters (Nicolae, Simion, Rock, Rill, Elizabeta, Lena, etc.) are original and copyrighted, and are
not to be used without the express permission of the author.
Rating: NC17

Near Castle Draculea, Transylvania
*The river has taken him. I must let the river bring me to him.* Draculea stopped fighting against the
current, and let it take him. The buffeting current carried him toward the bank, tossing him till he
touched bottom, then stumbled even farther toward dry ground. *He must have been thrown up here.
As far back as I can remember the river has given up its victims. It’s as if it is proud of its conquests,
and wants those left behind to have proof of their loss. Jonathan must be on the bank, somewhere near
here.*
Draculea waded up onto the bank and stood still, head swiveling, fiercely searching the night with all
his senses. He reached out with those which were known to man, but far beyond a mortal man’s
power--sight, scent, and hearing. Nothing. The dark and the cleansing water seemed to have washed
away any trace of Jonathan, so Draculea reached out with his other sense--the blood bond that tied
Jonathan to him, that which he felt was the mingling of their very spirits.
He felt him. It was faint, but it was true. He was alive. Draculea eagerly homed in on the sensation,
feeling it almost as the faint brush of warm fingertips, pulling at him. There was a faint track that led
up to a path running beside the river, and he climbed to it swiftly. Standing on the path he looked this
way, then that. It was dark all around, no light to indicate habitation in either direction, but he turned
unerring to follow the path onward toward the outskirts of the village. His steps hastened as he went
on, the feeling growing stronger with each pace. Jonathan was up ahead, and he was alive, but he
sensed pain and confusion. His love needed him.
He hadn’t gone far before he saw a faint gleam of light, and moved even more quickly, breaking into a
run. The people in this region did not normally leave their windows undraped at night. This
unshielded light indicated that whoever was responsible for that light had other, more important,
things on his mind.
Sure now that the building at the end of the path held his lover, Draculea did not realize exactly where
he was going till he was almost upon it. The moon came out from behind a cloud, visible just behind
the building’s roof. A cross, stark and black, was silhouetted against the silver disk of the moon.
Draculea cried out, jerking back. Had the moonlight been strong enough the vampire would have been
caught, seared by the shadow cast by the holy symbol.
For a moment he stood staring at the simple building before him. The deepest part of him wanted to
flee, every instinct of his undead nature screaming at him to escape. But Draculea had always been
determined to be master of his own fate. He’d overridden natural impulses before, enforcing his will,
and now would be no different. Still, he moved more slowly as he approached the little chapel,
stalking toward it on stiff legs.
He went to the door and stood before it, staring at the weathered boards. He could feel himself
trembling. In his life, Draculea had not feared the Church--neither in its physical manifestation, nor its
spiritual, but now... The chapel at Castle Draculea had been locked even before he rose into his unlife,
and he had never approached it again. He had purposely pushed the very awareness of the holy place
from his consciousness, but every time he passed it a small prickling chill ran up his spine. It seemed
to threaten and rebuke him with its simple, silent existence. He reached out slowly and gripped the
metal handle, then waited for what would come.
Nothing happened. There was no ominous thunder, no righteous flash of lightning, no divine voice
condemning him. The metal under his palm did not burn with cleansing, holy heat. Instead it was
simply night-cooled metal, inert, waiting to perform the duty for which man had formed it. Taking a
deep breath, Draculea tried the handle.
Inside the chapel, Lukas’ head shot up, swiveling toward the door as he heard the latch rattle. Father
Josef, wiping the blood from Jonathan’s gashed scalp, said absently, "Someone at the door, Lukas."
When the porter did not respond or move, Josef looked up. His dawning impatience died when he saw
the man’s expression. "What is it?"
Lukas hissed at him, then whispered, "Quiet, Father!" The rattle came again, then a light, almost
questioning thud as whoever was outside pushed at the door.
"Lukas, it’s just one of the parishioners. Let them in--we can use the help," said Josef.
The look Lukas gave him was a little wild, a shocking mixture of disbelief and something resembling
contempt. "There’s nothing out there that would help any of us, Father."
There was another thump from the door. This time it was not tentative, but firm. Whoever stood
outside was not going to be turned away if the door was merely stuck. The bar did its job, holding
fast. There was a moment of silence.
The priest looked down at Jonathan. The young man was lying back on the pew, but his eyes had
turned toward the chapel entrance. He whispered, "Who...?" There was a knock at the door, three
hard, sharp raps. The blows were authoritative, the action of someone who expected to be obeyed.
Jonathan flinched at each thud.
"Open." The voice from outside was as hard and self-assured as the knock had been. Lukas crossed
himself quickly. "I know you are there, there is no need to prove yourself a fool by trying to pretend
you are not."
"I am the priest of this village. Who are you, and what do you want?" called Josef. He was startled
when Lukas made a low sound that was almost a growl. For an instant, he thought that the porter, a
man with one of the strongest, simplest faiths he’d ever known, might actually strike him.
There was silence from the other side of the door, and Lukas whispered, "Father, you do not speak to
such things unless you CANNOT avoid it. If you would not freely converse with the devil himself,
then do not hold speech with his minions."
The dark voice came again. "You are the new priest? They haven’t told you about me, have they?
No, they do not like to admit to what an outsider might believe is childish superstition. Fools. If their
care was more than their pride they would have educated you better. Who am I? I OWN this land,
priest. It has been mine since before your great-grandsire first suckled his mother’s milk. I own this
land and all that sit on it, or indeed WALKS it. And as for what I want--you have something of mine.
I can tell he’s there--I feel him. You may very well be responsible for his life, and for that I am
grateful. My gratitude can prove very advantageous, but I warn you--my displeasure can be terrible.
Open the door and bring him out to me. I swear to you that I will do all in my power to tend his
needs."
The priest hesitated. Though there was something about the unseen speaker that sent a warning tingle
through him, there had been the sound of absolute conviction in that last promise. A heavy hand fell
on his shoulder, and he looked up at Lukas as the other man shook his head. "But this man could be
injured beyond our capacity to help him. If this man can better care for him..."
"Better he should die than you hand him over to what waits outside," Lukas said firmly.
Josef looked back at Jonathan. The young man’s brief moment of lucidity seemed to have passed, and
he once again looked dazed and bewildered. The pounding came again, and again Jonathan winced
with each blow. Then the outsider called once again. "Jonathan? Jonathan, can you hear me, my
friend?"
Jonathan drew a breath, but the porter said fiercely, "No! I don’t know what sway he may hold over
you, stranger, but dealing with him will only make it stronger. Do not speak, do not even
acknowledge his existence."
"Don’t listen to those fools, Jonathan. You know I am your friend. I’m sorry about what happened.
I’ve never regretted anything more in my life than not killing that bastard before he laid eyes on you.
But he’ll never hurt you again, I swear. If he isn’t dead yet, by all that’s unholy I will FIND a way to
be sure that he’s consigned to his infernal master forever. Can you get up? Try, Jonathan. Come to
me."
There was something strange about the last sentence. The prince’s voice passed from concern to...
command. It was gentle, but it was there. Without thinking, Jonathan tried to rise and obey. His
battered body protested, and he sank back with a groan of pain. "It hurts."
"I can take away the pain." Outside the chapel, Draculea’s hands were clenched into fists as he heard
the strain in his lover’s voice. He kept remembering the sight of Nicolae’s body on the floor of the
castle’s chapel. He’d been surprisingly untouched, as if the river had been loath to destroy his beauty
against its rocks. But Vlad had seen others who had suffered the same plunge, and knew the abuse
that the wild waters could cause. Jonathan would be badly bruised and shaken, lucky if no bones had
been broken, no internal injuries sustained. Draculea could not pray, but he fervently hoped that his
blood, the blood he had slipped into Jonathan’s wine, the same blood that had kept Simion strong and
healthy for centuries, would have protected his love, at least a little. "Just come to me."
The voice pulled at Jonathan, and he again tried to sit up. Lukas moved quickly, shoving him back
down roughly. When his head struck the pew he gave a cry and fell unconscious once again. The
sound of that one faint cry brought forth fury from the other side of the door. There was an enraged
roar, and a thunderous crash at the chapel door. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
"You’ll not have him, Nosferatu!" called Lukas. "This is one that we’ll save from you."
The response to this declaration was terrifying. The priest found himself cringing beside the pew,
covering his ears from the snarls and howls. It sounded as if someone was using a battering ram on
the door--he could see it shiver in its frame. Lukas squatted beside him, tipping his head to look into
the priest’s face. "Do not fear, Father. He cannot enter a private
home unless invited, and though this church is public, it is sanctified ground, and that will keep him at
bay. Dawn comes soon, and he cannot remain while the sun rides the sky. When he is forced to return
to his lair, we can remove this unfortunate to someplace far away, where he will be safe." He glanced
grimly at the door. "However I fear that the village will have to be doubly vigilant and careful for a
long time to come. He will not easily accept being denied."
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Simion had followed his prince up to the roof, arriving just in time to see Draculea drop what was left
of Rock, and leap over the edge of the roof. He knew in an instance what had happened, and he felt as
if his heart would burst with sorrow for his master and his master’s beloved. But he had no time to
grieve. He had no doubt that Draculea would find Jonathan again, but in what state? If the young man
was gravely injured, he would need assistance in returning him to the castle.
The coach was prepared in minutes, the Rom working like men possessed. Rill wanted to go along,
but this time Simion was firm with him. Though he knew Draculea cared for Rill and would be loath
to hurt him, he had no idea in what state he would find their master. He would not risk his lover.
Simion rode out alone, whipping the horses fiercely.
As he rode, he reached out, feeling along the strong bond that linked him to Draculea. With all the
blood they had shared, given and taken, over the years, it seemed that he carried a bit of the prince
with him always. It wasn’t hard to find his master. Draculea was in a state of high emotion by now,
and Simion felt himself drawn toward it as iron might be drawn toward a lodestone.
As he approached the edge of the village, the feeling grew stronger, and he drew back on the reins,
slowing the team. The chapel came into view, and Simion knew instantly that he was right.
Draculea’s figure, standing before the church door, was unmistakable. There could be no doubt that
Jonathan was within the church.
Simion hauled back on the reins, drawing the coach to a halt. The horses were restless. Though they
were to some extent used to being around vampires, having been raised in the prince’s household, they
still realized the present danger. They stamped and snorted, ears laid back flat against their skulls.
Simion dismounted and, not daring to be stranded by a runaway team, cinched the reins tight to a stout
tree.
While he did this, the prince prowled around the outside of the church, seeking another way in. He
came around the corner just as Simion finished his task. Red eyes fixing on his steward, he stalked
over to Simion and grated, "He’s there, Simion. He’s in there, he’s hurt, and the bastards won’t GIVE
HIM to me!"
As much as he loved Draculea, there had been times in his life with the prince that Simion had feared
him. There were times, both before and after his transformation, when Simion knew that anyone
approaching the prince took his life in his hands. This was one of those times.
It had been a very long time since Simion had seen Draculea in such a wild and dangerous state, but he
did not show his fear now. "But he lives, my lord, and while he lives, he is yet within your grasp. Do
not despair. You have waited for so long--do not let a few more hours trouble your spirit. Let me
speak to these people."
Simion went to the church door and rapped. His knock was firm, but not as violent as his master’s.
"Who is in there?" Simion did not mingle with the villagers, of course, but he kept himself appraised
of what went on there. It was part of his duty to be aware of what transpired on his master’s land.
"Priest? Who else is with you?" He thought for a moment. "You have no
brother priest, so perhaps your porter? Yes, Lukas. I’ll speak to you, Lukas. I know that the priest is
not one of us..."
"There is no ’us’, dog!" Lukas called, voice cold. "We claim no kinship with your unnatural sort."
Simion would have smiled, if not for the seriousness of the situation. "Deny it if you must, but we
have lived here since long before your kind scratched a living from this land. As I said, the priest is an
outsider, and I cannot expect him to understand our ways, but you... You know who you defy, Lukas.
You know what you may expect to reap. It has been generations since your people felt his wrath. Will
you be the one to risk bringing it down once again?"
"Speak on, dog. Make your threats. Your master cannot touch us while we stand on sanctified
ground, and it will be dawn soon. God’s good sun will drive vermin back to their dark holes."
Draculea was growling dangerously, and Simion gave him a sharp look, silently asking him to restrain
himself a little longer. "What you have said is true--to an extent. But the sun is not as effective a
barrier as you have been led to believe by your legends. It is not easy or comfortable, but Draculea
can, in some circumstances, brave the light of day. And in this case, believe me, the motivation is
great enough to make great suffering bearable. And besides," he lowered his voice, "my master is not
the only being you need fear. I am not bound by your protective rituals, mortal." In the chapel, the
porter paled even more, and chilly sweat broke out on his forehead. "No, nor are the Rom, and you
know where their loyalties lie. Only common doors and bars can keep us out, and how effective can
they be? You do not have a fortress. A way can be found into any building in these mountains."
As he spoke, Simion noticed that a faint rim of light had appeared along the Eastern horizon. As the
porter had stated, dawn was approaching. Cursing mentally, Simion realized that there was little
chance of persuading the stubborn mortal inside to follow sensible course. He turned back to
Draculea, saying, "My lord, we cannot stay."
"Are you mad, Simion?" Draculea hissed. "Do you believe I will leave this place without him?"
"Please, my prince, I can see no other way. What the porter says is true. Were you at your best, you
might be able to break down the door. Were the place not sanctified, you might use your powers to
find another way inside. I do not want to leave young Harker here, either, but I see no other way. We
know where he is. Come back to the castle. I can speak to the Rom and have them gather their kin. I
believe that the rest of the villagers will be much more realistic than this porter. If we make it clear to
them what they risk, I believe they will be happy to deliver Jonathan."
"How can you ask that of me?" Draculea whispered.
Simion’s mind was racing. Draculea was not strong enough to brave sunlight. He would need to
fortify himself with much rich, human blood before he could withstand the rays. But Simion would
need something vital to draw the prince away from his imprisoned lover. "My lord, what of Rock?"
Draculea stopped pacing, looking at Simion with hard, hot eyes, fangs bared. "Yes, I saw what
became of him, and had I the time, I would have spat on his remains. But think, lord--are you SURE
that you have disposed of him? Think of what he has already survived. Consider his insane fixation
on Jonathan. He attacked him when he KNEW the consequences. I cannot help but believe he will
continue, if he is able." The sky was lightening. It would be only moments before the sun peeked
over the horizon. Simion’s voice became more vehement. "You have learned all the legendary ways
that Nosferatu may be destroyed. If you cannot reach Jonathan, neither can Rock, so he is safe for the
moment. Shouldn’t you take care of the threat before your lover emerges from his dubious
sanctuary?"
Draculea wavered, and Simion pressed his last argument. "My friend, I do not think you could survive
the sun now, and if you die... I do not believe that you would be allowed to return, as Nicolae has.
You would be finally and irrevocably separated, and I know that no torture the devil could invent for
you in Hell could compare to that. And would you leave him alone and unprotected because you
could not wait a little longer?"
Draculea stared at Simion. His voice was strained. "Again you chide me for my impatience,
Simion?" Simion was silent. Draculea sighed. "You proved right all those other times." He closed
his eyes, and a bloody tear escaped, trickling down his cheek. "Simion, how can I leave him?"
Simion put his hand on Draculea’s arm. "My prince, you share a bond with him. Tell me--will he
survive?"
Draculea nodded. "Yes. He’s hurt, but not mortally. I can feel that much."
"That is how you can leave him. You know that he will live. As long as he lives, you will find him
again." He squeezed the prince’s arm hard. "It is Fate. After all you have both been through, my lord,
down the long years and over the weary miles--it is Fate."
As the sun broke over the rim of the earth, Draculea climbed up into the coach, and Simion shut him
into the sheltering darkness. Before he once again took the driver’s seat, he went once more to the
door of the chapel and called. "Lukas, listen to me. You have a little time to think, but only a little
time. I will not tell you that you should not count this as a victory. I believe that you know enough to
know what you face. Once again I will tell you--that young man does not need to be protected from
the prince. The world has not dealt kindly with him, Lukas. Give him back to someone who will prize
him above all things. Do it for his sake--and your own."
Simion turned the coach and started back toward Castle Draculea. There were noises coming from
inside the coach--snarls and curses. But mingled with these animalistic sounds of rage was another
very human sound--weeping.
end part 86
Back to index
Chapter 87: Chapter 87 - Disposal

Pairing:
Rating: R
Summary: Rill tries to be helpful, in a rather gruesome way.
Disclaimer: This is a reworking of an original idea by Bram Stoker, which has now entered the public
domain. This work is original, and copyrighted.
Warnings: Gets a little grisly. May be disturbing for sensitive readers.
Notes: brusqueness (n)--roughness, asperity, terseness, abruptness, offhandedness, lack of warmth,
unfriendliness
Rill paced the great hall nervously. Things had been going so well. Jonathan had been warming to the
prince--Rill could tell. He had begun to imagine the future. He could envision an endless span of
nights which he would spend with Simion, and the prince would spend with Jonathan. It would be a
time of peace and contentment. The prince would be happy with his beloved, and all would be well
with his household. Even Sinn would be happy, spending his time in sparkling conversation with
Jonathan and Draculea...
Rill stopped his pacing, frowning as it occurred to him that Rock had been nowhere in these pleasant
fantasies. No, even if he was not actively fomenting trouble, his sullen presence would be a blot on
the castle’s atmosphere. Rill didn’t realize it, but he had somehow known that his brother could not be
a part of any happy future.
What of Rock now? Rill paused and gazed up the staircase. There hadn’t been time to get much
information out of Simion when the older man had hurried back downstairs, shouting for the Rom to
prepare the coach. While the team was harnessed Simion had told Rill what had happened--Jonathan
had gone over the edge of the roof, in an effort to escape Rock. Draculea had attacked Rock, and then
gone after Jonathan. Now Simion had to go after him, to help with Jonathan, and to see that they both
returned to the castle safely.
Rill understood this, and he accepted the fact that he could not go, too. Since being with Simion and
the prince, he had learned his own worth, but he had a practical streak--he knew he had limitations,
and he would only have been a hindrance on such a mission. Perhaps there was still something he
could do. If the prince had not thrown Rock over the edge of the roof, his remains would still need to
be dealt with.
*I can help,* he thought. *I’ve talked with the prince, and learned some of the things that must be
done.* He started up the steps. *If nothing else I can bring him inside, so that Simion doesn’t have
to.*
He went to the roof and stood just outside the door, scanning the area. A mortal man might not have
seen the dark figure sprawled across the roof, but Rill was not a mortal man. He approached
cautiously. Though Rock was an impulsive sort, he was cunning, and quite capable of lying in wait till
a victim came within reach.
As he got closer, though, he moved with more confidence. Rock didn’t look as if he’d be much of a
threat now. Finally Rill squatted down beside the body. He cocked his head, studying it. He’d seen
death many times in his long life with the prince. Though a gentle soul, he’d dealt death himself
during fights with over-ambitious mortals. Once or twice, when protecting Simion, he’d reached a
state of viciousness that could match anything his brother was capable of.
Rock’s head was lying a few feet from the body, tilted over so that one pale cheek rested on the cold
stone. Even from this angle, Rill could see that the back of the skull was still a mess of brains, bone
chips, and thick, congealed blood. Rock’s eyes were slitted, showing a bare rim of white. Rill found
that curious. Considering the method of his brother’s final death he would have expected a much more
violent, or at least alert, expression.
"De-cap-i-ta-tion," Rill said slowly. He nodded. *Yes, the prince said that this might be one way to
kill our kind." He frowned. "He wasn’t sure if it was enough, though." He watched Rock a moment
longer. "It LOOKS like it was enough. But if it takes three days for us to rise the first time, might not
there be a lag, then a resurrection, when something like this happens?*
"Rock?" he whispered. He poked the body in the chest. There was no rise or fall, but of course that
meant nothing. After all, Nosferatu only needed to breathe in order to have breath for speech. He
poked again, and still there was no response. He looked over at the head speculatively, then stretched
out his hand and prodded it. "Rock?" The cool flesh gave slightly at his touch, but nothing more. He
was almost satisfied. One more attempt... "Rock, are you there?" He poked the pale cheek again.
The half-closed eyes suddenly snapped open. Eyes that should have been dim and unseeing darted
back and forth, then fixed on Rill. The boy was so startled that he sat down suddenly, thumping
gracelessly onto his backside. "Oh! Rock, you’re still... You’re not really dead." The head bared its
teeth, and Rill frowned. "And you’re still being bad. You know very well you deserved what you
got."
Bloodless lips writhed, but without lungs Rock could not draw air to create speech. He seemed to
realize this, and his expression showed rage and frustration. "You did!" Rill insisted. His expression
hardened. "You’re still alive, so you deserved MORE. The prince will be angry when he finds out
you didn’t stay decently dead." Again Rock’s lips moved, forming unspoken words. Rill had no
trouble understanding his meaning, though. His brother had verbally abused him with exactly the
same terms often enough for him to recognize the form without the tone.
Rill caught a small movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head for a closer look. The
fingers of Rock’s headless body were twitching. As Rill watched, the twitching strengthened, and the
hands lifted slowly, wavering in the air above the body.
"What are you doing, Rock?" asked Rill suspiciously. He looked over to find that Rock’s eyes had
fixed intently on his corpse. He was staring at it with fevered concentration, gnawing at his bottom
lip. One of the hands started to grope across the stones in the general direction of his head, and his
expression grew even more determined.
Puzzled, Rock looked back and forth between the two parts of his brother’s body. Sudden
understanding struck. Rock wanted to put his head and body together once again. If the head was
pressed to the stump of the neck long enough... Rill had never heard of such a reattachment
happening, but who could say? He knew that no human could ever have recovered from some of the
punishments Draculea had inflicted, but Rock had. Oh, it had occasionally taken months, but he had
eventually been his old self again--physically. The insanity and bitterness had grown with each injury,
and after something like this... Well, it was unlikely that he’d ever be even marginally safe company.
"No, Rock," Rill said firmly. He reached out and picked the head up by the hair. Rock’s expression
became even more agitated, mouth working hard. He repeatedly cut his eyes toward his body, and Rill
caught the meaning easily. "I’m not putting your head next to your body--I’m moving it farther
away."
He carried the head back to the door, but hesitated before going inside. He sat down to think, crossing
his legs, and holding his brother’s head in his lap. Rock glared up at him, but Rill’s returned stare was
steady. After a moment he said, "I have to think about this, Rill. You’re supposed to be really dead. I
can’t imagine the prince would have done this if he didn’t mean for you to be really dead." He
watched Rock’s lips work, then heaved a sigh. "No, I agree with him this time, even if you are my
brother. What should I do?" Rock closed his eyes in frustration. When he opened them again, he
began to form words very slowly and clearly.
Rill shook his head. "I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’d go away and never bother us again.
And even if you did," his voice hardened, "you’d hurt other people. You like hurting weak people,
Rock. You’ll never stop--not until you ARE really dead. The prince shouldn’t have to worry about
you when he comes back. He’ll need to give all his attention to Jonathan. No, you should be finished
when he gets here. Maybe I can help." Ignoring Rock’s horrified and enraged expression, Rill set the
head down near the door.
Rock’s gaze went immediately to where his body lay near the edge of the roof. Rill noticed, and
looked back. The beheaded body was twitching feebly. As Rill watched, one knee bent slightly, and a
tremor passed through the thigh as the corpse braced itself, readying for a try at getting upright. The
leg collapsed quickly. Rill, curious, said, "Can you still direct the rest of you, or is it doing it by
itself--like a snake after the head is cut off?" The body kept moving. Rill shrugged. "Better not to
take a chance." He turned the head so that it faced the blank wall. "There. You can’t give it
directions now."
He went back into the castle, thinking, *Now, what were the methods the prince said would be most
likely to work? A sharp spear of wood through the heart... I think if the prince had used a silver edged
blade, it might have done the trick. Then there’s fire...*
What thoughts passed through Rock’s mind in the next few minutes, no one can say. There’s little
doubt that there was hatred and anger--that had never been absent for long during his time on earth.
But now there was something different--something that might be a sense of impending
mortality--something he long ago had ceased to consider. Now it brought fear, and panic.
Rill returned shortly, carrying a bag and lit candle, and trailed by an interested looking Rom. The
gypsy almost skidded to a halt when he got a look at what was waiting for him on the roof. His eyes
darted from the head near his feet, to the body lying in a small pool of nearly-black blood at the edge
of the roof. The Rom who served Prince Draculea were the chosen of their clan, raised with the
knowledge of the Prince’s ways, and hardened to them, but this...
Rill noticed that his companion had fallen behind, and turned back to him. There was a touch of
impatience in his voice as he said, "Hurry! We don’t have forever, you know, and I need your help.
You know there’s part of this I can’t do."
The gypsy nodded, fumbling in his pockets. "Hai, Domn."
"Good." Rill started away, then turned back. "You’d better peel it, just in case." He started off, but
turned back again. "But it might be the peel that does the trick, mightn’t it? Peel some of them, but
leave the others whole."
The gypsy gave him a look that said that all gorgio were a little crazy--even his masters. "Hai, Domn."
"Lots of them."
Rill bustled off again. The Rom and Rock regarded each other warily. Rock was well aware that he
wasn’t well liked by the Prince’s followers. They all knew what he would do to them if he was given
free rein, and they were aware of his history with the gentle Rill, who was considered more of a pet
than a superior.
Rock heard a clatter that distracted him from these thoughts. He couldn’t turn to look, but by rolling
his eyes he could just glimpse where his body lay. What he saw sent another bolt of terrified panic
through him. In a pile at Rill’s feet was a pile of objects--what looked like a flask of lamp oil, a heavy
mallet, and a piece of wood that had been sharpened into a stake.
A crinkling sound drew his attention away from this horrifying scene, and he looked back at the Rom.
The gypsy was flicking away what looked like nearly transparent wisps of paper, and a pungent scent
assaulted Rill’s nostrils. Even though he no longer had a stomach to be affected, he felt sick at the
smell. The gypsy noticed, and smiled. He reached down and picked the head up by its hair. Rock
opened his mouth in protest, and the gypsy poked in the first bulb of garlic.
~*~*~*~*~*~
As he approached, Simion noticed the smoke rising from the castle. He frowned, wondering. While
fires weren’t forbidden, they weren’t encouraged, either. The less evidence of occupancy they
provided the outside world, the better. In any case, the source seemed to be the roof, and he couldn’t
imagine any reason for kindling a fire there. He made a note to himself to check on it as soon as
possible, but the prince had to be settled first--if that were possible.
At first it didn’t seem it would be possible. Two of the Rom came out to take care of the coach, and
Simion escorted the blanket draped prince into the cool, dim interior of the castle. Draculea had barely
entered the shadows before he threw off the cover, as if it were smothering him. He stalked a few
paces, then turned, staring back at the door, and Simion said quickly, "No, Domn!"
"I believe I could do it, Simion."
"You might survive, my lord--MIGHT. But by the time you once again reached the village you would
be so weakened that it’s unlikely that you could retrieve him from the chapel. And I believe you
would be so weakened that you might fall prey to those who now have him." Draculea glared, and
Simion made his voice sharp. "Would you do that to him? He believed once that he lost you, and the
pain drove him to an act which he thought would eternally damn him."
Draculea whirled away from him, lashing out. There was a tall candle stand nearby, and he smashed it
aside, the thick metal bending with the force of his blow. Then he stood with his back to Simion, fists
clenched at his side, body tensed, and trembling. Finally, voice low, he said, "Impatience?"
Simion went to him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Your will is stronger than any I have
ever known, Domn," he said quietly, "and your love is the same. But all--ALL of us--must bow at last
to physical limits--even you. You neglected yourself for far too long, and it will take a little time for
you to regain your strength. Your Rom stand ready to help you, even unto sacrificing themselves--as
do I."
Draculea drew a deep breath, gathering himself. "I know, Simion, but I won’t do that." He turned
back to look at his friend, and there was wry pain in his voice, "But not for noble reasons, I’m afraid. I
might have used brute force in my time, but I have been trained in strategy as well. As much as I long
to rush, to personally wrest my love away from those dogs, I know that such an attempt might well
fail. You’re right--I must regain my vigor, at least a bit of it. In the meantime, I can do what a prince
does--I can send my ’troops’. Send some of the Rom to keep watch on the village." His eyes
narrowed. "I don’t trust them not to do something foolish. Then send three of the Rom to me."
Simion nodded. He would warn the gypsies of what to expect. All had been donors to slake the
vampires’ thirsts, and to serve the prince was seen as a particular honor--but within their memory,
Draculea had not taken more than a few mouthfuls at a time. Vlad would not drain them--he’d said as
much--but the volunteers would be weakened for a few days. "To the basement, Domn?"
"No, to my old room." He turned and started up the stairs, muttering, "I’ll feel closer to him there."
Simion relayed the Prince’s orders. Before the gypsies scattered to obey, he spoke to them. "As I
returned, I saw smoke from the roof. What does this mean? I can think of no reason for it."
"It was your sweetheart." Simion turned to find Sinn lounging in the doorway. "You didn’t bring
back the young beauty? What a shame. Those peasants can’t possibly appreciate him as he deserves."
Simion ignored these drawling observations, concentrating on the first declaration. "Are you sure?
Rill has always been cautious of fire."
"Oh, I’m quite certain."
"But why?"
Sinn smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant expression, and Simion felt a chill, because he knew how
amusing Sinn found anything ugly or hurtful. "I think you ought to ask him that yourself. He’s still
up there." At Simion’s alarmed look, he amended his statement. "No, not outside. Last I saw he was
on the upper landing, keeping watch on his little blaze from that vantage point. He’ll be safe enough
as long as he doesn’t lean out, though I don’t imagine he’s very comfor..." Simion hurried out. "Well,
this place has never been a sanctuary of fine manners." The Rom weren’t listening--they were rushing
to obey their orders. Sinn sighed. "I suppose I’d best resign myself to complete brusqueness for
awhile."
~*~*~*~*~*~
As Sinn had said, Rill was at the very top of the stairs, in the tiny hallway that led out to the roof. The
door was open, and later in the day his chosen spot would have been dangerous. But in the early
morning the sunlight slanted in at too steep an angle to reach where he sat. He was gazing out into the
daylight, squinting in concentration. As Simion neared, Rill spoke, without turning. "You didn’t get
him, but he isn’t dead yet."
Simion went to stand behind him, gazing down at his dark, curly head. "How do you know that?"
Rill shrugged, then touched his chest, over his heart. "I can feel it. I felt it when the prince once again
was close. He’s still so sad, and angry--very angry. But he isn’t despairing, as he would be if
Jonathan had died, so there must still be hope."
"Some of the villagers took him in. Persuading them to return him to us may be--problematic. Rill, as
I returned I saw smoke from up here. Sinn says that you set the fire."
"Yes." He twisted his head to look up at Simion anxiously. "I was careful that it was on the bare
stone, with no wood near."
"Yes, that’s the way to do it. But why, Rill? The night was mild, and even if it were chilled, there are
always fires lit at the castle hearths."
"Oh, it wasn’t for warmth. I was trying to destroy something." He frowned. "I don’t know how good
a job I did. I can’t go check on it."
Simion turned his gaze toward the object of Rill’s attention, and felt a sudden jolt. *I’m preoccupied
by the prince’s worry, but that’s no excuse for taking so long to realize what is going on,* he chided
himself. Even at this distance he could tell that it was a body. More specifically, given its location, it
was ROCK’S body. "Rill, what have you done?"
"As I said, tried to destroy it. He wasn’t QUITE dead, Simion. I remembered how he walked out of
the library, and I decided I’d better make sure. It was a good thing, too. Do you know, he was trying
to find his head?"
A smell like roasting rotted pork drifted to Simion. The headless body was well charred, but far from
being reduced to ashes. The fire was almost out. Simion saw an occasional tiny flame licking over
blackened flesh. "Sometimes dead things will still move for a little while, Rill. You remember,
you’ve seen it--snakes, lizards..."
He made a dismissive gesture. "That’s just thrashing. They’re not trying to DO anything. Rock
wanted to stick his head back on, and I think if he could have held it on his neck long enough, it just
might have happened. Lizards grow new tails, you know." The thought hadn’t occurred to Simion,
but it made sense. Still... Rill was continuing. "I was going to burn him and throw the ashes in the
river, but he burned, but he didn’t BURN."
"You should go to sleep now."
"But the job isn’t nearly finished."
"I will see to it from here. I have things to do, but I can take care of this. Go and rest."
Rill got to his feet. "If you’re sure." He hugged Simion. He sighed, and rested his head on the older
man’s shoulder for a moment. "I just can’t seem to do anything right."
Simion returned the embrace. "Dear one, you’ve done all that you could. You’ve been very
thoughtful, and very ambitious. You cannot know how much the prince will appreciate this, once
things have settled a bit." He released him with a gentle push. "Now, go and sleep."
When Rill was safely away, Simion turned his thoughts toward the offal on the other side of the roof.
The thing to do would be to bundle it up for removal. He was considering the best method when he
noticed a rough sack on the floor near his feet. That would be ideal. He should just be able to cram
Rock’s body into it. He picked up the sack, and realized that it wasn’t empty. There was a sizable
lump resting in the bottom. Curious, he opened the sack and peered inside. He caught a glimpse of
blood clotted strawberry blonde hair. He reached inside.
Rock’s eyes were half closed, and faded, unfocused stare told Simion that this might very well be the
final death for him. The vampire’s mouth was slightly open, giving him a rather stupid look. Simion
caught a glimpse of something pale between his lips, and frowned. It should be far too soon for
maggots. Could it be a broken tooth? Simion lifted the head for a closer look, poking experimentally
at the mystery object.
There was a soft thud as something fell near his food. He glanced down, and saw what looked like a
small lump of wax. Curious, he picked it up and examined it. It was slick and springy to the touch.
He squeezed it experimentally, and jerked his head back from the pungent scent. "Garlic!"
Simion hooked a finger into Rock’s mouth and pried it open a fraction. The mouth was crammed with
garlic. At his rummaging, several more cloves fell from the ragged neck stump. Simion threw back
his head and laughed. Finally he stuffed the head back into the sack and wiped his eyes. "Oh, my
love! And some would call you stupid."
end part 87
Back to index
Chapter 88: Chapter 88 - Evacuation

Rating: R
Summary: Lukas acts to remove Jonathan from Draculea’s grasp.
permission of the author. Some supporting
Characters (Nicolae, Simion, Rock, Rill, Elizabeta, Lena, etc.) are original and copyrighted, and are
not to be used without the express permission of the author.
Notes: As far as I know, there is no convent, or order, such as I have used in this section. Okay, no
one write me about the marks on Jonathan’s neck. "Hey! You didn’t mention that before! Where did
they come from?" Duh. I haven’t told you EVERYTHING that happened at the castle. Gawd, my
hard drive would explode. If you remember, when Jonathan first arrived, Vlad was with him in their
old room, and he took blood then. Well, that hasn’t been the only incident. Jonathan has been ’pale
and interesting’ since his arrival at the castle. :)
Rating: NC17

The Village Chapel
Chapter Eighty-eight - Evacuation
Lukas stood, listening alertly to the sound of the carriage driving away. Father Josef was bent over the
once-again unconscious Jonathan, examining him anxiously. "Lukas, you should not have been so
rough with him! He had already hurt his head. I only hope that he regains his full sensibility when he
awakes--IF he awakes."
The steward’s reply was terse. "Better he died than I allowed him to give himself to that thing,
Father. I believe they’ve gone." He sat down, rubbing his chin as he looked thoughtful. "But they’ll
be back. You’d best warn everyone in the village to take extra precautions. Have them do everything
they can think of--hang garlic and crucifixes, get you to anoint the door sills and windows with holy
water or oil."
Father Josef looked at him suspiciously. "Why are you giving me instructions, Lukas?"
"I won’t be here to help you, Father. One of us is going to have to get this man away from here, and
frankly, I don’t think you’re up to it."
"Lukas, are you mad? We mustn’t move this young man any farther than the nearest bed. Traveling
in even the finest coach would probably be too rough, and to be jounced along in the wagons we have
available could well prove fatal."
"Don’t you understand yet, Father? Death would be preferable to what might await him if he stays
here. You’re charged with saving souls, so stop arguing and let me help you with your mission."
"But you can’t just... just run off with him. You don’t even know who his people are."
"It won’t be hard to find out." He dug his hand into Jonathan’s pockets. When the priest started to
protest he was brushed off with irritation. "I’m not robbing him--I’m just looking for some evidence
of his identity. These English are mad for papers--there should be... here." He extracted Jonathan’s
card case, opened it, and extracted a card. The case was of excellent design--the cards were only
slightly damp, and still quite legible. "Jonathan Nicholas Harker, of Hawkins and Thompkins,
Solicitors." He squinted at the card, and smiled. "There’s even an address. It will be easy to contact
them."
Looking into the determined eyes of his steward, Father Josef was suddenly realized that it was Lukas
who kept things running smoothly in his parish. Oh, Father Josef attended to all the spiritual matters,
but without Lukas, none of the practicalities would be taken care of. And Josef was aware of just how
much he deferred to Lukas’ judgment, when he should, perhaps, have stood firm in his own opinions.
But the priest was so tired and confused now that he was not going to go against habit. "What do you
intend to do?"
"I will borrow the wagon of the innkeeper. He will not mind lending it--and if he does, he will oblige
us, all the same." Lukas’ tone said that the innkeeper would be foolish indeed to not be eager to help.
"I must leave immediately, if I am to get him far enough while the sun still rides the sky. You might
gather all the blankets and pillows you can, Father, to make his journey more comfortable." Lukas
started for the door.
"But where will you take him? I must know."
Lukas paused, his hand on the crossbar. "No, Father, you must NOT know. While you would not
mean to reveal his sanctuary, there is no way of knowing what means the fiend might use to find him.
It is better if you have no information to give. I will say only that it will be no more than a day’s ride,
and he will be secure there, until he is well enough to be sent back to his homeland. I will not return
until he is safely off our soil." He smiled a little grimly. "I’m sure you can run things without me for
a little while."
He left, and Father Josef stared after him in dumb astonishment.
~*~*~*~*~*~
They came just after noon. A half-dozen grim faced Rom rode into the village, with Simion leading
the way. It was deserted--truly deserted. Doors stood open. There was cold, half-eaten food on
plates, hastily smothered embers still glowing on some hearths. A much loved doll lay forlornly in the
street, and somewhere a bereft child was crying, being hushed by nervous parents.
The group stopped in the small square that held most of the businesses. The horses milled as the men
looked about, awaiting instructions. Simion dismounted and went to the inn. He tried the door, and
was a little surprised when it opened easily. The dim interior was eerily quiet, except for a liquid,
pattering sound. Simion followed it to the bar, and leaned over. The first thing that met his eyes was a
red pool of liquid, and for a moment he thought that Draculea might indeed have slipped away and
preceded him here.
Then he smelled the sharp, fruity scent, and bent farther. He saw the keg sitting below the counter,
with its spigot open, and a thin stream of wine dripping down to splash on the floor. Feeling a little
relieved, he reached down and twisted the spigot shut. An empty box lay in the pool of spilled wine, a
single copper coin beside it. The story was easy to read now. There had been a hasty and frantic
evacuation, with the alarmed visitors grabbing nothing but children and valuables before they fled.
Simion leaned back, resting one hand on the bar, drumming his fingers. *The rats have deserted the
sinking ship. They show more wisdom than I would have expected. Good. I’ve lost my taste for
torture over the years. But what will I tell Draculea?*
"Simion!"
The shout from outside startled him, and he hurried out. The Rom, still on their horses, all pointed up
the road. Simion directed his gaze, and his eyebrows slowly rose in surprise.
The man coming down the road could not be anything other than a priest. He was wearing the
traditional long black robe, with a high, white, solid collar. His hands were held before him at chest
level, clasped tightly around a crucifix. His expression was apprehensive, but his step was determined.
As he watched the man approach, Simion thought, *This would be Father Josef. He doesn’t
believe--not in Nosferatu, in any case. But he realizes that there is danger here, and still he remained
behind. Brave man. Brave, but woefully ignorant.* Simion started out to meet him.
Father Josef’s resolve quailed when he saw the leader of the group coming toward him. He could see
that each of the men from the castle was armed. All of them had huge knives at their belts. One of the
horses was nervous, dancing in a circle. As the rider controlled it, his jacket belled out, and Josef saw
the gun strapped to his body. He was tempted to turn and run back to the security of the church,
bolting himself in, but he fought down the urge. He’d had enough courage to stay behind when the
villagers were fleeing--now he prayed for the courage to continue.
The priest and Simion met in the middle of the road. They studied each other silently for a long
moment, then Simion bowed slightly, keeping his eyes on the other man’s face. "We spoke this
morning, Father. Or rather your steward spoke for you." The priest inclined his head. "You know
why I am here."
Josef fought to keep his voice steady. "He is not here."
Simion’s expression hardened. "I feared that, but I hoped you would not be so foolish. Was he fit to
travel?"
"I did not think so. He was still unconscious when Lukas put him in the wagon and drove him away."
Simion gritted his teeth. "Fools! If he should die..." He took a deep breath. "Priest, in times gone by
I would not have come here to try to resolve this. Draculea himself would have ridden down upon
your pathetic village, and very likely have wiped it from the face of the earth. It is quite possible that
your people would have entered history as another sad example of the folly of denying Vlad Tepes
Draculea anything he desires."
"It is our Christian duty to protect the helpless..."
Simion laughed shortly. "That young man is less in need of your protection than anyone else on earth.
Draculea would destroy anyone who meant him harm, and die himself before he hurt the boy."
"After what you have said of him, what Lukas and the other villagers have said, how could I believe
this?"
Simion sneered. "Another who believes that it is only creatures of the light who can love." Simion
gestured at the crucifix the man had. "Do you believe in the power of that which you hold?"
"I believe in the power that faith lends it."
"You may not believe this, but in my life I have served the Church. Long ago I was as faithful in my
observances as any of your parishioners. While I have fallen away from the teachings, I still
acknowledge the power and spirit behind them." He held out his hand.
Josef hesitated. "It is said that the touch of holy objects is as acid to the damned."
Simion crooked his fingers. "Believe it or not, priest, there are degrees of damnation."
Josef handed over the crucifix. He was not a superstitious man, but still he looked closely to see if the
holy object burned or corrupted the flesh it touched. It did not. Simion lifted the crucifix, kissed it,
and said formally, "I swear upon the cross of Christ that the Englishman Jonathan Harker need not fear
death or injury from myself or any other in the employ of Prince Draculea. I further swear that
Draculea’s sole desire it to care for and cherish the boy." He handed the cross back to Josef and
continued, "Sadly, I must also promise that if I am not told where the young man has been taken, I
cannot promise that this village and those who inhabit it will escape the wrath of my master."
Josef nodded. "I cannot tell you where he is now--Lukas would tell no one. But I can tell you where
he WILL be. Lukas is going to arrange for him to be sent back to his people in England, as soon as he
is able to travel." Simion stared at him, and he said, "As God is my witness..."
"No need, priest. I can see the truth in your eyes. You would hold back information to protect
yourself, but you will not risk the safety of your flock." Simion thought a while longer, then said
slowly, "I believe that my master will be too involved in retrieving his love to expend time and energy
on punishing those who took him away. I BELIEVE that--for now, at least, you are safe. But I tell
you truly that I would advise anyone who intended to come back, even in the future, to consider it
carefully. There may come a time when he has more leisure, and remembers old debts."
Without another word, Simion turned away from the priest and went to mount his horse. Father Josef
watched the group ride off toward the castle, then went back to the rectory to begin packing. He had a
feeling that the man had given wise advice. He would send word to the villagers, and as for himself...
He thought that a long, devout retreat was called for.
~*~*~*~*~
A novice would have been considered too lacking in discretion to keep the gate at the Little Sisters of
the Five Holy Wounds convent. Sister Maria Mercy had been given the responsibility. She was one
of the youngest, and most vigorous, of the nuns. When she heard the bell ring, she hurried to the small
opening set in the front wall. Unbolting the shutter, she peered out cautiously.
She was looking down on the area before the gate. The gatekeeper had a raised vantage point, so that
the single lookout would be beyond the reach of anyone seeking admittance. Since their order worked
to be of service to travelers in the area, guests WERE admitted, but as a community of women, they
were careful about who they allowed in.
There was a rough wagon drawn up before the gate, drawn by a single, weary-looking horse. The
driver stood near the bell pull, gazing up at the window. Sister Maria studied him carefully. He
looked rough and dirty, but that could be attributed to a long journey. His clothing was respectable,
though dusty.
When he saw that he had her attention, he bowed respectfully. "Sister, I am Lukas--steward to Father
Josef, in Tepeslau. Your order is well known for its kindness to travelers and those in need. Night is
fast approaching, and I beg sanctuary."
"Traveler, perhaps it would be better if you lodged at the farm that is just down the road."
"No, Sister, please! It must be here."
"While we do not wish to seem harsh, our hospitality is dedicated to those in greatest need. You are a
young and healthy man, and the farmer will be happy to take you in."
"I do not ask so much for myself, but for the one in my charge. I have with me a gravely-injured
young man, Sister. He needs the protection and care of your holy order." Lukas went back to the
wagon, hopping up into the bed. He bent over what Sister Maria had thought to be a pile of sacks, and
lifted away the covering blanket.
Maria almost gasped. A young man lay unmoving on a pile of blankets. His handsome face was
darkened with bruises, and the Sister saw what looked like dried blood clotted in his hair. "Wait! I
must have permission, but I will be swift."
She slammed the shutter closed and raced across the courtyard, lifting her habit to an indecent level
over her knees, in order to avoid tripping. She left startled and shocked sisters in her wake as she
raced to the abbess’ office. Once there she took a moment outside the door to collect herself, then
knocked. A quiet voice called enter.
Sister Maria entered, hands folded, and eyes properly on the floor. The abbess of the convent, Mother
Ruth, looked up from the text she had been studying. "Sister..." she frowned. "Your cheeks are
flushed, and your breathing is ragged." Her voice was stern. "If I did not know better, I would think
that you had been indulging in unseemly exertion."
The nun curtseyed. "Please, Mother, I have urgent news. A traveler seeks hospitality..."
"Send him to the nearest farm, Maria. We must be cautious about admitting men."
"But Mother, he is not alone. There is another one, and he is injured."
Now the abbess looked more interested. "Are you sure, Sister?"
"I saw him. Mother, he seems to be unconscious, and he looks as if he has been beaten. I truly believe
he needs our help."
"Very well." The abbess stood, striding purposefully out to the hall. She caught the attention of a
passing novice. "Go tell the sister in the infirmary that we have two guests, one of them badly hurt. I
trust her to do all in her power to help the unfortunate creature. Quickly, now." She turned to the
gatekeeper. "Will he need help in getting the patient to the infirmary?"
"I don’t think so, Mother." Sister Maria unconsciously wrinkled her nose. "The driver seems to be a...
robust man."
"Go let them in." Mother Ruth went to the infirmary, checking to be sure that one of the cells near it
was prepared to receive a guest. The man would surely want to stay near his injured friend. She
stepped out of the small, bare room just in time to see the arrival of the men.
As Sister Maria had said, the healthy one was a large, vigorous man. He was easily carrying his
friend. Though the nun had come to regard any man from the outside with caution, she thought that
this one might be safe. He had the solid, subdued aura she’d come to expect from those who truly
respected the Church and its servants. Satisfied, she turned her attention to the other man. She
gasped. "Merciful God! That poor creature." The boy’s guardian looked toward her quickly, and she
gestured toward the infirmary. "Hurry. We have a place for him."
In moments the patient was stripped and settled into one of the beds in the healing room. The old nun
who was in charge of tending the health of the convent’s population had examined him with never a
blush or shudder, familiarizing herself with all his injuries. "What happened to this boy?" she asked
Lukas.
"We pulled him from a river. Before that, I cannot say," said Lukas.
The old nun looked at him sharply. "Cannot, or will not? There is something very odd here. The
worst of his injuries is here." She touched his head gently. The hair was damp, where she had washed
away the dirt and blood. "Hopefully he has not cracked his skull. It is well that there is a lump,
instead of a depression. How long has it been since he was taken from the river?"
"Last night."
"Then this is wrong," she said bluntly. "He is far too pale and cold. It is as if he has bled heavily, but
I find no wound that could account for it." She eyed Lukas suspiciously. "Has he awakened at all
since you found him?"
"Yes, Sister. He conversed with good sense soon after we rescued him."
"That’s good. If he wakes up again soon, he should be all right. If he does not awaken on his own
within the next few minutes, I’ll just help him along. I’d better check my smelling salts." She bustled
away.
When she was gone, Lukas looked at Mother Ruth. "You were hesitant to let us in." When the abbess
didn’t answer, he continued, "I understand. But it is your Christian duty to help and protect those who
are in danger. Sister, that young man’s danger is more than physical. Are you from this region?"
"Yes. My people have lived here for well beyond a century."
"Are you familiar with the tales about Tepeslau, and the castle just beyond?"
The old nun became very quiet, then said softly, "I am aware. My mother’s family lived not far from
there."
"Then you have heard of... Nosferatu." Lukas reached out and drew down the sheet, tipping
Jonathan’s head gently to the side. He indicated a livid bruise on the side of the young man’s throat.
Looking closely, one could see two dark, half-healed punctures nearly lost in the purple-red of the
bruise. His voice was earnest. "Please, Mother, you must believe me."
Mother Ruth closed her eyes, swaying slightly. Eyes still closed, she crossed herself, then took hold of
the rosary that hung at her belt. She said softly, "My grandmother lived a long life. She was one of
the wisest souls, male or female, holy or lay, that I have ever known. She told me that once, when she
was a very, very small girl, she saw the devil ride. That he looked at her with eyes that burned blue,
like a candle flame in the presence of the restless dead." She opened her eyes. "Grandmother lived in
Tepeslau. You and your friend are welcome here for as long as is necessary. Our entire order will
pray for you both."
"Bless you, Mother. Tomorrow I will leave him in your gentle care. If all goes well I will return in a
few days, with news of how we can return him to his native land, and safety."
"Native land? He is not our countryman?"
"No, Mother. He is an Englishman, named Jonathan Harker."
Lukas, weary, went to his room. The nursing sister returned with a tiny bottle. She uncorked it, and
looked at Mother Ruth. "Pray for success, Mother." She held the bottle under Jonathan’s nose.
For a moment there was no reaction. Then the young man’s expression wrinkled in distress, and his
eyes fluttered open. Mother Ruth leaned over him immediately. "Mister Harker?"
"No." His voice was weak. To her astonishment, he spoke Romanian. "I am Nicolae, blessed Sister."
The nuns exchanged worried glances. It seemed that his mind was affected. "My head hurts. Where
is Vlad? I want..."
Mother Ruth took the smelling salts and pressed them closer under his nose, forcing him to inhale
more of the acrid fumes. At the same time she said sharply, "Jonathan!"
He winces, eyelids fluttering. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at her, bewildered. "Yes,
I’m Jonathan Harker. What... what’s happened?"
Mother Ruth handed the smelling salts back to the other nun, then carefully stroked the dark hair back
from Jonathan’s pale forehead. "You have made a wondrous escape, my child. A wondrous escape,
and we shall make sure that you REMAIN safe."
end part 88
Back to index
Chapter 89: Chapter 89: Pursuit

Pairing: Implied Simion/Rill
Rating: Series NC-17, this section R
Summary: Draculea makes plans, and Dr. Seward is strangely drawn to Renfield.
Archive: Mailing lists
Warnings: Unethical actions of a care giver. Improper doctor/patient relationship. This is FICTION,
folks.
Notes: //written// *thoughts*
The Rom who took Simion’s horse had a fresh wound in his neck, and so did the two that he passed in
the great hall. This worried Simion a little, but only a little. None of the men seemed physically or
emotionally distressed, so the prince must not have gotten more than a few mouthfuls from each, but it
had been many years since Draculea had taken sustenance from a human. It had not even been within
the lifetime of these men, but service to the prince was hereditary--they had known what might be
expected. Vlad knew their worth, and was grateful for their fierce loyalty. In all the long years of
their servitude, the Rom had never lost a man to the prince’s anger, or carelessness. But Draculea had
never been so close to achieving his heart’s desire.
Simion hurried up to Draculea’s room. When he entered, the prince was bent to the neck of another
Rom. The servant’s head was thrown back, his teeth bared in a combination of pleasure and pain as
his master fed. Simion hesitated, wondering if he should speak. It didn’t come to that. After a
moment Draculea lifted his head, licking his lips. A thin trickle of blood escaped from the wound,
winding its way below the man’s frayed collar. Draculea pulled out his fine linen handkerchief and
pressed it to the punctures. The servant didn’t move, and Draculea said quietly, "It is enough, my
good servant."
The man shook his head slightly, his eyes clearing. He reached up to take hold of the cloth, and
realized what it was. "Dom, I cannot..."
Vlad interrupted him, "Your wound was honorably earned. I thank you." Even with his recent loss of
blood, the man flushed with pride at Draculea’s praise. Bowing, he left the room. Simion knew that
the handkerchief would be carefully preserved, and probably passed down to the man’s son.
Simion stepped further into the room and said, "My heart is heavy with sorrow, my lord."
Draculea had turned his back to Simion, and he did not look around. His voice low, he said, "You do
not need to tell me, Simion. He is not with you."
"The villagers moved swiftly, Domn."
"Of course they did. They were protecting an innocent from a fiend." His tone was flat, but dripped
with irony. One hand lifted slowly to rest on the heavy, wooden post of the bed. "I would think better
of them if that were all it was, Simion. But I cannot help but think--is it possible that what drives them
to such measures is more the desire to deny me that which I so clearly desire?"
Something very strange was happening as Draculea spoke. The air in the room seemed charged, as if
sparks might leap at any moment, and Vlad was the center of that unseen energy. Then Simion
noticed his hair.
It hung halfway down the prince’s back, freed from its customary braid. It had been white for many
years. Since Jonathan had come to the castle, and Draculea had resumed taking human blood, Simion
had noticed it darken a little, and then it had gone from white to iron gray, with darker strands
appearing at his temples. Simion wasn’t sure what had been making the change--the nourishment of
the body--or the soul. But it had been clear that Draculea was regaining some of the vitality that had
slipped away in ennui. As Simion watched in wonder, it seemed that dark ribbons twined through
Draculea’s hair, streaking from crown to end before his very eyes. In moments the hair was a thick,
healthy salt-and-pepper mixture. And his hand...
The sleeve of Draculea’s robe had slid down, baring his wrist. The wrist was thin, with prominent
tendons, and the hand looked almost too big for it. It was a little bony, knuckles swollen, and was
mottled by age spots. Now the blemishes faded as the skin, which had been loose and finely wrinkled,
like tissue paper, tightened, and smoothed. But it wasn’t that the skin was tightening, but that the flesh
beneath was firming and filling out.
The hand no longer seemed too large for a frail limb. It once again looked strong and capable. The
nails, which had been yellowed and curved, like a Mandarin’s, were once again blunt and
no-nonsense. Draculea turned back toward Simion. In that one motion he seemed to grow several
inches.
Nicolae had known Draculea in his prime. Jonathan Harker had met an elderly man. What stood
before Simion now was something in between--a man in vigorous middle age. Nicolae would know
him, because he had dreamed of sharing his life with Vlad. It was doubtful that Jonathan would even
recognize him as the same man he had known.
Simion tried to speak, but his voice failed him. Draculea smiled. "Am I so changed, old friend? I
have felt it racing through me. For a long time I have not been at home in this body--my spirit has
ridden uncomfortably in my flesh--but now..." He closed his hand into a fist, looking down at it,
considering. "I had no reason to go on with this sham of life. Now I do, so life is returning. It is
well."
Simion nodded. Many men might have turned and left quickly, but Simion knew Draculea, and knew
his friend would not think less of him for the tears that slipped down his face.
~*~
Rill awoke to warmth, and he smiled, eyes closed. He burrowed closer against the sturdy body beside
him, and felt strong arms tighten around him. "Simion," he murmured.
"Yes, sweet boy." Simion stroked Rill’s hair. "Are you hungry?"
"Mm." Simion cradled the back of his head, pulling the boy’s face to nestle against his throat. He
shivered as Rill sniffed him, then licked delicately. He felt the edge of Rill’s teeth, but not the points
of his fangs. There was a brief pinch, then Rill removed Simion’s hand and sat up. He gazed down at
his lover and said, "No, you’ve given to the prince several times in the last few days."
Simion reached up, trailing a hand down Rill’s cheek. "I am strong, my love."
Rill took his wrist, and kissed his palm. "I know. And I know you’d let me drain you if I needed it,
but I don’t need it. I’ll visit the stable in a little while." The castle horses had been born and raised
here. They had known Nosferatu all their lives, and they were not terrified of them. They would stand
quietly if one of the vampires they knew needed a meal. But they still carried faint traces of warhorse
bloodlines. Anyone unfamiliar--natural or otherwise--took a risk approaching them.
He turned, sitting on the edge of the bed, and said, "You didn’t find him."
"They had sent him away before we arrived."
Rill looked up at the ceiling, his attitude one of someone listening carefully. Again Simion thought
that though Rill was simple by the standards of the world, he had always been gifted with sensitivities
that the ’normal’ world could never share. Rill turned his head, looking back at him, and his
expression was relieved. "The prince... I was afraid for him, if you didn’t bring Jonathan back. But
he... he hasn’t fallen back into despair."
"No." Simion moved up behind Rill, putting his arms around the boy’s waist and resting his chin on
his shoulder. "I feared that, Rill. I wouldn’t have credited it, but it seems to have revitalized him."
"He has something to strive for now," said Rill. "He’s going to go find Jonathan."
"Yes, he is. We don’t know where he is right now, but we know where he will be taken. They are
sure to return him to England. Before I came to bed, I sent letters to his Jonathan’s firm in England,
authorizing purchase of several of the properties. Some are in London, near where he worked. One is
near where his fiance is staying. They will bring him to one of those places. My guess is the country.
I have seen his letters. His Mina stays with a wealthy friend--a lady. She will wish to have him near,
so that she can care for him."
Rill muttered, "The prince won’t like that."
Simion smiled against his back. "No, he won’t. He wishes for Jonathan to receive the gentlest care,
but not from one who has the boldness to think of him as her own."
"He shouldn’t be jealous. Jonathan thinks he loves her..." he frowned. "No, that isn’t right. He thinks
he SHOULD love her. But part of him knows who he belongs to." Rill turned back to Simion,
embracing him. "Simion, Robert is in England."
"Yes."
"I know that the prince will go to England to find Jonathan. Could I go, too, and look for Robert?"
"Rill, this will be a long trip, and there will be risks. The prince will not have time to look for Robert."
"I know, that’s why I want to go. I can look for him, while you and the prince look for Jonathan."
"Alone?" The idea horrified Simion. Rill had been sheltered during his unlife, never without
protection.
"I can stay close to you and the prince, but explore on my own." He turned in Simion’s arms,
embracing him. "It isn’t right, what happened to Robert. I’m not mad at the prince--he didn’t mean
for Robert to be hurt. But it happened, and he’s alone now. Please, Simion. He’s my friend."
"I’ll ask him, Rill, but it must be his decision."
"I understand. Tell him I won’t be a bother. I’m strong, and fast. I won’t hold him back."
"I know, Rill. You’ve never been any trouble."
"I want this, Simion." Rill looked into his eyes, his expression serious. He wasn’t wheedling or
coaxing, he was expressing a direct, sincere desire. "He needs me. I can take care of him."
Simion felt his heart swell. With all the abuse and exploitation he had experienced in his youth, Rill
had developed a love for all things vulnerable. He was the gentle champion of kittens; he nursed the
stoic Rom when they were injured. Simion still remembered his wistful tenderness with the baby that
Sinn had rescued from the witch so long ago.
While Rill had no doubt that Simion loved him, he knew that Simion didn’t NEED him--not in a
practical sense. Renfield was a different matter. The Englishman had never been strong--physically
or emotionally, and now he was broken. Rill was right--he needed SOMEONE. He needed to be
cherished, not just provided with the basic necessities of life. Simion had a feeling that he wasn’t
likely to get what he needed in England. "I’ll do what I can, Rill."
Rill smiled brightly, then clapped his hands. "I’m going to England!"
Simion laughed, but it was a little rueful. What a wonderful and terrible thing it was to be trusted.
~*~
From the Journal of Dr. Jack Seward
//Renfield has quickly become my most fascinating case. The man’s delusions are
elaborate--bordering on the baroque. Just when I think I have plumbed the depths of his madness, a
new layer of fantasy is revealed. Now he believes that he is communicating with someone in
Transylvania--the country where he experienced his breakdown.//
//I have encountered many patients who believe that they have communication with God, the Devil, or
demons and angels. Some patients complain of being bothered by the voices of mysterious
’others’--unseen people who whisper to them.//
//The odd thing is that these ’communications’ do not distress Renfield. After that one incident in my
office, he has been much calmer.//
Jack Seward put down his pen and took a sip of brandy. Calm, yes--but still far from sane. Despite
his best efforts, the man still continued with his disgusting ingestion of every insect or spider he could
capture. And the warders told him that they had confiscated a mouse from him. Renfield had
protested vehemently that it was a pet, and indeed, the little creature had been remarkably plump. Jack
had seen asylum mice before, and they tended to be tiny, scrawny creatures. Jack had asked Renfield
if perhaps he had been fattening the little beast. The man had become sullen, then smiled slyly and
said that it was all right--mice and rats were all right. Even the master ate those.
Seward closed his eyes, remembering that smile. It had been almost feral, but there was a bright,
disturbing intelligence behind it. That was frightening--the thought of an intelligent madman. He was
fairly certain that Renfield was no danger to anyone, save possibly himself, but there was always a
chance. Seward had begun to wonder if he was justified in spending so much of his time with this
particular patient. But Renfield was such a fascinating case...
*Hell, no one’s here to see, so why not admit it? My interest went beyond clinical a long time ago.
It’s personal.*
Seward dealt with the intricacies of the mind. He had admitted to himself long ago that, while his
preference was for women, he could occasionally consider a man with sensual appreciation. But why
Renfield? Lord knows he wasn’t the most physically beautiful man he’d ever met. He was small and
pale, slender almost to the point of delicacy. His face was all points, and angles, and big, dark eyes.
The eyes... That was part of it. The eyes of his patients were most often clouded by confusion, or
empty of any real spark of awareness. Renfield’s eyes showed so much more. They were by turns
wounded, thoughtful, and amused. Perhaps it was the amusement that intrigued Seward the most.
What in God’s name could the man find amusing in his grim situation? Sometimes Jack suspected
that HE was the cause of Renfield’s secret mirth--that the little man looked upon Seward’s attempts to
analyze him, and found him ridiculous.
Perhaps it wasn’t so strange that he found Renfield attractive. After all, he loved Lucy, and SHE
found him ridiculous. Oh, she was always sweet, when she could be bothered. When there was no
one more interesting around. And every time he was ready to pack it in, to finally admit to himself
that loving her was hopeless, she would once again turn her teasing attention his way, and he would be
captured again. A deeply buried part of himself realized that this was a game to her--that she would
keep him on her string for as long as she could, while searching for someone more suited to her
taste--and then he would be cut adrift. No, he’d never have Lucy. He drained his brandy, and poured
another.
He wasn’t sure exactly how much he drank--more than was usual, more than was good for him. He
wasn’t even aware that he was drunk till he found himself walking across the main floor, bouncing the
master ring of keys in his palm.
The warder who was patrolling the upper level paused and looked over the rail, watching the doctor.
Seward stopped before one door and stood staring at it, swaying slightly. This was curious. Seward
did not make night visits to the inmates, not unless he was called for some emergency. Then Seward
shifted, one hand ghosting down, rubbing his thigh, and the warder smiled.
So, that was how it was. The doctor dismissed those two for interfering with the inmates, and now he
was going to have a bit of sport himself. Ah, well--he wouldn’t be rough with the poor creatures, like
those others had, so where was the harm? He turned away and resumed his rounds.
~*~
He stopped before Renfield’s cell, and hadn’t he somehow known that this was his destination? He
just stood, looking at the blank door, with its shuttered window. He tried to will himself to turn
around and go back to his rooms. A dose of laudanum would take away these tangled feelings. Then
he heard the whisper from the other side. "Why are you waiting, Doctor?"
Jack blinked. *How did he know? How did he even know anyone was here, much less that it was I?*
Then he shook his head slightly. *A guess. He might be insane, but he’s still clever.*
"Please, do come in. I’d admit you myself, but..." He chuckled, and Seward felt the hairs rise on the
back of his neck. Still, he fitted the key into the lock. The cell was dimly lit by the moonlight that
streamed through the bars of the open window. Renfield, dressed in the rough nightshirt that was
given to all patients, male or female, was sitting on the edge of his cot.
His hands were folded neatly in his lap. He smiled cordially, and aside from his attire, and the glitter
of his eyes, he might be any man sitting in his own front parlor, receiving a guest. "I’m afraid that I
can’t turn up the lights--no gas, you know. And no lamp, or candles." He chuckled again, and Seward
could hear the undercurrent of madness below the jovial sound. "I’d complain about the
accommodations, but when I consider the fact that I pay no rent or board, it hardly seems grateful. In
any case, I’m afraid," he gestured toward the window, "you’ll have to make do with ambient light."
He quirked an eyebrow. "Unless you’d like to leave the door open?" Seward stepped into the room,
shutting and locking the door behind himself. "No, I thought not."
Seward slipped the keys into his pocket. Renfield patted the mattress beside him. "Please have a seat.
I’m afraid that this is the best I can offer you." He dipped his chin and looked up at Seward,
murmuring, "I know it seems terribly familiar, but what can one do?" Seward lowered himself to sit
beside Renfield, and Robert said, "Now, then. How lovely to have an unlooked-for visitor. To what
do I owe this pleasure?"
"I... I just came to see..."
"Yes?"
"I thought I’d check to be sure the bad dreams hadn’t come back." Renfield had been troubled, off and
on, by hideous dreams, nightmares that brought him awake screaming and crying. They had become
fewer within the last several days.
"Ah, the nightmares. No, not for the last two nights." Renfield propped his elbows on his knees, then
his chin in his hands. He glanced sideways at Seward. "I’ve had dreams, yes." He smiled, and
Seward was shocked to see the tip of his tongue peep between his teeth. "But not unpleasant ones--oh,
my, no. Would you like to hear about them?" Seward was silent. "That’s part of your profession,
isn’t it?"
Seward cleared his throat. "If it will help you."
"It’s a very simple dream. I’m here, in my own little room, and it’s night, just like it is now. So dark,
so quiet. And then someone is outside my door. I don’t know who it is, but I’m lonely, so I ask them
in. Some visitors must be invited in. They’re either too shy to take the initiative, or..." His voice
faded, and for a moment his eyes were unfocused, his gaze far away, "or they can’t, for some reason."
Just as suddenly he was back. "I invite, and he accepts. He comes and sits beside me."
"Who is this visitor?" Seward could scarcely recognize his own voice. It sounded thick.
"I don’t know," said Renfield pensively. "He’s a stranger to me." He lowered his lashes. "But a
handsome one. I can tell that he wants something, but he won’t say what it is. Maybe he CAN’T say
it. I’ve never been able to. Then I realize what it is. He’s hard, you see. Like this."
Seward felt frozen as Renfield lifted his gown up around his waist. Robert was aroused, his rigid
member jutting between his spread thighs. Seward tried to avert his eyes, but found that he couldn’t.
He watched, fascinated, as a clear drop of fluid welled up from the slit at the tip.
Then Renfield’s hands were at his fly, undoing the buttons. Seward grabbed his wrists, and Renfield
said quietly, "But doctor, don’t you want to know the rest of the dream?" Seward’s hold loosened.
Damn it, he DID want to know the rest.
Renfield turned his hands, taking hold of Seward’s own hands, and moving them
to his side. Then he went back to opening Seward’s trousers. "As I was
saying, he’s hard, and I know that he’s come for me."
"Are you afraid?"
Renfield’s smile was soft. "Oh, no, no. I know he’s going to be gentle with me--not like the others.
He won’t strike, or bite. He won’t make me... make me do the same. I don’t like that. I only want to
give pleasure, and the other two haven’t let me. But he will." Robert’s hand slipped inside the gap
he’d created, and Seward closed his eyes as soft, warm fingers found his heated flesh.
Robert was whispering as he bared Seward’s cock. "You see, I can’t have the one I want. I realize
that. I never really thought that I would, I never dared hope that high. No, I can’t have him,"
Renfield’s hand curled around Seward’s staff, stroking slowly, and Jack bit back a moan. "But my
dream visitor... Yes, I can have him. Or rather, he can have me. I think he’ll be kind." Renfield’s
hand moved slowly, his thumb rubbing at the damp head.
The madman’s voice was low and seductive, and Seward wondered vaguely if he was being
hypnotized. The cold, clinical voice in the back of his mind scoffed at this. *Nothing so scientific,
Seward. You’re just drunk, and lust-dazed.*
Renfield was masturbating as he caressed Seward, and it WAS a caress--his touch almost tender. Then
Seward’s eyes snapped open as he felt a warm breeze ghost across his cock. He looked down to see
Renfield bent over his lap, lips pursed. "What are you doing?" Seward wasn’t a virgin, but he’d never
been with anyone but prostitutes, or the asylum laundresses. These women were quick and efficient,
bringing him to erection with their hands, and letting him find completion with a few quick jabs in
their slick flesh. Their mouths... There had been a kiss or two, but it had been perfunctory. They’d
never offered more, and he’d never dared suggest it, though he HAD wondered.
"I’m showing you. He tastes me--like this." Renfield’s tongue crept out and swiped, almost shyly
across Seward’s glans. The bigger man shivered at the sensation, groaning deep in his throat. "I think
he finds me sweet, because he does it again." Renfield repeated the action, his agile tongue curling
around Seward’s cockhead. "I’m leaking, and he treats it like nectar." The tip of Renfield’s tongue
flicked into Seward’s slit. When it passed, a heavy bead of clear fluid oozed out, spreading in the
saliva that Renfield had left. Renfield lapped softly several times, then whispered, "He treats me like a
sweetmeat." He slipped the head between his lips, sucking.
"Oh, God," Seward moaned, letting his head fall back against the wall as Renfield slowly devoured
him. There was no hurry in Renfield’s courtship, no furtiveness. He licked and sucked with deliberate
relish, pausing now and then to inform Seward of what he was going to do next, holding the rigid,
spit-slick penis against his cheek as he spoke. At first Seward might have told himself that he was
only allowing Renfield to have his way in order to get an insight into the man’s illness. But when
Renfield rummaged deeper in the doctor’s trousers, talking about how his dream lover had moved
down to lavish attention on his stones, Seward had found himself eagerly spreading his legs to give
him better access.
Soon the hot, soft mouth was sucking and plucking at the velvet soft skin of his testicles. A scrape of
teeth sent a bolt of terror up Seward’s spine--but he didn’t wilt. It was immediately soothed with
lavish licks, and then one of his balls was actually drawn into the hot cavern of Renfield’s mouth,
while the lunatic’s hand moved strongly on his straining cock.
Renfield’s voice was breathless. "And when he could feel that I was close, he took me fully."
Renfield’s head dropped, and Seward cried out as he was engulfed from tip to root. Renfield’s hand
tightened on his balls, nails pricking lightly, and he worked his throat muscles. Seward gasped deeply,
thrusting even deeper, feeling the little man choke. But Renfield didn’t pull back. He held tight,
sucking strongly. Seward felt as if he were dissolving as his climax washed over him. His seed burst
out, thick and strong, and Renfield swallowed greedily, drinking it down.
Seward didn’t quite lose his senses, but for a moment he wasn’t really aware of what was going on.
When he came back, Renfield had allowed his softening cock to slip free. Now he was cleaning it
with short, lazy licks, removing every drop of semen, his fingers kneading at Seward’s thighs, almost
like a contented cat.
Seward noticed that his partner must have found his own release. Renfield’s cock was only half hard
now, drooping down, and there was a new, glistening puddle on the floor before him. Seward felt
suddenly sober, and cold. He was sitting in a cell at an asylum, trousers open, with a lunatic obscenely
caressing him.
He shoved Renfield away, and the little man fell back, boneless. He didn’t seem offended, though.
He stretched, then pulled down his gown as Seward stood and swiftly made himself decent again.
Renfield’s voice was complacent. "And then he goes away. He’s gotten what he needed, you see.
But I think he’ll be back."
"No." Seward’s voice was shaking as much as his hands. Renfield shrugged, but he didn’t look
convinced. Seward went to the door, but turned and looked back at Renfield, and said simply, "Why?"
Robert propped himself up on his elbow, and his gaze was direct, with no hint of pretense. "Because
blood isn’t the only fluid that carries the essence of life." He smiled, and licked his lips.
Seward shuddered, and suddenly recalled Renfield’s hands wandering over his body. He dug
frantically in his pocket, and felt a burst of relief when his fingers closed around the keys. The relief
seeped away when Renfield giggled and said, "No, I didn’t pick your pocket. Why should I steal your
keys?" He lay down, closing his eyes. "After all, they’ll be coming for me soon..."
end part 89
Back to index
Chapter 90: Chapter 90 - Homeward Bound

Author’s Notes: Notes: Since the first telephone directory was issued in England in January of 1880,
I’m assuming that by 1892 it would not have been unreasonable for a well-to-do legal partnership (and
the partners privately) to have telephones. I expect they still made the less sophisticated servants very
nervous, though. :)
The Year of Our Lord 1892

Hawkins and Thompkins, Atts. At Law
London, England
Chapter Ninety: Homeward Bound
Corliss was unlocking the front door when the messenger approached. "I’ve a telegram here for either
Hawkins or Thompkins," he said.
Corliss grimaced. "At this time of the morning? Good lord, you don’t expect their nibs to be in, do
you? We’ll be lucky if they roll in by nine or ten."
"I can’t hang about till then," the boy protested. "I’m paid by the number of runs I make."
Corliss held out his hand. "Then give it over."
The boy clutched the envelope to his chest. "Are you either of them?"
"If I was a posh partner, do you think I’d be opening up the shop at the crack of dawn? Look, I handle
all the correspondence that comes here." He smirked. "If you’d come when they were here, I promise
you that you’d be cooling your heels down here for an hour or two till they felt like seeing you." He
crooked his fingers. "When I give it to them, I’ll tell them you just dropped it off." The boy hesitated.
Corliss’ expression hardened. "Look, you--d’you think we receptionists don’t talk to each other? I can
see to it that any time you have a message to deliver within a five block range, you’ll be kept waiting."
The boy reluctantly handed over the envelope, and said hopefully, "Tip?"
Corliss snorted. "Don’t make me laugh."
He went in, and the boy spat on the sidewalk, muttering, "With that sour face I’d wager that a month
of Sundays at the best music hall in London wouldn’t raise a smile."
Corliss locked the door behind himself, and went directly into the small supply closet near his desk.
The clerks would begin arriving soon. They’d expect to see him at his desk, attending to various bits of
paperwork and correspondence, but he felt it would be prudent if he were not seen reading a telegram
directly addressed to the partners.
He slit the envelope with a pocketknife and pulled out the message.
//British Embassy
Budapest
Dear Sirs:
Have information your representative. Harker injured in possible attack Castle Draculea. Possible
connection with previous Renfield incident. Details sketchy. Please contact soonest as to arrangements
for Harker return.//
"Bloody hell," Corliss muttered. They’d recently installed one of those new telephone instruments, and
he stared at it for a long moment. The senior partners didn’t like to be bothered at home except for the
most important emergencies. He had to consider whether or not this would be considered an
emergency. Jonathan was, after all, simply an employee.
But then, the partners had been very jovial about resent correspondence from Prince Draculea
confirming large purchases of real estate, and the prince had been very complimentary about young
Harker. That might favorably dispose the partners toward him.
He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then went out to his desk. Considering this to be an emergency would
be a good explanation for why he had opened the message in the first place. As he reached for the
telephone, his mind was racing. *Isn’t this just marvelous? Two of the fair-haired boys in a row.
Maybe I’ll finally get my chance to move up in the ranks.*
~*~*~*~*~*~
An hour later both Hawkins and Thompkins were in Randal Thompkins’ office. Such an early arrival
was unusual enough to cause a buzz of gossip among the staff. Clarence Hawkins studied the telegram,
then said, "Well, if this isn’t the most blasted run of bad luck I’ve ever heard of. Perhaps the folklore is
true, and that area is cursed."
"Don’t talk nonsense," scoffed Thompkins. "It’s still almost wilderness out there, so there’s bound to
be more risk involved in traveling."
"But neither of these incidents occurred while the men were on the road. Both took place once they
were lodged at Castle Draculea."
Thompkins stared at his partner, then said softly, "Clarence, need I remind you that we have just made
a very sizeable commission off Prince Draculea? It’s not very sensible to go tossing speculation about.
There are no details. It’s entirely possible that both Renfield and Harker were attacked while
wandering the countryside near the castle."
"Do you think that’s likely?"
"It might not be probable, but it is possible. The embassy doesn’t seem to think that there’s cause for
any intense investigation, and who are we to second guess them?"
"We’re the ones who sent a second man into a situation that we already knew might be dangerous."
"Come, now. We couldn’t know..."
"Don’t try to disclaim knowledge with me, Randal. I’m a lawyer, too, and though
perhaps--perhaps--we couldn’t be held legally accountable, we are ethically at fault, and you know it.
We were aware that something was very wrong in Transylvania, but we let our greed overwhelm our
caution, and we sent young Harker. Now he’s been injured--not badly, I hope to God. The very least
we can do is see that he’s quickly, safely, and comfortably returned to his family. Then we can begin
praying that they don’t decide to sue us."
"I suppose it would be the decent thing to do. But I believe the boy was estranged from his father. Do
you think he’ll be willing to take care of him, or are we going to be forced to pay for his stay at an
invalid home, as well as footing the bill for Renfield’s asylum stay?"
"Your generosity is so touching. His father might make difficulties. It would be better if we could turn
him over to someone else."
"Well, first things first. We’ll wire funds, and instructions for them to send him back as quickly as
possible. They ought to be able to supply someone to care for him on the trip over." He went to the
speaking tube on the wall and turned a knob. A small buzzer went off downstairs, and a moment later
he heard Corliss’ voice through the tube. "Yes, sir?"
"I’ll need to send a message to Jonathan Harker’s next-of-kin. Get his records."
"I took the initiative of doing that, sir. I have them right here."
The partners exchanged looks. Corliss’ didn’t bother to be subtle about his ambition. "You have his
father’s address?"
"Um... no, sir. Actually, in the spot for whom to contact in case of emergency, he has listed Miss
Wilhelmina Murray, his fiancee."
"Really? Come up. I need to dictate a telegram to Miss Murray." He shut the speaker tube. "This could
work out to our advantage. Women are much less likely to make difficulties." He smiled coldly. "And
if she’s going to be marrying him, well, she ought to be willing--even eager--to take up the
responsibility."
~*~*~*~*~*~
Little Sisters of the Five Holy Wounds Convent
Transylvania
Lukas had left the morning after bringing Jonathan, promising the abbess that he would return for him
as quickly as possible. That had been two days ago. At first Jonathan had slept most of the time, and
his waking moments had still been vague. But now he was much more aware, and lucid enough to be
dreadfully confused by his situation.
"I don’t understand what’s happened, Mother," he said to the abbess as she sat beside his bed the first
day. "I remember being very, very afraid. Someone was chasing me--someone very terrible. You
know, I didn’t think it was possible to fear anything more than death, and it wasn’t exactly death that
was threatened. But whatever it was seemed so much worse than death."
More came to him later. "It was Rock who frightened me so. He’s the companion of the man I was
sent to--Prince Draculea. He... I’m certain he’s mad."
"Draculea?"
This seemed to startle, even shock Jonathan. "Why, no. The prince was a bit eccentric, but he treated
me with nothing but courtesy and kindness. I can’t understand why he’d have someone like Rock in
his household. The man is obviously unbalanced. It still isn’t very clear, but I know that he attacked
me, and I ran from him." Jonathan nodded, wincing at a fresh ache in his bandaged head. "I fled to the
roof of the castle. I think I fell over the edge trying to escape him. The funny thing is, right before I
fell, I had a sense of safety, as if someone was coming to my rescue." He tried to concentrate, but that
made his head hurt even more. "I don’t know. Perhaps it was Simion. He seemed very competent. It
couldn’t have been the prince. Though I’m sure he has a brave heart, he’s an elderly man--much too
fragile. Sister, I’m worried. I need to get word back to the prince that I’m all right."
The nun patted his hand gently. "You’re not to worry about that now, young man," she said
soothingly.
"But he may well think me dead, and I don’t want to distress him any more than is necessary."
Jonathan looked up curiously as a burley man entered the room. He was the first male he’d seen since
he’d awakened in the infirmary.
Mother Ruth said, "Ah, Lukas. You have made a speedy journey."
"God leant me speed, Mother." He studied Jonathan. "You’re much improved, Englishman. Do you
know me?"
"No. I’m sorry."
Lukas shrugged. "There is no reason why you should remember me. You might have been awake, but
you were far from aware. I was with the good priest when he found you, and I carried you to the
church. I have been making arrangements to send you back to your homeland."
Jonathan felt relieved. "Thank you, sir. It will be good to go home. But I think that first I should go
back to the castle and speak to the prince. He was so kind to me. And Rill... Rill might not
understand..."
"There is no need. I went there first, and spoke to the prince. I told him you were injured, but doing
well. I told him what I planned to do to see you home, and he gave his blessing on the plans. He
offered to do anything needed to ease the way."
Jonathan relaxed slightly. "And Rill? Did you speak to Rill?"
"He was sad that he couldn’t speak to you again, but he understood that it would be best for you to
return home as quickly as possible. I have visited your embassy. They contacted your employers, and
they will provide funds for your transportation. Since it is not safe for you to travel alone, I will
accompany you. We will leave early tomorrow."
"Then he should rest," said Mother Ruth. She stood. "Come, Lukas. I will take you to your room.
Sleep, Jonathan."
They stepped out into the hall. As they walked, Ruth said softly, "You made no trip to Castle
Draculea." He shook his head. "Lukas, I fear that you should visit a priest soon for confession. Lying
is a grave sin."
"True, Mother. I’m lucky that the good Lord offers forgiveness through penance. I will have to work
hard to come up with true repentance, though."
She shook her head. "Add to your list of sins tempting others to sin. Now I will have to confess a sin
of omission for not telling the boy what you have done. However," the continued walking, "The father
is not due here till another two days, and I don’t think I’ll be calling him in early."
~*~*~*~
Jonathan was able to walk when it was time to leave the next morning. Jonathan’s employers were
perhaps feeling a bit guilty over having a second employee come to harm on a trip on their behalf.
They had provided a carriage that had been carefully fitted to make transportation of an invalid as
comfortable as was possible. A platform with a raised edge, comfortably padded, had been fixed inside
the carriage, so that Jonathan could recline during the trip.
The journey wasn’t as long as it might have been. It had been decided that they would leave from the
closest seaport, rather than driving to one of the larger harbors. It was evening when they arrived, so
Lukas checked them into a small inn. Their ship would be sailing early the next morning.
The captain had told Lukas that they were welcome to sleep on board, but the porter had declined. He
felt sure that there was no way he could make himself and his charge secure on the boat. In fact, he
would have preferred to spend the night in a church, or rectory, but by the time they arrived there was
no time to make arrangements. Sunset was almost upon them, and Lukas would not risk being outside
a secured place for one moment after the sun went down. It was probable that the Nosferatu had no
idea of where they were, but it would be unwise to take chances.
Once he had Jonathan in bed, he quickly prepared the room. Jonathan watched in bewilderment as his
escort chalked crosses above the door, and on the window frames. He leaned out the window and drew
crosses on the shutters before closing and latching them. Then he hung a string of pungent smelling
bulbs so that they hung against the glass, before drawing the curtains. "Are those onions?" Jonathan
asked.
"Garlic," Lukas corrected him. "From the garden of the blessed sisters." He hung another string on the
doorknob. "It keeps away troubled spirits."
"That’s superstition," said Jonathan mildly.
Lukas shrugged. "If it is, it does no harm. Troubled spirits bring bad luck, and you’ve had enough bad
luck, eh? Why take chances?" He pulled a small vial from his pocket, uncorked it, and dribbled the
fluid carefully along the doorsill, muttering under his breath.
"And what is that?" asked Jonathan. Only half jokingly he said, "Dew gathered from a fairy ring, under
a full moon?"
"Only holy water."
"What?" Jonathan sat up abruptly. "Stop that! It’s blasphemous."
Lukas resealed the vial, replacing it in his pocket. "Calling on something holy for protection is never
blasphemous, sir," Lukas assured him.
"Look, I don’t have a problem with the garlic, but the crosses, and now this... It makes me very
uncomfortable."
"I’m sorry for that," said Lukas quietly. He sat on the other bed and regarded Jonathan calmly. "But
you see, Mister Harker--you’ve become something of a crusade for me. My family has lived in
Tepeslau for generations. There are things... Stories that I half-heard when I was a child. They’d never
speak of some things before me, but the adults would talk among themselves when they thought I was
asleep. I only caught vague bits and pieces, but I’m sure of one thing: whatever drove you from Castle
Draculea has had dealings with my family long, long ago, and nothing was ever done about it. I’m not
going to let whatever or whoever it is triumph this time. You are going to be saved, Mister Harker."
His eyes glittered, and Jonathan felt a twinge of apprehension. They were the eyes of a zealot. "Yes,
you will be saved, despite yourself, if necessary."
end part 90
Back to index
Chapter 91: Chapter 91 - Journey, Part I

Status: Wip
Archive: Only at lists sent to
Summary: Two journeys begin
Notes: Since the first telephone directory was issued in England in January of 1880, I’m assuming that
by 1892 it would not have been unreasonable for a well-to-do legal partnership (and the partners
privately) to have telephones. I expect they still made the less sophisticated servants very nervous,
though. :)
Rating: PG
Notes: Character is another word for references or resume. Right about now there may begin to be
major plot differences between any movie or book version you are familiar with. Writing me with
’You were wrong--in the movie it was---’ will be totally fruitless.
Child of the Night, Chapter Ninety-one

Western Port, Transylvania
Chapter Ninety-one - Journey, Part I
"You understand why you are going on board in your box, Rill? You see why it is best that the crew
does not know that you, Sinn, and the master are on board?" asked Simion.
They stood a little distance from a guttering gas lamp, near the dock where The Celestine, the ship
that would take them to England, was berthed. Beside them the Rom were unloading narrow, long
boxes from the back of a wagon, while the horses stamped restlessly. Most of the boxes were sensibly
nailed shut, but three of them had hinged lids, and were latched.
Rill’s arms were crossed--a sure sign of displeasure, but he said, "Yes, Simion, I know. I remember
when we used to travel before. I understand, but it doesn’t mean I like it. There’s at least an hour
before the sun rises. I’d rather go on board, and get in the box just before dawn, but if we really need
to keep secret from the crew, I’ll do it."
The boy’s tone was grumbling. Simion kissed his forehead. "I’m sorry, Rill, but that’s the way it
must be. I’d rather have you in my cabin, but it’s just too dangerous. You should be able to sleep
safely down in the hold. And the nights will be very dark, since the moon is no more than a thin sliver
now. You should be able to come on deck without much risk of being seen."
"I’m sure the prince can. I’ve seen him walk right past one of the Rom, and the man never even
blinked, but I’m not as good at that as he is. I’m better with animals, and Sinn is better with people."
Simion frowned. "Yes, that’s why the prince is bringing him along, too. I would have been easier if
he’d been left behind. I don’t like to think of the sort of mischief he can get up to among the warm
blooded."
"I’m sure he’ll be good," said Rill, his voice hopeful.
Simion patted his back, nodding, and though, *He’ll try, because he knows what Draculea will do to
him if he spoils his chance to get Jonathan back. But Sinn was a predator of sorts long before that
idiot Rock turned him. I don’t know if he’ll be able to resist all those flawed and vulnerable people
out there. I just hope that he keeps his games less than lethal.*
Sinn strolled up to them. His elegant traveling suit was a little rumpled, and he straightened it
meticulously, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully blotted his mouth, removing a
trace of red. Simion said, "We’re leaving in a few minutes. I thought we’d have to leave you behind."
"Oh, no, mon ami. I’m not about to miss this trip, but I thought it wise to take a meal before we
embarked. Sea air has always given me an appetite." When Rill frowned, Sinn pinched his cheek.
"Do not be displeased, cheri. He was a nasty bit of work. The barman at the tavern told me this one
could supply me with the sweetest little girls and boys for whatever my interests. The world is well
off without him." He glanced at Simion. "And I have been discreet. I should be very surprised if
anyone finds him for two or three days, considering the stink already generated by the refuse in that
alley." He sighed, eyeing the boxes. "Mon Dieu, I hate those things. I wouldn’t mind a proper casket
so much, but I always end up with a tear in my garments when I lie in one of those. Ah, well--what
cannot be helped must be endured." He gestured to one of the Rom, who lifted the lid of one of the
boxes. "I think I will go on and have a lie down." He patted his flat stomach. "A full belly makes me
drowsy."
There was a thin pad on the bottom of the crate, covering a layer of dark, dry earth. Sinn stepped into
the crate and settled down, stretching out. It was a comfortable fit, since he was not a large man. He
folded his hands on his belly and nodded at the gypsy holding the lid. As it was put in place he
yawned, closing his eyes. Simion fitted a lock in the hasp, closing it firmly, then looked at Rill. "It’s
time you did the same."
"But what about the prince?" Rill asked anxiously.
"You needn’t worry about Draculea," said Simion. "He’s taken care of himself for a long, long time."
"And I’ve had Simion to take care of me most of that time."
Rill looked eagerly toward the familiar voice as Draculea stepped out of a nearby alleyway, into the
light. Rill put a hand to his throat, eyes soft and wondering as his mind went back to the night, so long
ago, when he’d first seen Draculea.
He’d been sitting by the fire in that low tavern in Budapest, waiting dully for Rock to bring him
another gentleman. Then the door had opened, seeming to let in the night. Greater darkness flowed
into the dim room, a tall, black figure stalking toward him--and then Draculea had stepped into the
light. Rill counted that moment as the beginning of his life. Over the years he’d sadly watched the
great man’s decline, and now...
Now he was just as he had been then--tall, strong, and beautiful. But this time his eyes were different.
Then there had been a shadow of sadness. Now they burned with life, and determination, and Rill
knew why. Then he had lost his love, and now he was going to him.
Draculea came to them, and rubbed Rill’s head. "But I won’t tell you not to worry about me--that’s
your nature, after all. Now, into your box, child."
With no more protest Rill settled into the box that had been prepared for him. Before he lay down he
looped his arms around Simion’s neck and gave him a kiss. "You’ll come down and see me? I won’t
see you, but sometimes I can feel you there."
"Yes, my love. And I will be beside you when you awaken. The voyage will be short. Only three
sleeps, if the weather remains fine."
"And I won’t have to stay in the box all the time?"
"Of course not! But you must not come out unless I am there. These sailors are a surly lot, and they’ll
think you a stow away." He patted the box. "They won’t know that you’re legitimate cargo." Rill
laughed and lay down. He gave Simion a little wave as the lid was lowered into place.
Simion latched the lid and nodded to the Rom, who lifted the box and carried it toward the ship.
Simion gazed after it, and felt Draculea’s hand on his shoulder. "He’ll be all right," said the prince.
"Rill is a good traveler."
"I know." Simion was silent for a moment, watching as the crate was carried up the ramp to the ship’s
deck. "Have I ever thanked you for him, my lord?"
"Perhaps not in so many words, old friend."
"Then I do so now. He has made me understand your pain a little better, I think. I find it hard
sometimes to believe that there is a just God. I think if there was, Rill would have lived a long life of
no pain and simple joys, and then died and gone to an even better place, long ago. But if that had
happened, I never would have known him. I’m left in the odd position of being both glad, and
outraged, that God seems to have neglected him."
"He didn’t neglect him, Simion. The Devil was let loose in the world long before our time, and the
innocent suffer--that’s just the way it is. But we were sent to him, and he’s been happy with us."
"May I confess to you, domn? I want to bring back Jonathan for him almost as much as for you. And
I’d like to find Renfield again, too." He smiled. "Rill and I can’t have children together, of course,
but caring for the weak is so much a part of Rill. You saw how he was with the baby that Sinn brought
to us. That child would have eventually grown, aged, and died. But Renfield..." He looked at
Draculea. "It needn’t be like that with Renfield." It was more of a question than a statement.
Draculea smiled at him. "Our household has recently decreased by one. I see no reason why we
shouldn’t take in someone else who could fit in so well. We’ll see. Well, after pushing Rill to not
delay, I’d best follow my own directive."
A third box was opened, and Draculea climbed in. He was a big man, and he fitted more snuggly in
the box than the other two had. He gazed up at Simion and said, "Bring one of the Rom down with
you this evening. I think it best that we stay below at least the first night."
"As you say." Simion himself closed the box, carefully locking the lid down. Then he nodded to the
Rom, who had just returned from the ship. They hefted the box and carried it toward The Celestine,
with Simion pacing them. *Three days,* he thought. *As long as he’s lived, it should seem like no
more than a flicker. But he knows that Jonathan is on the other side of this journey. I have a feeling
that it’s going to seem almost endless to him."
~*~*~*~*~*~
The Westenra Estate
Outside of London
Lucy came into the dining room, yawning daintily. "I’ll have you know, Mina, that you are the only
person for whom I will rise at the crack of dawn."
Amused, Mina looked up from her plate. "Lucy, it’s gone eight o’clock. Your father breakfasted an
hour ago, and has gone for a ride."
Lucy sat across from her and took a piece of toast from the rack in the center. She spread it thickly
with butter, then reached for the marmalade. "Anything before ten o’clock is the crack of dawn,
Mina. Be mother--pour me a cup of chocolate."
Mina took up the chocolate pot and poured out a cup of thick, fragrant chocolate, then picked up the
cup and saucer and offered it to her friend. Lucy took it, and Mina took up the newspaper folded by
her plate. She watched at Mina dropped a couple of sugar lumps into her cup. "Lucy! You’ll give
yourself diabetes."
"Nonsense. I’m frighteningly healthy." She munched her toast hungrily. "You have no idea how hard
it is to keep the men convinced of my fragility."
The butler came in. He was carrying several envelopes and a letter opener on a small, silver tray. He
offered it to Lucy. "The morning mail, Miss Lucy."
"Mm, drat," she mumbled around a mouthful of toast. She swallowed, wiped her fingers on a napkin,
and took the envelopes.
"Shall I wait for replies, Miss?"
"What? Oh, no. No, of course not. I’m not going to snatch up paper and pen and dash off replies
now." She took the letter opener, then made flicking motions at him with it, "I’ll let you know
later." The butler gave her a shallow bow and left the room, thinking that it was a shame that
employers weren’t required to have references. He’d have had an interesting thing or two to write in
Miss Lucy’s character.
"Anything interesting?" asked Mina.
"Oh, it’s the usual lot of invitations and duty notes thanking Papa and I for visits they paid us. Oh.
Mina, here’s one for you, and it’s not from Jonathan, or your mother." Mina put down the paper,
interested, and reached for it. "It’s from a law firm. Mina, what HAVE you been up to?"
Mina read the outside of the envelope. "It’s from Jonathan’s employers." She accepted the letter
opener from Lucy and slit the envelope open.
Lucy saw her friend’s apprehension and said, "Perhaps Jonathan has had a great triumph, and they’re
bringing him home with a salary rise and an advance in position."
"How little you know of business," said Mina. "A letter from an employer is seldom good news." She
started to read.
Lucy watched a series of emotions flit across Mina’s face. She got up and came around to her side.
Putting her arms around Mina’s neck she said, "What is it, Mina, dear? Is it really bad news?"
"I..." Mina clasped Lucy’s hand with her free one. "It’s both bad and good. Lucy, Jonathan has been
hurt."
"Oh, poor Mina!"
Mina took a deep breath. "It isn’t good, but they think he’ll be all right. They’re sending him home.
Lucy, could..."
"Of COURSE he’ll come here! We can get nurses to watch him day and night."
"But I’d want to..."
"Yes, you’ll want to nurse him yourself, but you can’t do it all. And I’m sure that dear Arthur will be
happy to see to him personally."
"That may be necessary. They say that he has had a head injury, and he was unconscious for several
days." Her hand tightened on Lucy’s. "He... he might not come back to himself. Lucy, what will I
do?"
Lucy kissed her. "It’s going to be all right. I’m sure he’ll get better. You know that you can stay here
as long as you like, and if Jonathan needs help... He’s special to you, Mina, and so he’s special to me.
Now, stop troubling yourself. It may not be as bad as you fear. He’s well enough to travel, isn’t he?"
"Yes." Mina wiped her eyes. "There is that." She hugged Lucy. "I don’t know what I’d do without
you."
Lucy stroked Mina’s hair. "When will he arrive?"
"They’re not sure, but soon--two or three days. A man, some sort of church servant, I think, will be
accompanying him."
Lucy rang a small hand bell on the table, and the butler came quickly, "We’ll be receiving Miss
Mina’s fiance soon. He’s been injured, and will convalesce here, so I’ll need a comfortable room
made up for him. One in the back of the house, I think, overlooking the garden. Yes, the blue
room--the one with the balcony. Then when he’s well enough he can sit out in the sun. There’s a little
dressing room adjoining, perfect for a nurse. Have it prepared at once. Oh, and tell Cook to be sure
that she has plenty of food that’s
suitable for an invalid--lots of strong, clear soups, puddings, cereals, white meat of chicken--you know
the sort of things." She again made shooing motions at him. "Go! Hurry!"
The butler bowed and left to carry out the orders, thinking, wryly, *She’ll quite wear herself out with
giving directions.*
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Onboard The Celestine
First night out
The captain poured the ship’s owner another tot of rum and watched narrowly as the older man swilled
it down. He was sick of working under the sot, and so were the other three men on the crew.
They’d discussed things in their last layover, and had come to a conclusion. The next time they had a
rich enough cargo, they’d simply disappear. Piracy was well past its heyday, but it would never
completely die out--not as long as men such as he still sailed.
The captain had connections. With the co-operation of the crew it would be easy enough to take the
ship, sail it to a discreet little dock that he knew of, and dispose of both the cargo and the ship itself.
But of course the owner, and any passengers, would have to find a snug berth at the bottom of the sea,
and if he was going to be committing a hanging offense, he wanted to be sure that the gain would be
worth the risk.
"What is it in them crates, then?" he asked.
The owner glanced at him before returning his gaze to the bottle. "Never you mind. All you need to
know is that we’re being paid well to move them."
"Must be being paid VERY well, if that’s all you took on. We could have waited another day or two
and shipped fully laden."
"And I’d have been a poor business man if we had. The customer is paying me near triple the usual
fee for a fast passage."
The captain’s eyes widened at this, but he carefully avoided any other reaction. The owner must be
even drunker than he’d though to let that fact slip. None of the extra money would find its way down
to the crew--not unless it was taken.
"Well, I can’t imagine what could be needed so urgently in England. Don’t think medical supplies or
equipment would be packaged so crudely."
The captain snorted. "Did you think that the men in charge of it LOOKED like doctors? Gypsies!"
He spat on the floor. "Though the man who commands them might actually have a bit of quality. The
old rich--they dress like that. Quiet and simple, but good quality."
"So you think that he might be a toff? Wouldn’t he be on one of them fancy liners, then? They have
room enough for his crates. There’s only... let’s see... Nine. Yeah, one of the fancy ships could
handle that easily enough, and he’d be nice and comfortable in one of those state cabins. He’d be
among his own kind."
The owner held up a finger. "Ah, but what if he doesn’t WANT to be among his own kind? I think
he’s laying low, this one."
The captain pressed more rum on the owner, and continued his probing. He got no more information,
and came to the conclusion that was indeed all the captain knew. He’d have to find out a bit more on
his own before he decided whether or not to move. It might not be easy. So far there had been at least
one of the passengers standing watch by the cargo hold at all times.
He left the owner laying across the table, snoring, and went up to the wheel. The first mate was on
duty. He looked at the captain expectantly, saying, "Well? Are we to remain honest seamen?"
The captain laughed. "I’m not sure yet. There’s some cash to be had. The old fool took on," he
hesitated, "double his usual fee, and I know that he must have brought it with him. But that’s not
worth the risk. We need to know what’s in those crates."
"I think it might be something good," said the mate. "The cook knows a few words of Romany, and he
was listening to the gypsies talk over supper. He heard ’em mention a prince."
"Well, now! Yeah, there’s still a good number of them minor royals out there. Probably from some
tiny little country we’ve never heard of. Their fortunes are nothing compared to Victoria’s, but they
do well enough by the standards of such as you and I."
"Maybe one of them has decided to buy himself a nice manor house to go with his castle. Maybe he’s
bringing over some of his royal hair-looms. You could fit a lot of silver knickknacks into those
crates."
The captain nodded, and thought, *And not just silver. I’ve heard tales of the types of golden, jeweled
gewgaws the blue bloods like to gift each other with. One or two of those fancy Easter eggs couple set
a prudent man up nicely.* "I think this may be the time to find our independence, but I’d like to be
sure. Have the cook keep his ears open, and tell the others to look for a chance to get below and sniff
around a bit. But tell them to be careful. Those Rom look rough--they probably won’t have a problem
with defending their master’s property."
"Nice to hear you being so worried about their safety."
The sarcasm was unmistakable, and the captain shrugged. "Docking isn’t easy when you’re short
handed, but it’s possible. Besides, fewer shares mean bigger shares, eh?"
The mate grinned at him. They understood each other.
end part 91
Back to index
Chapter 92: Chapter 92: The Journey II

Rating: R
Summary: The journey to England continues, and vicious greed is punished.
Archive: Mailing lists, and pre-approved archives
Disclaimer: Based on characters and concepts created by Bram Stoker, now in public domain.
Notes: enfer--hell. You’ll notice an occasional difference in how the Rom speak. When they are more
fluent, they’re speaking their own dialect. When it’s less grammatical, they’re speaking English.

The Celestine
Chapter Ninety-two: The Journey II
The First Day out
Just before sunset, Simion and one of the Rom came out and stood on the deck. While the Rom
walked aft, Simion glanced up toward the bridge, where the first mate stood at the wheel. He didn’t
like the man--he had a crafty look. So did the captain--and for that matter, the rest of the crew wasn’t
any better. The ship’s owner seemed honest enough, though a bit vague. He drank--that much was
obvious. In Simion’s experience such men had little control of their subordinates. Given the type of
men he employed, that might be dangerous. Simion would have preferred to charter a different ship,
but his requirements had left him little choice. He’d needed someone who could leave quickly, and
who wouldn’t ask questions.
*I have a feeling that there will be trouble before this voyage is over,* he thought, walking back
toward the cargo hatch. The two Rom were conversing quietly. He spoke to the one who had been
standing guard. "The crew?"
"Interested, but keeping their distance," he replied.
"They may not continue to be so distant." The guard nodded in understanding. Simion gestured, and
the guard opened the hatch.
He started down the short ladder. After descending several rungs, he reached over and felt along a
small shelf that was fixed to the wall. He found a pack of matches and struck one, then used it to light
the lantern that hung on a nearby hook. Simion left the lantern hanging, rather than taking it down. It
did not cast much light, but it was enough--a dim glow pooled around the three crates closest to the
ladder.
Simion pulled a key from his pocket and opened the locks that he had hooked through the latches last
thing before he’d left the crates below deck that morning. Then he drew a stool up next to one of the
outside boxes and sat beside it. "Do you still sleep, my love? The sun was kissing the horizon as I
came down." He reached out, running a hand lightly over the top, his touch as gentle as if it were
passing over smooth skin. "You know, I was a soldier, and I could sleep anywhere, if need be. Soft
bed or hard ground, it made little difference. But I have grown so used to holding you, or you holding
me... Sleep does not come easily if you are not by my side, Rill."
There was a minute sound from within the crate, and a smile broke over Simion’s face. Most of the
world saw him as grim, but a few had seen his expression soften with love, and pride. "Yes. Time to
get up, my little one."
The lid of the box lifted slowly--one inch, two... Pale fingers curved over the edge, gripping,
bracing... Then the lid rose fully as Rill sat up, pushing it. When the lid had reached its limit, and
would stay open, Rill let go and scrubbed his hands over his face like a newly awakened child,
yawning. Then he looked over at Simion and smiled. He slumped, draping his elbows over the crate’s
rim, clasping his hands, and resting his chin on them. "Hello, Simion. I missed you."
"I also missed you, my heart. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes. I dreamed that we had found Jonathan and brought him home. He played soldiers with us, and
the prince was so young, and strong, and happy."
"We will see to it that it was a prophetic dream." He stroked Rill’s hair. "Hungry?" The boy nodded.
Simion stood and went to the ladder. Rill climbed out of the crate as Simion called up to the deck.
The second Rom climbed down and went immediately to Rill. "Not much," Simion cautioned him.
"Remember, you can’t go hunting while we’re on board."
"I know," said Rill, taking hold of the gypsy’s shoulders. He smiled at the man. "Hello, Salazar. I’m
glad you came with us."
Salazar nodded cheerfully. "Yes. You drink good." He tapped his fist against his chest. "I eat much
meat to be strong for you." Rill beamed his thanks, then bent his head, and sank his fangs into the
man’s freely offered throat. Among the Rom it was an honor to be chosen to serve Draculea’s
household, and the highest honor was to give drink to the master, or his companions. While the men
respected Draculea to the point of awe, Rill was their pet. Salazar sighed, closing his eyes. If it was
done gently, the vampire’s kiss was pleasurable, and no matter how hungry he was, Rill was always
considerate.
As Rill fed, Simion unlocked the other two crates. By the time Rill had finished and was, as he had
been taught, checking to be sure that his donor did not need any medical help, the second crate opened,
and the prince emerged. "All goes well, master," Simion informed him. "The weather is fine."
The Rom stepped forward, offering his throat, but Draculea shook his head. "Not yet. Perhaps
tomorrow night." He smiled. "I relish an edge of hunger now. It makes me feel alive. You may go.
Rest." The Rom bowed, then made his way up the ladder. Draculea glanced around. "Sinn?"
Simion shrugged, then gestured toward the third box. "You know how he is."
Draculea leaned over and rapped sharply on the lid of the box. "Get up, slothful."
The lid lifted, and Sinn sat up. His voice was slightly aggrieved. "I only thought that you three might
like a little time together alone. I don’t enjoy intruding."
"Save your pathos for someone who does not know you so well," said Draculea dryly.
Sinn looked offended, but made no comment as he climbed out of his resting place. Once he’d
stepped out, he brushed himself down, examining himself carefully. "Sacre! Look at this!" He
showed Rill a small rip in his left sleeve. "What did I say? Always some damage."
"When we arrive you can arrange to get yourself a suitable coffin," said Draculea. "You know that
when we travel a plain crate attracts less attention."
Sinn frowned. "But won’t our place in England have proper beds? Enfer, I don’t want to sleep boxed
up any more than I must."
"I’m given to understand that the property isn’t in the best of shape. It may be that your crate will be
more comfortable than whatever beds are available. Don’t make a face. You know very well that
location is much more important than condition in this case."
"Ah, well. Heaven knows I am not one to complain. Why did you send the Rom away so quickly? I
haven’t yet had my breakfast."
"You were complaining of being too full before we came aboard, glutton," said Simion.
Sinn put his hands on his hips and huffed, "I am guilty of many sins, but I have avoided gluttony."
"That meal should last you another day or two," said Draculea. "I want the Rom strong and alert for
the next few days. I don’t feel easy about this crew."
"They’re far too curious for my liking," said Simion. "They remind me of the bandits that used to
roam around the castle."
Sinn smiled nostalgically, and a glint of fang showed in the dim glow of the lantern. "Ah, they were
some good eating--very robust. And so considerate. One had only to stroll along a moonlit road,
looking rich and unwary, and they would come to you. You think that these men might be foolish
enough to attempt something, even with our faithful Rom so prominently on guard?"
"The captain and mate look sly," said Simion, "so it’s possible."
Sinn’s dismay was patently false. "That would be such a pity. Perhaps I should go topside and
pre-empt their possible mistake?"
"While we’re still so far from our destination?" snapped Draculea. "Have you ever sailed a ship this
size into harbor?"
Sinn looked at him as if he were deranged, but his tone was mild. "No, I have not."
"None of us have. If anything is done at all, we need to wait till we have almost reached our
destination. What if the ship should sink through our ignorance, Sinn? I’m fairly sure that vampires
cannot drown, but do you really want to test that theory?"
"No, I do not. Even if it were not fatal, I have no doubt that it would be very unpleasant. We remain
below?"
"For the time being."
"So be it. We’ll just have to amuse ourselves." He rummaged in his pocket, then made a sound of
surprise as he pulled out a deck of cards. "Now, how do you suppose those got in there? He shuffled
the cards with lazy dexterity. "What shall we play, mon petite? Piquet, baccarat, German whist..."
Rill clapped his hands happily. "Old Maid."
Simion hid a smile as Sinn looked pained. "A fine game, but wouldn’t you rather play baccarat?"
"No. You always win at that, because you get impatient with me when I try to keep count. Old
Maid."
Sinn’s tone called everyone to witness his martyrdom. "Very well." He picked a queen out of the
pack and started shuffling again. "Old Maid it is." He glanced over at Simion and Draculea. "I don’t
suppose you two would care to join us?" He received smiles in return. "I thought not. Rill, if I am
left as the Old Maid, and you tease me, I will be very displeased."
Rill gave him an innocent look. "I wouldn’t do that." As Sinn started dealing, Rill gave Draculea and
Simion a secret, gleeful smile.
Simion stifled a chuckle, and Draculea whispered, "Well, he wouldn’t do it if he hadn’t caught Sinn
cheating more than once--AFTER he promised not to."
The Second Day Out
Salazar joined Simion at the stern that afternoon. "These men, Domn." He spat over the rail. "Not
only cutthroats, but stupid ones. They think because I do not talk to them, I do not know their
language, so they speak of what they will do to us while I am in the very room."
Simion grunted, staring out at the sea. "I was afraid of this. All of them?"
"All but the ship owner. He is not part of this, but he is weak. He knows nothing but the bottle."
"He’ll be of no use."
"None."
"Did you hear any specifics?"
"No, Domn, but I think that they will wait as long as they think they can. The thought of killing does
not bother them, but risking death themselves does."
Simion considered for a moment. "So, the captain and his five against you, your friend, myself..." He
smiled slowly. "And Rill, Sinn, and the master."
Salazar smiled sharply. "My grandfather saw them beset by bandits once. He used to tell me the story
often."
"It’s impressive, but still it’s an experience I hope you do not witness. Our mission is important, and
the less fate throws in Draculea’s way, the better."
The Rom thought, then said, "Take them out first?"
Simion considered for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "No. It’s important that we get closer
to England--close enough to be sure that the ship will reach land even without trained sailors to guide
it. I believe we can get ashore safely if it runs aground, but if it turns back out to sea things may be
difficult. No, we wait." He sighed. "I just hope that they hold off for awhile."
The Julyan
Jonathan shifted restlessly on the bunk, feeling the fitfull roll of the ship. There was no porthole in the
cabin, so he could not see how the weather was, but the sea seemed more restless than yesterday.
Unable to remain still any longer, he sat up and swung his legs over the side. He stood, carefully
clinging to the edge of the bunk. It good that he did. His head swam a little, and his knees were
weak. He sat down before they had a chance to give way, and decided he’d best wait a moment before
trying again.
He’d wanted to come on board under his own power, but Lukas wouldn’t hear of it. The porter had
hefted Jonathan into his arms like a child and carried him from the wagon, up the gangplank, and into
this cabin. Jonathan had no trouble with being cared for if he truly needed assistance, but he hated
being treated as if he were fragile.
He had been tempted to struggle for release, but the crew of the ship had been watching, and the
reluctance to cause a scene was too strongly ingrained. He’d been deposited in this bunk and ordered
to rest. Lukas brought him food, or a chamber pot when it was required. His attendance was
careful--and smothering.
Jonathan scarcely had a moment to himself. Lukas slept on a trundle bed pulled from beneath the
bunk, and he spent most of the day sitting at Jonathan’s bedside, reading scripture--occasionally out
loud. He brought their meals to the cabin. The only time he left Jonathan’s side was to relieve
himself. No, that wasn’t true--he had stayed on deck a few moments, and Jonathan was sure that he’d
spent the time scanning the horizon, looking for some unknown threat.
Lukas was making one of his rare trips outside now, and Jonathan knew that he needed to get on with
it if he wanted to get out of the room. Lukas would never approve of his charge ambulating about
unsupervised.
Jonathan was clad in pajamas, as he had been since awakening in the convent. He desperately wanted
to put on some decent clothes, but he wasn’t sure if Lukas had even brought any. There were a few of
the porter’s own garments, but they were likely to fall off Jonathan’s more slender frame. In any case,
he decided that he couldn’t take the time to find out. Jonathan stood again, and this time his head
stayed clear, and his legs felt firm under him. Still, he moved slowly and carefully as he made his way
toward the door. No more than a dozen steps, and he was there. Feeling a lift at the prospect of going
outside, he grasped the door handle--and found that it was locked.
He regarded it with disbelief, and tried it again. Locked. He knocked on the door. "Hello?" He heard
footsteps outside, and rapped again. "Hello!"
A voice he didn’t recognize said, "Yeah? You need your man?"
"No. The door’s locked. I want out."
"Huh. Don’t know ’bout that. Him what brought you said this door was to stay locked." There was a
snicker. "He seems to think someone be after you."
For a second the image of Rock’s face--pale and mad--appeared in Jonathan’s mind, then he shook his
head. "That’s ridiculous. We’re at sea now. Unlock the door."
"Can’t do it. I ain’t the one with the key. But I’ll tell your friend you want him, eh?"
"No, you don’t need to..." The footsteps were fading, and Jonathan sighed. He thought briefly, then
went and sat on the bunk again.
He’d barely been seated when he heard the key turn in the lock, and Lukas entered. Seeing Jonathan,
he scowled and hurried over. "Young man, what are you doing? The crewman told me he spoke to
you at the door. Tell me you weren’t so foolish as to be trying to move around."
"The door was locked."
Lukas was lifting Jonathan’s legs up onto the bunk. "Lie back down. I know it doesn’t seem like
much, but a fall out of bed can do much damage."
"I’m not going to fall." Jonathan had allowed himself to be maneuvered into lying back down, but
now he started to sit up again. "You locked me in!"
Lukas pushed him back, and the hands on Jonathan’s shoulders were not entirely gentle. "That isn’t
how it is, Mister Harker. I’m locking something OUT. This is done for your protection."
"Protection from what? Lukas, this is ridiculous. We’re in the middle of the ocean. Unless you’re
worried about the crew, there’s nothing that can harm me." Lukas just stared at him. "Is there?"
Lukas brushed the hair off Jonathan’s forehead, and Jonathan fought down the urge to flinch. "I’ll
keep one from them. One innocent."
"Lukas?"
The man blinked. "You don’t want to know, Mister Harker. Just relax, and accept that I’m doing
what’s right for you." He pulled the sheet up, tucking Jonathan in, then sat and picked up his Bible.
"Let me read you something to take your mind off things. Perhaps something from the Song of
Solomon..."
Jonathan thought of the distant look in Lukas’ eyes a moment ago, and decided that now was not the
time to protest his forced bed rest.
The Celestine
The Third Day Out
They knew that the storm was coming just after dawn. The captain put up all the sails, hoping to
outrun it, since he believed that they should reach land before nightfall.
The storm came on more quickly than they had anticipated, catching them before noon. Thick
gray-black clouds curdled overhead, obscuring all trace of sunlight. The sea rose and fell, great waves
washing up over the deck as rain slashed down, so thick that it was impossible to see more than a few
yards in any direction. One could not see from one side of the ship to the other, much less from stem
to stern.
The captain and first mate met again on the bridge, and they had to raise their voices to be heard over
the sounds of the storm. "We’d best wait till the storm passes," said the mate. "It’s getting worse. I’m
going to tie myself to the wheel--I don’t want to risk being washed over."
"Sounds sensible," said the captain. "But the storm is our ally. The confusion will make it easier to
take them, I’m sure. Only one of them guards the hatch now, and the storm should cover any
approach. The other two are staying within their cabin--we can catch them there."
The mate made a noise that indicated he was unconvinced as he took a length of rope and began
lashing himself in place. "Are you sure that they won’t be better able to defend themselves in a small
space?"
"Calm yourself--you’re not the one at risk. All you have to do is stay here and steer. Once we’ve
eliminated the guard, I’ll send in all three of our shipmates to take care of the others." He smiled
nastily. "If we lose one of them, or even two..." He shrugged.
"I’m not sure about this," said the mate. "Why don’t we just dock as we planned, and let the
passengers go on their way? Then we can take the passage money from the captain. You said yourself
it’s a tidy sum."
"It’s a pittance compared to what we could have."
"But you don’t KNOW what’s in the crates. You say treasure, but it could just as well be what it looks
like they were built for."
"And what would that be?"
"Bodies. Maybe they’re trying to smuggle bodies into England. You know that the government
wouldn’t allow them to bring in anyone who’d died of something contagious. What if some rich man
died of cholera, or the plague, or leprosy, and his family wanted to bury him at home? They might
very well hire someone to try to smuggle the body back like..."
"What an imagination you have. No, it’s something very valuable--I’d stake my life on it. You just
stay here and tend the wheel. You won’t have to dirty your hands, and I’ll still give you a share in
what we take." The captain touched the long knife that he’d tucked in his belt. "You might want to
plug your ears, if your nature is so delicate."
The captain met the other three crewmen, two sailors, and the cook, a little farther down the ship.
"You two--one of you take care of the owner. He won’t be any trouble, unless it bothers you to kill
someone who’s blind drunk?" The men gave him blank looks. Why should they mind that? Didn’t it
make it easier? "Once he’s dead, take care of the other two, and be careful. They won’t be as easy
meat as the owner. You," he indicated the cook, "come with me. I want you to go along the other side
of the ship. Keep out of sight. I’ll engage the gypsy on guard, and when he’s well distracted, you
come over the hatch and take care of him. If we’re quiet and quick, this should come off with no fuss
or muss. Then we just adjust course a bit to sail to a quiet spot I know, and we all live like gentlemen
on whatever we take."
They separated. One of the crewmen slipped into the owner’s cabin. In a way it was amazing that the
man had lived so long, considering how unsuspicious he was. Had he locked his cabin door, he might
have survived a bit longer--but perhaps not. It’s very likely that what soon transpired would have been
too much for his heart. He’d fallen asleep in his chair, his head thrown back, and his assassin didn’t
even have to lift his head to bare his throat for the knife. The owner slipped from sleep to death with
nary a flicker. It isn’t known if he awakened into some other life, but if he did, he was most likely
very surprised. The deed done, the murderer went to join his comrade in the narrow hall outside the
passengers’ cabin.
The cook crept down the far side of the ship, careful to stay close to the walls. It was as much for
safety as stealth. The waves that slammed against the ship and broke over the deck didn’t rise any
higher than his knees, but that would be plenty to sweep the unwary away.
The gypsy was sitting on the hatch, clinging tightly to the metal rings that were used to help lift it out
of the way when the ship was unloaded. His back was to him, and the cook fidgeted with the knife
he’d brought--the longest one in his galley. The only killing he’d ever done was in a tavern brawl,
when a bottle had proved to be harder than his enemy’s skull. He wasn’t sure what would be the best
target, make the cleanest kill. He wanted it to be quick. He didn’t think he’d be able to do it if the
man really struggled. He was sure that the captain would be able to finish the job, but he didn’t want
to think of what might happen to him if the captain thought he hadn’t put every effort into his part of
the plan.
The Rom on guard didn’t see or hear the captain approaching till the man had almost reached him.
With the cover of the wind and rain, it was hard to say if the man had been being purposefully stealthy,
but the Rom tended to think the worst of people--it was the safest way. He squinted against the rain,
watching the man carefully as he approached.
The captain eyed the Rom, then pointed back up toward the bridge, and said, "Your master wants
you." The man regarded him silently. Working on the usual theory of the ignorant that something was
more readily understood if it was stated in a louder tone, he raised his voice. "Your master! Go to
him." He jabbed his finger forcefully in the direction of the prow, then jabbed the Rom’s shoulder to
help make his point.
That was a stupid thing to do, but the captain was getting impatient. The Rom released his hold on
one of the rings, striking the captain’s hand away, while cursing him in his own language.
That was the moment that the cook chose to attack. He broke from hiding, lunging across the hatch
toward the Rom’s unprotected back, knife upraised. Centuries of inbred caution served the Rom well.
Perhaps it was a small sound, perhaps it was a small displacement of air, but he sensed something
rushing at him from behind, and twisted around. His hand came up in time to catch the cook’s wrist,
stopping the downward sweep of the knife. At the same instant his free hand dropped to his belt,
pulling his own knife.
Though the rain was cold, the cook suddenly felt a burst of warmth in his belly--painful warmth. He
tried to pull back, but the gypsy had an iron grip on his wrist. The gypsy shifted, and the pain
increased. The Rom was glaring at him, and he was smiling. It was horrible. The cook saw his own
death in that smile.
Suddenly the Rom sported another smile--this one below his chin. A red curve swept across his throat,
from one side to the other, drooling crimson. The man looked surprised, and he let go of the cook’s
wrist, reaching up to touch the red liquid that was quickly rinsing away in the driving rain. Then he
collapsed, his knife falling from his hand, and the cook saw the captain standing behind him, knife
clenched in his white knuckled fist. "Help me get him overboard."
"I... I can’t," the cook whimpered. He clutched his own side, and felt the warm seepage of blood
between his fingers. "He got me bad. I think I’m dying."
"You’ve got breath enough to complain, haven’t you? Stay there. Once the others are through with
the passengers, they’ll be here to help you. I’m going below and see what we’ve won ourselves."
As the captain lifted the hatch, the cook moaned, "Don’t leave me here!" The ship gave a particularly
nasty roll, and he barely managed to cling on. "I’ll be swept away."
As the captain made his way down the ladder, he muttered, "Then that’s one less bit of trash I’ll have
to clean up."
He took the lantern from its hook, but waited till he was down in the hold to try to light it. It took him
several tries, but somehow he managed it despite the spray that came through the hatch. He put the
lantern on the floor near one of the cases, rubbing his hands in anticipation--until he saw the locks on
the crates. *Damn it! Well, there’s a crowbar here somewhere.*
While the captain searched for the tool, the other two crewmembers decided that they needn’t wait to
finish off the two passengers. After all, they’d have the element of surprise on their side, wouldn’t
they? They debated in whispers whether they should just burst in, or whether they should enter
quietly. If the passengers were in their bunks because of the rough weather, they might be able to
finish them off with as little trouble as they had the captain.
They decided on stealth. Luckily, the door was unlocked. The first crewman eased it open quietly,
peering in. The room was dark, the light from the flickering lantern hung in the hall barely
illuminating the interior. All they could make out were vague shapes, but the darkness had to mean
that the men were asleep. The sailor could only see one of the two bunks, but there was a figure in it,
lying with his back to the room. So much the better. Just a few steps and a quick stab... He stepped
into the room, raising the knife.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Down in the hold, the captain had found the crowbar. It took only one good, solid blow to knock the
lock loose, and then a quick wrench to pry it completely free of the box, so he performed that
operation on each box in swift succession. He tossed the crowbar aside and paused for a moment,
rubbing his hands together. This was his moment of triumph, and he wanted to savor it. "Now," he
murmured, "what riches await?"
He bent and lifted the lid of the first box, then almost leaped back in astonishment. No silver plate.
No rich antiques. The box contained, as the first mate had speculated, a corpse. It seemed to be a very
fresh body, but he was dead, nonetheless. The captain stepped a little closer, studying him. In life he
had been a big, sternly handsome man in his forties. His dark hair lay over his shoulders, and he had a
thick, luxuriant moustache that made him look fierce.
Remembering what the mate had said about cholera or plague, the captain let the lid drop, and moved
away again. But the man looked far too healthy to have died from either of those illnesses, and there
were still more boxes to investigate. Hoping against hope, he opened another.
This corpse was much younger--the man scarcely more than a youth. His dark hair was curly, and his
smooth face had a childlike cast. He looked almost like a little boy, napping.
By now he had little hope, but the captain opened the third box. The man in this one was a little older
physically than the boy, but he looked ages older in experience. There was something about him that
suggested indulgence, and a predisposition toward vice.
*Damn! It looks as if all I’ll get is the passage money and the price of the ship. Ah, well. Perhaps I
can relieve these of some trinkets they won’t be needing any more. I saw a nice ring on that first one,
but I’d wager that this one has some interesting gold gewgaws in his pockets.*
He knelt beside the box and began to search the dead man. Through the clothes he could feel the chill
of dead flesh, but it seemed remarkably supple. He was just trying to worm his left hand into the
corpse’s right trouser pocket when its brilliant green eyes snapped open, flicking over to fix on him,
and a cold, hard hand closed around his wrist.
"What do you think you are doing, thief?" Sinn hissed.
Acting instinctively, the captain lashed out. He slashed down, burying the knife deep in the man’s
chest, just between the two sides of the ribcage. He stabbed so deep that the blade’s tip wedged in the
spinal column.
Sinn yelled, jerking in pain as the man fell back, sitting clumsily. The captain waited for his victim to
die so that he could retrieve his knife. "Son of a dog!" gasped the man. He grabbed the knife, tugging
at it. "You’ve ruined my traveling jacket, and one of my best shirts!"
The captain gaped as the former corpse tried to remove the knife, cursing lustily in French. He heard a
sound and looked over to find the other young man standing up in his box, rubbing his eyes, and
yawning. "What time is it? It can’t be sunset yet, can it?" A spray of water hit him, and he shivered.
"Oh, a storm. That explains..." He looked over and saw Sinn trying to pull the knife out.
Understanding immediately, he scowled at the captain. "That wasn’t nice," he accused. "Sinn didn’t
do anything to you."
"Oh, stop correcting him, Rill. We’ll deal with him in a moment, but come and help me now. I can’t
get this thing loose on my own."
Rill stepped out of his box and, ignoring the captain, went over to Sinn. He braced one foot on the
crate’s rim, taking hold of the knife with both hands. "Hold on." Sinn grabbed the sides of the box,
and Rill heaved.
Sinn yelled in pain. "That hurts!"
"I know. I’m sorry, but I think it’s stuck on a bone. I’m going to have to wiggle it."
"Merde!" Sinn glared at the stunned mortal, and the bones in his face seemed to shift slightly. When
he spoke again his voice was a snarl, and he showed fangs. "You’re going to pay for this, pig. Do it,
Rill." Rill worked the knife back and forth, pulling hard. It came loose with an unpleasant grinding,
slurping sound.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
As the first sailor stepped hesitantly into the room, Salazar, who had been standing behind the door,
grabbed his arm and jerked him the rest of the way in. The instant that he did, Simion rolled over on
his bunk and fired the two shot pistol he’d smuggled on board. He didn’t shoot at the crewman who
was struggling with the gypsy--that would have been too dangerous for the Rom. No, he fired through
the open doorway. The bullet smashed into the shoulder of the second sailor, throwing him back
against the wall.
While the sailor and Salazar struggled, Simion jumped up, prepared to finish the job, but the wounded
man had rushed out onto the deck. Trusting the Rom to finish any fight where he’d started off with an
advantage, Simion pursued the other sailor out onto the deck.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Down in the hold they heard an explosion. It was different from the rolling boom of thunder, and it
wasn’t accompanied by the bright flash that meant a crack of lightening. No, this was a gunshot, and it
had come from the front of the ship.
Rill reacted immediately, screaming, "SIMION!" He threw down the knife and swarmed up the ladder
without a single backward glance at the captain. As he disappeared through the hatch, the third box
opened.
The captain wet himself as that box’s occupant seemed to float erect, rather than stand. He stared
down at the shuddering seaman with eyes that reflected red in the lamplight. After a moment he said
flatly, "So, you couldn’t resist. Fool." Draculea looked over at Sinn. "You’re a mess." Sinn
responded with a gravelly snarl. "What of the others?"
"I don’t know. I doubt the guard has survived, if this one managed to get down here. Something is
happening with Simion. There was a shot, and Rill just flew out of here, off to the rescue."
Draculea frowned in concern. "I’d better go see." He started to climb the ladder.
"What about this one?" Sinn called.
Draculea paused halfway up the ladder, and looked back at him, slightly annoyed. "I trust I don’t have
to instruct you there."
"Oh, no."
Draculea continued, disappearing into the wet night. The captain scrabbled on the floor, grabbing up
the knife. He held it toward the undead creature before him, his hands trembling. Sinn stared at him
coldly, then said, "Do you really want to do that? You’ve already made me angry."
The captain hesitated. In that split second Sinn was on him. The killer’s final scream died away in a
liquid gurgle...
~*~*~*~*~*~
Something was happening. The first mate knew that, but he could see nothing through the rain. He
could hear, though. True, the sounds of violence were muffled and distorted by the weather, but the
gunshot had been unmistakable, and that scream from near the stern had been blood chilling.
He dug a rosary out of his pocket, and wondered if his time in Purgatory would be less since he’d only
failed to prevent murder, and had not committed it himself.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The sailor Simion had shot headed back toward the hold, thinking he’d have more help from the
captain than from the first mate. Simion emerged soon after him, and braced himself for another shot.
The ship pitched, though, and the bullet whizzed harmlessly past the would-be murderer. Simion
cursed and fumbled in his pockets for more shells.
The sailor had paused to grab hold of the rail when the last wave broke on the deck, and he saw
Simion trying to reload. With an evil grin, he darted toward Simion, knife ready.
A heavy body crashed into his back, knocking him sprawling, as someone screamed, "NO!" The knife
was wrenched from his hand so brutally that the bones in his wrist snapped, causing the hand to flop at
an unnatural angle. He had no time to think of this pain, though, because his attacker had a hard grip
in his hair, and had begun smashing his face against the deck. "My Simion! Mine! You won’t hurt
him, I won’t let you!" Again and again he was pounded on the hard planks. His nose broke, and his
cheekbones, and all he could do was thrash weakly. Blood filled his nose and throat, and he started to
drown in it. He didn’t live long enough for that to happen. His head was jerked up and back, and
sharp fangs slashed into his flesh.
Simion continued to load his gun (he needed to be ready, in case Salazar found his own attacker a
nuisance), but he felt no need to hurry as he watched Rill feed on the dying sailor. After a moment the
boy stood up, lifted the feebly twitching body, and heaved it over the side. Then he went to Simion.
Simion tucked the pistol in his belt and embraced his lover, patting the distressed young vampire
soothingly. "There, Rill. I’m all right."
Rill hugged him back. "He was going to kill you."
"Yes, but he didn’t have a chance--not with you protecting me."
"They killed the gypsy who was guarding us, Simion. I stepped over him."
"He died as he would have liked--protecting you and the master."
"I know, but it still makes me sad. One of them stuck a knife in Sinn." Rill pulled back a little and
gave Simion a round-eyed look. Even though his expression still showed traces of his vampiric rage,
it made him look innocent. "Oh, he was SO angry. You should have heard the language he used."
"He’ll get over it." Draculea approached. "Especially since I’m letting him deal with the fool. I found
another one dead near the hold. My faithful Rom may have died, but he took one with him to the other
side."
Salazar emerged from the hall, wiping his knife on his shirt. He said, "Did any of you kill the ship’s
owner?" When all shook their heads, he said, "Then they killed him, too. Whoever we kill, we’re
saving them from the hangman’s noose."
Sinn joined them, emerging from the rain. "I was so angry that I couldn’t really enjoy that. I put what
was left over the side--I hope you don’t mind."
"No, very practical," said Draculea. "Let me think--one in the hold, one by it, yours Rill, and yours,
Salazar. There was a crew of five, and the owner. That leaves one unaccounted for." He looked
forward. "I would assume he’s steering the ship. Simion, how close are we to land?"
"I don’t know, Domn, but we were due in port early this evening." He pulled a watch from his pocket
and checked it. "We should be well within sight of land by now--if we could see anything."
"What do you think about our pilot?"
"He was in on it," Simion said flatly. Salazar nodded. "Perhaps he didn’t attack us, but he did nothing
to warn us, or prevent what he knew would be murder. No, he planned on sharing in the spoils."
"Then he dies like the others," said Draculea. He turned his eyes back toward the bridge. "The only
question is when."
Of one accord, with no other words, they all started slowly toward the bridge.
end part 92
Back to index
Chapter 93: Chapter Ninety-three: Sacrifice

Rating: R
Summary: Jonathan becomes even more disturbed about Lukas--for good reason
Disclaimer: Based on characters and concepts created by Bram Stoker, now in public domain.
WARNING: Quite a squick ahead. This one caught me by surprise, dear ones. I hadn’t planned on it,
but suddenly the Muse grabbed me by the throat and mentioned a way to bump Lukas’ craziness and
danger up into an entirely new universe. Description of, er, body modification.
Notes: glans--the tip of the penis. From Latin ’acorn’, for its shape. You learn something new every
day. Hee hee. Good info for slash stories. "You aren’t kidding anyone, Spike. You KNOW you want
to cop Xander’s acorn." I can’t believe I wrote that...
Child of the Night, Chapter Ninety-three

Onboard the Julyan, Bound for England
Chapter Ninety-three: Sacrifice
Jonathan had never really sailed before. There had been a quiet pond near the vicarage where he’d
spent his summers as a boy, and he’d spent many lazy hours drifting on it in a small rowboat,
occasionally supplementing the household larder with a few fish. Now he had a chance to find out that
he wasn’t much of a sailor.
The weather had turned bad--very bad. They were riding out a storm. He still hadn’t been allowed on
deck, but by the pitch and roll of the ship there was no mistaking the state of the weather. Jonathan
found himself clutching the sides of the bunk to keep from being ejected onto the floor. He could feel
vibrations shiver through the wood at every boom of thunder.
Jonathan heard the scrape of the key in the lock, and the door opened. Had he been more sure of his
legs, and had Lukas been a bit slower, his rising anxiety about the storm might have inspired him to
attempt an escape. As it was Lukas was in the cabin and relocking the door before he could fully form
an intent. "For God’s sake, don’t lock the door! If the ship goes down we’ll be trapped."
"If that is God’s will, so be it." Lukas had an oilcloth wrapped around his shoulders for protection
from the storm, and he unwrapped it now, dropping it to the floor. Water began to pool immediately,
seeping across the rough boards. Lukas pocketed the key, and walked over to the bunk. He staggered
slightly as the ship rolled, putting out his hand to brace himself on the top of the bunk. "Believe me,
Mister Harker, there is a greater anger in leaving the way open."
Jonathan made a sound of frustration. "I am beginning to believe that you are a little mad."
Lukas did not take offense. He shrugged, saying, "I’m sure that the prophets and martyrs were thought
mad in their day. Move closer to the wall, Mister Harker, so that I may sit." When Jonathan hesitated,
Lukas said, "There is no other seat. Will you force me to ride out the storm on my feet?" When said
that way, Jonathan being Jonathan couldn’t help but feel he was being unreasonable. He shifted closer
to the wall, and Lukas sat down.
Lukas had not covered his head when he went outside, and his hair was plastered to his head in wet
hanks. It exuded a peculiar smell that reminded Jonathan of when the vicar’s pet spaniel used to come
in after a romp in the pond. Despite the oilcloth, the spray seemed to have found Lukas. The space
that Jonathan could clear was very narrow, and Lukas was not a small man. Jonathan found himself
crowded against the wall, and every spot where they touched was damp. Jonathan would have
expected Lukas to be chilled, but instead the man seemed to be radiating heat. It was suffocating, and
Jonathan tried to gain a little space between them, with no success.
"You need not worry--the worst of the storm has passed. It has delayed us, but we should land in
England in the afternoon. Do you feel well enough to go directly to your friends, or should we spend
the night in London, then travel the next day?"
"I feel well enough," Jonathan said quickly. The thought of spending another night with Lukas
hovering was oppressive.
"That is good." Lukas studied him. "You are much improved. When I first saw you, I thought you
would surely die. God must, indeed, have plans for you." Jonathan shifted uneasily. "Talk of the
Lord makes you uncomfortable?"
"I’m a Christian, but my beliefs are very personal."
"As are mine." Lukas laced his hands over his belly and stared at the wall. Jonathan’s heart sank as
he realized that the steward was settling in for a discussion--or rather a discourse. "Each man’s
spiritual beliefs are formed not just by his own life, but by the lives of his family, and the lives of those
in his community. By extension, the lives of THEIR ancestors pass on their influence. No one
escapes the touch of those who have gone before--save perhaps the poor orphan, and even they are
gifted or cursed with the influence of those who have their care." He looked at Jonathan. "Haven’t
you felt this, Mister Harker? Haven’t there been times when you felt something reach out to you from
the past?"
Jonathan stared back at him, feeling consternation. He knew that Lukas was the steward of the church
of the tiny village near Castle Draculea. Such a position would usually be filled by a simple man--a
peasant with little education--someone who would have few thoughts past his day-to-day routine. He
definitely wouldn’t expect such a man to philosophize as Lukas was now. And the strange thing was
that what Lukas was saying was striking a chord.
Hadn’t he felt on occasion that there was SOMETHING from outside his immediate life reaching out
to him--affecting him? A dim memory stirred in the back of his mind. *I was very small. I had to
be--I know Mother was still alive. It was night, and I was at the window. Mother didn’t want the
window open. It frightened her. Was she afraid I’d climb out? I was kneeling at the window, looking
out, and someone was whispering to me. I can’t remember what they said, but... but I felt so
lonely--and loved, at the same time. How is that possible?* Jonathan realized that Lukas was
watching him silently. "I have felt... something similar."
Lukas nodded at this confirmation. "History touches us all. For some of us the more distant past
reaches out. How far back can you trace your lineage, Mister Harker?"
"I’m not sure. The Harkers are not a great family. I believe that my father considered having our
family tree researched, but he didn’t want to spend the money. The family Bible only records as far
back as my great-great grandfather."
Lukas grunted. "A young family. My bloodline goes back to the thirteenth century."
"That’s... that’s astonishing."
"I suppose it is. But Mister Harker, in my country the people belong to the land, and they very seldom
leave it. Though my land has seen turbulent times, my people stayed. But the bloodline has grown
thin down through the centuries. I am the last. I am the repository for all that has come before."
Lukas’ eyes had taken on the glitter that they held when he spoke of protecting Jonathan. It was
unnerving. Lukas continued, "It is a great responsibility, Mister Harker--especially when all those
who came before did nothing--NOTHING," Jonathan flinched at the vicious twist Lukas gave the
word, "to redress the... the atrocities visited upon us."
"I don’t understand," said Jonathan. "These terrible deeds, they happened that far back?"
"Four hundred years."
"And you think to avenge them now? That’s madness! I don’t know what could be so horrible that
your family would carry it down through the ages, but Lukas--anything that you could do now would
be pointless. Whoever was responsible is long gone to whatever punishment God provides, and if you
were to seek out their descendants it would be nothing more than a blood feud, and that is a sin."
"Indeed you do not understand, Mister Harker."
"Then explain it to me."
There was a heavy silence. "I cannot. I cannot speak of such filth to an innocent such as yourself. My
family was... DEFILED, Mister Harker. They were dirtied in ways that you cannot begin to imagine.
I have known this since my youth, and to my shame I have done nothing. But now..." He touched
Jonathan’s hand. "Now, through you..."
Jonathan jerked his hand away. "Don’t."
Lukas seemed puzzled, then he saw the unease and fear in Jonathan’s eyes. "No!" He held up his
hand in protest. "No, Mister Harker, you must not think that of me, ever. After what happened to my
ancestors, I couldn’t. I have sworn a vow to refrain from the carnal my entire life. I have dedicated
myself to purity of body, mind, and spirit. It is hard, yes, but I have taken steps."
He stood, and reached for the fastenings of his breeches. Jonathan felt panic creeping up on him.
"Lukas, no!"
"But I want to assure you."
Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut as Lukas shoved down his breeches. *If I scream for help, will they
hear me above the storm? Even if they hear me, will they come?*
"Look, Mister Harker. Look, and you’ll know."
"I swear, Lukas, I’ll have you up on charges."
"Only look, and I’ll leave you in peace. I just want to set your mind at ease. I take no pleasure in
this."
"If I do, you’ll leave me alone?"
"I will stand guard in the hall for the rest of the voyage."
Reluctantly, Jonathan opened his eyes. "Oh, dear God."
Lukas’ drawers and rough trousers were down around his knees. Jonathan was not ignorant of natural
human anatomy. He had lodged a good portion of his life in an all male school, so he’d seen his
classmates in various stages of undress. He hadn’t seen many other men completely naked, but there
had been enough so that he knew roughly what a healthy set of genitals should look like.
Judging from the man’s heavy beard growth, and the hair on his arms, Jonathan would have expected
Lukas to have a heavy pubic growth, but that wasn’t the case. It was thin and sparse, like that of a boy
just approaching puberty, and in the midst of that...
There were not testicles, not that he could see, and the penis was no longer than a thumb. Jonathan
was aware that some men were not well endowed. Had he thought that was the case, he wouldn’t have
felt so horrified. But the size was not natural. The organ was not fully formed--there was no evidence
of the glans. The only conclusion was that it had been amputated. Now that he realized this, he could
make out the scars beneath it. Below the base of the mutilated cock were thick pads of shiny, pinkish
flesh.
Lukas was speaking. "At one time the choir boys with the sweetest voices were granted this, so that
they could remain pure, and able to praise and glorify the Lord with the gift of song. But they do not
do this anymore--not openly, in any case. And though I would praise God with all my being, he did
not choose to bestow that talent on me. Still, I wished to remain above fleshy desires, and I asked that
they remove the parts of my body that would be the most likely to lead me to sin."
"They didn’t understand. Even the good priest tried to tell me that God would prefer that I marry and
have children, bring new souls into the world to serve him. I tried to tell him that my bloodline was
tainted--that it would be best for everyone if my line ended with me, but he wouldn’t listen. They
wouldn’t help me, so..."
Jonathan knew what was coming. He felt nausea wash over him. "Stop, Lukas, please."
"...so I had to do it myself. I went into the woods, and took the sharpest knife from my mother’s
kitchen. First I took my stones, so that my seed would never bear fruit. So that our dark past would
not be passed to another generation." His voice was mildly wondering as he touched the scars. "It
didn’t hurt as much as I expected, but there was so much blood."
Jonathan’s gorge rose in protest of the images these words conjured up. He leaned over quickly,
spattering the floor with sickness. He felt a hand in his hair as Lukas said, "Poor boy--the storm has
made you ill." Jonathan jerked back from the touch, thudding against the wall, wiping his mouth with
a shaky hand.
"I almost stopped there, but even at that young age I knew that it was not just the ability to sire
children that I needed to avoid. I had already experienced the quickening of the flesh. I had awakened
with evidence of my sexual nature matting my sheets, and it had to stop." He touched the pathetic
stump that dangled at his groin. "I left myself enough to pass water. The blood then was even more
than after the first cut." He lifted blank, curious eyes to the pale man before him. "I thought I might
die, then, and that couldn’t be allowed. Accidents are innocent, but I had done this with my own hand,
and when they found me, they might have thought that I had committed the mortal sin of suicide. I
made my way to a road before I fainted, and I was found." He shrugged, and reached to pull his
trousers up. "I lived."
Now Lukas frowned. "It was not as complete as I would have wished. I still have troubling thoughts
occasionally." He bent his head. "I suppose mortal man can never entirely escape the urges that were
brought into our nature by Eve, but at least now I know that I can never act on them."
He smiled at Jonathan as he refastened his breeches. "I could not harm you in that manner, Mister
Harker, even if I so desired. I no longer have the physical means." He smiled. "So you see, you have
nothing to fear from me. I’ll just clean up that mess before I take up my place outside."
He left the room. Though Jonathan had been longing for freedom, this time he would have himself
locked the door, if he could have locked it from the inside. "Nothing to fear..." he whispered. Nothing
to fear from a madman who believed that self-castration would save his soul.
Jonathan had not prayed regularly since his mother had sat on the side of his bed and listened to his
nightly chant of, "Now I lay me down to sleep...", but he prayed now.
end part 93
Back to index
Chapter 94: Chapter Ninety-four: Preparation, and Visitation
Rating: FRT
Summary: Quincy reflects on why he’s really interested in Lucy, and Vlad finally arrives in England.
Disclaimer: Characters and concepts borrowed from, and inspired by Bram Stoker’s Dracula, which is
now in the public domain. Original characters and the story are copyrighted by the author. Do not
distribute without author’s permission.
Notes: childe--youth of noble birth (pl. childes). Isn’t this how Draculea
would view his ’children’--Rill and Sinn?

Westenra Estate, Outside London
Chapter Ninety-four: Preparation, and Visitation
While the Storm Rages at Sea...
"Hold still, Lucy. I’ll never get this bow even if you keep turning for a look at the back."
Mina was standing behind Lucy, trying to tie a symmetrical bow in the sash of the apron her friend
was trying on. One of the housemaids was short an apron now, and the housekeeper was none-to
pleased about having to replace it. She’d had a fine time assuring the upset girl that the cost of the
new apron would not be stopped from her wages.
"There," said Mina. "That’s as good as possible. One can’t do much with slender bands--they tend to
flop."
Lucy stood sideways, so that she could get a view of the bow in her full-length mirror. She frowned.
"The loops droop terribly. I’ll just have to have the seamstress put on a wider sash." She smoothed
her hands over her waist. "That will be much more flattering."
"It isn’t meant to be flattering. It’s meant to be practical," said Mina, amused. Any self-respecting
household that could afford steady help required them to wear certain types of clothes, and only the
wealthier families absorbed the cost (though occasionally the middle class would use Christmas as an
opportunity to ’gift’ their domestics with the material to make the required uniforms). The apron Lucy
was trying on was typical of the sort to
protect the uniforms. It was full length, completely covering the front of her body from neck to hem,
and it was plain, sturdy cotton.
Lucy continued frowning as she examined the garment. "It’s very plain, isn’t it? It needs sprucing
up. I’ll have her put a nice, deep ruffle along the bottom--no, two rows of ruffles. And she can lower
the neckline just a bit, and fill it in with some of that Belgian lace Father brought back from his trip to
Paris. What would you think of a nice applique pattern of flowers and vines on the bodice?"
"I’d think it was foolish. If you’re serious about helping nurse Jonathan..."
"Oh, but don’t you think it would HELP him to have something pretty and cheerful to look at?" She
patted Mina’s hand. "Besides you, dear. You’re very pretty, but you haven’t been cheerful lately, and
I know how you’re going to fret over him." She looked down at the apron again, and sighed. "This is
just impossible as it is, but I’m sure that the seamstress can have it fixed in no time. I’ll want this
ready when Jonathan arrives, so she’ll just have to let all that boring old mending wait. Come along,
Mina. I want to go show Father how I look as a nurse."
Mister Westenra usually spent a good part of the day in his study, and this was where the girls went
first, but it was empty. The family butler, Watkins, was passing through the front hall, and Lucy
stopped him, "Watkins, where’s father?"
"Your father is in the main salon, Miss Lucy. He’s..." Lucy, true to her impatient nature, wasn’t
waiting for the full explanation, but had already started for the salon. "But he’s receiving a gentleman
guest!" He was ignored, of course, as the two young women hurried away, though Mina did give him
a wry, vaguely apologetic grimace. When he was sure Lucy was out of hearing, Watkins muttered,
"Cheeky chit! It simply isn’t DONE!" Well-bred young ladies did NOT break in on their parents,
especially when there was a male visitor who had not been formally presented to them.
Lucy swept into the salon, chattering away. "Father, you simply must give me your opinion on the
alterations I have planned for this apron. I want to... Oh!" She stopped short, frowning prettily. "You
have a visitor. How lax of Watkins not to warn me. I’m so sorry to intrude."
Mister Westenra and his guest were seated on a small sofa, and both men stood as the girls entered the
room. "Lucy, dear, you know you’re always welcome, but really, you should have inquired first."
"But I DID, Father. I asked Watkins where you were, and he directed me here. I’m sure he didn’t say
a word to me about a guest." As she spoke, she was studying the man standing beside her father. She
hadn’t known him long, but he was hard to forget.
While Quincy Morris wasn’t what she would have considered of her own generation, he was still
young enough--no more than early thirties--and quite handsome. He was tall, over six feet, and had a
rangy build. He had dark eyes, and when he smiled they crinkled charmingly at the corners. His hair
was thick and black, and though it was of an acceptable length, it was not tamed back into a smooth
style, but tumbled naturally.
It was obvious, even before he spoke a word, that he was not an Englishman. Quincy couldn’t have
denied his origin, even if he had not been too proud to ever consider it. If nothing else, his clothes
would have given him away. The suit was obviously well made, and decently sober, but there was
something about it that said it had been tailored more for comfort and practicality than fashion. But
there were three things that truly told his origin--the shiny boots, the odd string tie, and the huge knife
hanging in a sheath at this hip.
Lucy’s eyes widened when she saw that last accessory--he hadn’t worn that before--and she glanced
up at his face quickly. What she saw there calmed any momentary apprehension. It was the same old
look--the one that she’d inspired in almost every man she’d ever met since she had been allowed out of
the schoolroom. She smiled at him. "And he certainly didn’t mention how fascinating he is. Hello,
Mister Morris" She went to her father, taking his arm. "Now, don’t be a stuffy old bear. We’ve been
properly introduced long ago, so you won’t drive Mina and I away, will you?"
Mister Westenra sighed ruefully. "It’ll be no use trying to get any sense out of him if I just send you
away."
Lucy extended her hand, "How delightful to see you again, Mister Morris. And how bad of you not to
have presented your compliments to the lady of the house first."
"I beg pardon, Miss Westenra. I wasn’t sure if it would be proper. In Texas there are some that might
think such familiarity warrants close acquaintance with a horse whip."
Lucy giggled, looking at Mina. "Mina, doesn’t he have the most delicious accent? And we know each
other far too well for you to stand on such ceremony here." She tipped her chin down and glanced up
at him through her lashes (a move that never failed to enchant her gentlemen friends), "In fact, I think
it is high time that you referred to me by my Christian name."
Quincy blushed hotly, and Mina thought, *Poor man. He doesn’t stand a chance.* The familiar used
of her first name was a privilege that Lucy granted much more easily than most young women of her
station. "Lucy..."
Oh, don’t scold, Mina. Father isn’t scolding."
"It isn’t because I think it’s entirely proper, Lucy." Mina was surprised to hear that there was actually
a note of disapproval in Mister Westenra’s voice. It didn’t last long, though. "But I suppose it’s all
right."
Lucy looked back to Morris. "And you’ll let me call you Quincy, won’t you?"
"Lucy!" gasped Mina. Now she WAS scandalized. Such a request bordered on brazen.
Quincy was blushing even more hotly, and he gave Lucy’s father a helpless look. Mister Westenra’s
color was rising, and Mina had a feeling that Lucy was going to hear more of this later--but that would
be in private. Mister Westenra was too well bred to chastise his daughter in front of a guest for
indecorum. He said stiffly. "That would be acceptable, if Mister Morris so chooses."
Quincy bobbed his head. "I’d be honored."
"Oh, don’t worry, Father. We’ll keep the proper titles, won’t we, Mister Quincy? Father, since you’re
doing business with Mister Quincy, wouldn’t it be more convenient, and more hospitable, if you
invited him to stay with us for the rest of his stay in England?"
Her father raised an eyebrow, but said, "There’s no need to wheedle, my dear. I had intended to invite
Mister Morris to stay with us for the next week or two. I’ll be able to introduce him around, and see
that he makes the proper connections. What do you say, Quincy?" He spread his hands. "There’s
plenty of room, and I’d enjoy the company. I’m sure that Lucy and Mina would, too. Girls always
like to have another young man around to dance attendance."
"Thank you, sir. I accept your kind invitation."
"Good. You can have your valet pack your things and bring them over."
"I’m afraid I don’t have a valet, sir." He smiled sheepishly. "My Daddy didn’t believe in them. He
said a grown man ought to be able to dress himself."
"Very Democratic. I’ll have MY valet take care of the job, then."
"Wonderful!" said Lucy. "Mister Quincy, you may begin your duties as a guest by telling me what
you think of this apron. I assure you that it isn’t my usual attire, but we have an invalid coming to stay
with us soon." She spread the hem of the apron. "Confess--I look dreadful, don’t I?"
"Miss Westenra," he said sincerely, "you look like an angel of mercy."
"How sweet." She slipped her arm under his, looking up at him. "Let me show you our garden,
Mister Quincy. I know I haven’t given you a tour yet, and I’m very proud of our roses."
"Yes," said Mina dryly. "The gardeners work wonders with them." Quincy seemed so enchanted by
Lucy that he missed the annoyed look she shot Mina. "But should you, Lucy?" She indicated one of
the windows. The landscape outside was thickly shadowed, much darker than it should have been at
that time of day. They could see the branches of the trees waving almost briskly. "There’s a storm
blowing in from the sea. You could be drenched."
"I’m not worried," said Lucy carelessly. "There are umbrellas in the stand in the hall," she moved
closer to Quincy, snuggling against his side. "And I’m sure that Mister Quincy will be willing to hold
one, to protect me."
*No,* Mina thought, feeling a little sorry for Morris. *Not a chance in the world.*
~*~*~*~*~*~
The storm still lashed the Celestine, but the sea behind it was beginning to clear a little. The ship was
running with the last of the storm’s strength. If the mate’s calculations were correct, it was running
too fast. They’d need to lower the sails and drop the anchor if they didn’t want to run aground. The
others had better finish their work quickly.
A figure appeared out of the rain, starting up the short flight of stairs that led to the bridge. "Captain,"
he called eagerly, "is it done? Is it over?"
"Yes." The voice was strange. "It is over--for him, in any case."
The man coming up the stairs was like something out of the mate’s worst nightmares. He was
unnaturally pale, so much that his skin seemed almost luminous, and his dark hair was plastered to his
shoulders in wet ropes. He might have been a drowned corpse, tossed up from the depths, draped with
seaweeds. But while time spent at the rough mercy of the sea might account for the oddly misshapen
look of the man’s face, it would not explain the lambent red glow of his eyes.
He would have screamed, but fear drove the breath from him. The other men followed the first looked
more human, though two of them sported the same bright eyes, but none of them looked less than
menacing.
"I did nothing!" the man said, voice shrill with terror. "I have not left this wheel."
"Defense, even before accusation. If you claim innocence, then you must know what evil was
attempted. What did you do to prevent this?"
"Please, don’t kill me."
"At least you have enough intelligence not to try further protest. How long before we make landfall?"
"I... I’m not sure, but soon. Very soon. I’m sure we’d have sighted land by now, if not for the storm.
I can bring you into port safely, if you just let me live."
Draculea stepped closer. "I can smell your lie even through the storm, human. You never intended to
take us to our destination, and if you take us to the port you chose, there will probably be more of your
kind waiting for us. I’ve no doubt that my childes and I could deal with them, but I’ll not risk my
mortal servants if I can avoid it. I’d rather risk an unguided grounding."
"We may have little choice, my lord," said Simion. "Listen."
Draculea looked back, facing the same directing in which the wind drove the ship. There was a new
sound, scarcely audible over the fury of the storm. "Waves striking land?"
Simion nodded. "We must be close, Domn."
"Look!" Rill pointed ahead. Faint specks of light were barely visible through the rain.
"If we are so close that we can see the lights of the houses even through this downpour..." Draculea
looked back at the mate. "We don’t need you any longer." He started toward the cowering mate, then
drew up short with an angry hiss when he saw the rosary the man clutched.
Simion saw the problem immediately. He stepped forward, pulling his knife from his belt. The mate
began trying to pull free of the ropes he had used to bind himself to the wheel, babbling, "Mercy! I
harmed no one, have mercy."
"Did you show pity to the man who guarded my master? Would you have shown mercy to him, or
myself, or even my dearest one? Do you DARE ask for mercy now?" The knife flashed, and the mate
screamed. The rosary dropped from fingers rendered numb when Simion sliced through the tendons in
the back of the man’s hand. Simion kicked the rosary away, and it slid off to disappear into the wet
shadows that lay thick on the deck. As Simion sheathed his knife, the mate stared at him in mute,
agonized surprise. "No, I will not kill you." He stepped aside, and the last thing the mate heard as
Draculea
loomed over him was, "That is not my right."
~*~*~*~*~*~
Quincy Morris was seated beside Lucy Westenra at supper. The young lady kept up a bright chatter
all through the meal, and by the time sweets were served, Quincy was feeling more than a little dazed.
He realized with some surprise that Lucy had deliberately set out to charm him.
He wasn’t used to that. Quincy had been raised on the American frontier. Women were women the
world over, he supposed, but the women he grew up with tended to be practical, and straightforward.
There average of women to men was still very low, and even the plain girls could count on a fair
number of beaus. There simply weren’t many old maids in Texas--women were in too short a supply.
The fact was that Quincy had been sent abroad more-or-less to find himself a bride. His mother had
decided that it was time that Quincy settled down and set about continuing the Morris bloodline.
Since none of the local girls tickled his fancy, perhaps he could find one back East, or in Britain, or
Europe. He had strict orders to return with a fiancee.
Quincy had every intention of doing just that. After all, that was what men his age, in his station,
DID--they found themselves a wife, and had children--so that was what Quincy would do. He
couldn’t very well tell his mother that the thought of bedding even the most beautiful woman inspired
no enthusiasm. His mother would never understand that a plump bosom could never fire his loins the
way a muscular ass did.
There simply hadn’t been many girls around while Quincy was growing up. It wasn’t unusual for him
to go for months at a time without seeing a female near his own age. But there were plenty of other
men--and given the lack of women, it was hardly surprising that some of them shared Quincy’s
interest in their own sex. But none of them, not even the ones who had no interest in women at all,
were open about their preference for men in bed. It was much safer, and more comfortable, to keep up
appearances.
Quincy just had to marry and impregnate a woman--he didn’t have to delight in it. He intended to find
a suitable, pleasant girl, marry her, start a family, and continue to satisfy his carnal desires with the
same discretion he’d shown thus far. It occurred to him that Lucy Westenra would fill the bill nicely.
She was of a respected family, one whose wealth put her on the same social plain as the Morrises. She
was intelligent, stylish, and well spoken. His mother would enjoy presenting such a girl to her circle
of friends back home. And she was so pretty and flirtatious that no one would wonder at Quincy
asking for her hand after such a short acquaintance.
Another plus was that Quincy sensed that Lucy would be satisfied with the more courtly
demonstrations of romance. While she might wish for her suitors to make love to her with gifts,
flattery, flowery declarations, and occasional kisses, she would probably prefer to avoid the earthier
aspects. She would be the sort who, as the joke went, ’closed her eyes and thought of England’.
Quincy thought that as long as her husband was discrete, treated her with respect, and saw to it that she
was indulged with whatever luxury she desired, Lucy would be quite content to look the other way.
In other words, she would be the perfect wife for Quincy. He’d decided to propose shortly after he’d
first met her. Then he’d done a little observation, and listened to a little servants’ gossip, and realized
that he was by no means the only stud horse in the running. Lucy had been dandling that mind
doctor--Seward--on a string for some time. It was obvious even to an outsider like Quincy that she’d
never marry him. She wasn’t suited to be a doctor’s wife. That nobleman--Lord Arthur
Holmwood--was a much more serious rival. He had the money and position to offer Lucy the sort of
luxury and prestige she’d want. Still, Quincy thought that all was not lost. There had been no formal
announcement of an engagement. If he could convince Lucy that in Texas she wouldn’t be just one
young society matron among many, but the queen bee of an extensive social set... Well, it was often
better to be a big fish in a small pond, and he could use that to his
advantage.
Quincy let Lucy’s chatter wash over him, watching her with a carefully charmed expression, and
began to calculate how long he could safely wait, and whether he should approach Lucy, or her father
first.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"I can understand why you want Rill back in the box--he can’t swim--but I see no reason why -I-
should have to be crated up as well," growled Sinn.
"Because getting ashore will be hard enough without having to worry about you," snapped Draculea.
"My patience is wearing thin, Sinn."
"Oh, very well." The French vampire grumbled under his breath, but he climbed into one of the spare
boxes.
The lids had been damaged on the first three crates, and they had decided that the presence of the
broken locks might be enough to make whoever found the ship curious enough to open them. Once
Sinn was in place, Salazar nailed the lid shut, using far more nails than were strictly necessary.
Simion was holding Rill’s hand. "You understand why this is necessary, Rill?"
"Yes," said Rill. "Because the ship might sink before it grounds, and if that happens, the box will float
me to shore, like a boat."
"If we sink, I’ll see to it that happens. If we ground, Salazar, the prince, and myself will go ashore and
make our way to a safe house. Then we will return for you and Sinn as soon as we may. It should be
no longer than a day. If the ship is not discovered, Salazar and I will hire a few discrete men to help
us. If it IS found," he patted his pocket, "I have a letter proving that I am the prince’s representative
here in England, and have rightful claim to this ship’s cargo. Don’t worry."
"I won’t," said Rill placidly. "You always take care of me." He kissed Simion and lay down in his
box, giving his lover a last smile as Salazar lowered the lid and began nailing it in place.
Draculea watched the concern on his friend’s face, and put a hand on his shoulder. "I’m sorry it must
be like this, Simion."
"There is no other way, Domn. If any of us are found on this ship, the authorities will want an
explanation of what happened to the crew. While you would do well enough without your box, the
other might not, and we just can’t be completely sure we could find a resting place for all of you
before the sun rose. No, this way is best. I believe we will run aground soon. You, I, and Salazar
should be able to make it to shore safely. From what I heard from those scoundrels, we should land
close to one of the properties you purchased."
The ship had been in constant motion since the start of the storm, but now there was something
different. Instead of the accustomed rocking, the ship lurched, and there was a grinding sound. The
boards beneath their feet vibrated. Simion and Draculea exchanged looks, and before either could
speak, it happened again. "It seems that out landing is at hand," said Draculea. "Salazar, are they
secure?"
The gypsy tossed down the hammer and patted the lid of Rill’s makeshift coffin. "Tight and secure,
my lord. I took extra care. Even should the sea reach the hold, he should stay dry inside his nest till
we can collect him."
The ship shuddered and jerked again as the three men climbed the ladder, and they had to cling tight to
the rungs to avoid being pitched back into the hold, but they made the deck safely. They went to the
prow of the ship, and now they could see land. The shoreline was clearly visible through the rain that
had concealed it before. They could make out the foam of waves on sand no more than a hundred
yards away.
The ship jerked again, throwing the men against the rail--then was still. The force of the waves was
dying, and they weren’t enough to shift the bulk of the craft. It was well and truly lodged against the
ocean’s floor. It would take a particularly high tide to release it, and even that would not be certain.
Simion pointed to a cluster of lights. "That looks like a village. There should be an inn there, where
we can make inquiries." There was no response from Draculea, and Simion turned to look at him.
The vampire was staring in another direction, toward a smaller cluster of lights. This looked more like
one large building. "Master?"
Draculea’s facial features had melted back into their mortal form, and now he looked thoughtful. His
eyes narrowed in concentration, then widened. He looked at Simion, and said, "Renfield."
Simion frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. We bonded when I helped heal him after Rock’s attentions. The connection isn’t as strong as
that between you and I, but I feel him." He closed his eyes, and concentrated. "He’s calling me."
"Will you go to him, my lord?"
Draculea opened his eyes. "Jonathan will be here in England soon."
He did not continue, but Simion knew what he was saying. When Jonathan arrived, Draculea would
turn all his attention and efforts to wooing and winning his reborn love. "Rill wants him so, Domn.
And I do, too. He needs us, and you have placed him under your protection."
Draculea sighed. "You shame me by reminding me of my duties, old friend. You will have your little
clerk, but I cannot promise that it will be soon."
"I understand, my lord. There are priorities."
"Can you and Salazar lower the small boat, and make your way to shore?"
"I’m sure we can easily."
"Good. I don’t care to wait."
Draculea took a step back from Simion, and spread his arms. Simion had an idea of what was
coming. He had seen Draculea transform before, but it never failed to fascinate him, and he paused to
watch.
The rain had been slackening, and now a mist began to gather around Draculea. It thickened till he
was completely obscured, curtained in a soft gray fog. Simion was expecting the fog to drift out over
the water, toward land, but instead it began to dissipate. A figure gradually came into view--but it
wasn’t what Simion would have expected. The silhouette was large, but hunched, and as he watched,
it crouched even farther, till it seemed to be on hands and knees.
Then the last wisps drifted away, and the moon came out from behind the clouds. A creature, about
Draculea’s size, was revealed. It was covered in coarse gray fur, and the limbs were formed so that it
could run more quickly on all fours than upright. The jaw jutted, and black lips wrinkled up to show
rows of long, sharp teeth, meant for tearing. Large pointed ears flattened back against an elongated
skull. The creature standing before Simion was clearly more lupine than human, and for a moment he
was afraid.
Then he looked into the creature’s large, golden eyes. Whatever the outer form, the mind--the
SPIRIT--gazing back at him was that of the man he had loved and served for centuries. Draculea
threw back his head and howled, a savage, chilling sound. Powerful muscles bunched in his haunches,
and he sprang over the rail. Simion looked over the side and saw the wolf creature swimming easily,
its rugged body cutting cleanly through the waves. In moments it reached shore.
The figure that trotted up onto the sand was even more changed. It looked like nothing more than a
magnificent specimen of forest wolf. It paused for a moment, looking back at the ship, then bayed
once, turned, and disappeared into the shadows, heading toward the lights that Draculea had pointed
out.
Satisfied that his master was safely started, Simion turned to begin helping Salazar lower the boat,
ready to begin his own mission.
end part 94
Back to index
Chapter 95: Chapter Ninety-five: Responsibility

Rating: FRM
Summary: Vlad visits a shut-in.
Archive: Mailing lists and archives that have already received author approval. Otherwise, ask.
Notes: I probably don’t have to say this, but here ’cuffs’ means sort of ’slaps’, and not police bracelets.
:)

The Seward Sanitarium
Chapter Ninety-five: Responsibility
The Seward Sanitarium looked as placid as any large house in England--on the outside. On the
inside... The term ’Bedlam’ had been used to describe confusion and uproar for a long time. The fact
that the Sanitarium was another lunatic asylum made it even more appropriate.
An occasional howl could be heard even beyond the thick walls. Inside the babble of raised voices
went far beyond the usual cacophony. The noise bounced around the large, open, three-story main
room, echoing and intensifying. The inmates milled about the space, some wandering the walkways
that rimmed the room. Here and there one of them stood, fingers hooked in the chicken wire that was
used to screen the walkways, peering down on the confusion below.
Two of the attendants, the steel security cages locked around their heads, stood near the stairs, glumly
watching the inmates. Prosser heaved a sigh, and muttered, "I hate it when there’s a storm. The place
gets like a bleedin’ ant hill what’s been stirred up."
Bamford nodded, wincing slightly as the rim at the neck hole of his cage bit into the back of his neck.
"Yeah, but the ants have more brains." He raised his voice in a shout. "SHUT UP, YOU LOT."
There wasn’t even a lull. "Shite. I dunno why I even try. When they get like this, nothin’ will quiet
them but a rag in the mouth, or a good knock to the head."
"Or a dose of what the doctor keeps by his bed," said Prosser slyly. Both of the men chuckled.
"And speakin’ of the doctor’s bed..." Bamford nudged his friend, flicking a finger at one of the
inmates.
Robert Renfield was an island of stillness in the churning mob of patients. The former law clerk was
seated on one of the heavy benches that were bolted to the floor in the center of the room. His pale
face was lifted, his dark eyes fixed on the tiny window that was set just below the ceiling. It was in the
middle of the one wall that did not front on the patients’ rooms, and since it was so far from any means
of access, it had not been thought necessary to bar it.
"Seward’s never taken him to his bed." Prosser’s voice was severe, but there was more titillation than
disapproval in his tone.
"Course not." Bamford grinned, showing several gaps in his teeth. It was hard to say what had caused
the loss--neglect, or violence. "Not to his BED, though I think the Looney’s own bunk might’ve seen
a bit of fun. I’ve seen Seward go into his room more than once, always late at night. You know that
the doctor don’t mess with the patients after bedtime unless one of ’em is having some sort of fit.
Well, there was never a peep out of little Mister Renfield, but there was the doctor, and he spent a nice
bit of time in there, too."
"Dog," said Prosser casually.
"Well, he needs something, like we all do. I’nt likely he’d get any from that fancy bit next door, is it?"
"I s’pose. But he’s got the pick of any of this simple-minded bitches."
Bamford nodded at one woman who was wandering past, muttering to herself. She looked at least
sixty. Her hair was like cobwebs, and her eyes were rheumy. A sour, stale odor wafted toward them
as she passed. "The pick isn’t so very choice. That’s typical of this lot." Prosser studied Renfield.
The small man was an oddity in the asylum--he was almost fastidious about his personal hygiene. He
washed every day, braving the cold water that was supplied, and he managed to keep his clothing neat,
and relatively fresh. His hair had grown a little during his stay (given the excitable nature of most of
the inmates, haircuts were few and far between--no one wanted to deal with scissors around them). A
lock of hair had fallen across his forehead, half-covering his eyes, but he didn’t seem aware of it.
"You know, he looks better than most of these cows."
Prosser gave him an incredulous look. "He’s mad, and if you keep talkin’ like that, I’m likely to think
you are, too."
They didn’t hear the door behind them open--the noise of the inmates covered it. "I’m just sayin’,"
Bamford continued, "that if a person WAS to want to have a bit of fun with that one, where would be
the harm? Considerin’ the tales he’s told already, it isn’t likely anyone would listen if he said..."
"Listen to what?"
Bamford flinched, turning quickly to find Doctor Seward locking the door that led to the public part of
the asylum. "This bleedin’ noise, sir. I’m about to go deaf."
"Well, why haven’t you gotten them into their rooms? You know very well that bad weather agitates
them. You should have had them go in as soon as the storm blew up."
"Right you are, sir," said Prosser. "We’ll take care of that right away."
"There’s hardly any point now--the storm has almost dissipated. Still, go ahead. It’ll probably take
forever for them to calm down enough to sleep." Steward took a whistle out of his pocket and blew
two sharp, shrill blasts. The noise around them didn’t stop, but it decreased markedly as most of the
inmates turned to look at him. He raised his voice, saying, "Bedtime! Everyone return to your
rooms." There were protests, and he said firmly, "No arguments!" He looked toward the attendants.
"Move them along, and try to be gentle about it." He unlocked the door that led to his own quarters,
and went in.
Prosser and Bamford heaved sighs, almost in unison. Some of the inmates had begun moving into
their rooms. Prosser went upstairs and began locking doors after them on the upper floors, leaving
Bamford to urge the stragglers along with shoves and cuffs. The room had emptied out, and Bamford,
quickly made the rounds of the ground floor, peering through the slot in each door to be sure it was
occupied before locking it. Finally he gave the room a quick scan, to be sure no one had been missed.
"Well, well, well."
Renfield hadn’t budged from his place on the bench. He was still staring fixedly up at the window.
Bamford sidled up behind him, moving quietly. He needn’t have bothered with stealth--Renfield was
quite absorbed. Bamford studied the way the slightly ragged, dark wisps of hair lay against the back
of Renfield’s neck. It looked almost... delicate. Bamford poked him in the back, a bit more gently
than he had the others. "I hate to tell ya, Renfield, but the Queen ain’t likely to drop by for tea at this
hour."
Renfield turned his head slightly, shooting him a disdainful glance from the corner of his eye before
looking back at the window. Bamford didn’t like being dismissed. He poked again, more roughly this
time. "You heard the doctor. Time for beddie-bye."
"Just a few more minutes," Renfield murmured, not looking back. "He’s close--I can feel him."
"Oh, I bet you feel him, all right," sneered Bamford, "but he’s hardly likely to give you a cuddle out
here." He grabbed Renfield’s arm, pulling him upright. "Come on, now."
Renfield didn’t struggle as he was dragged toward his room, but he protested, "But he’s coming for
me!"
"Well, I’m sorry, Cinderella, but your Prince Charmin’ has gone to bed, and he ain’t likely to come out
here again tonight." As he spoke, he opened the door to Renfield’s room, shoving him in. He paused,
leaning back out to look at the upper levels. Prosser was locking a door on the upper floor, and he’d
probably stay up there for a while, making sure that the patients were settled in. Then he looked back
into Renfield’s room, eyes speculative.
Renfield was standing in the middle of his little room, arms crossed, chin tucked like a petulant child.
His back was to Bamford, so the attendant didn’t see that his eyes were lifted toward the window that
was set near the ceiling. The paper cross tied to the bars was a little lopsided, softened by the rain.
Any other night he would have wondered why Prosser hadn’t simply slammed the door after him, but
tonight he had other things on his mind.
"Don’t just stand there, Renfield. Get into bed." Renfield glanced back at Bamford, then stepped over
to the bunk and sat on it. "Not like that, fool. I said get in it, not sit on it." Renfield reached for his
blanket. "Not like that! Ain’t you civilized?" He pointed at the pile of coarse cotton on the bed’s thin
pillow. "Skin out of your duds and get into your gown."
Renfield hesitated. "Very well. I’d like a bit of privacy, if you please."
"I don’t please. I’ve got to be sure you change. It’s against the rules for you to sleep in your clothes."
"Is it? I don’t recall any such rule."
"Well, I’m tellin’ you now, ain’t I?" He gestured at Renfield. "Strip off."
Renfield stood and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, removing it. He took the time to fold it neatly, and
place it on a rickety chair. He was envied for that chair. He’d earned it by being quiet and docile for
most of his stay. He had no undershirt, and the cool, damp air made him instinctively cross his arms
over his chest again.
Bamford was staring. Renfield had the smoothest body he’d ever seen on a man past puberty. His
skin looked pale and soft. "Go on." His voice was a little hoarse.
Renfield stepped out of the soft slippers (all that the inmates were allowed), setting them neatly by his
bunk. He reached for his fly, then paused, frowning at the attendant. "Turn your back."
"Me, turn my back on a loony? Not likely."
"I don’t like you looking at me."
Bamford smirked. "Too bad, Princess. It’s my duty to keep an eye on you, to be sure you stay safe
and behave yourself. Now, behave yourself, and take off those trousers. Or will I have to do it for
you? I’ve had to strip bigger than you for baths or so’s the doctor can attend them." He smiled. "I
wouldn’t mind." Renfield was trembling slightly, and it wasn’t from the chill. He silently unbuttoned
his trousers and took them off, folding them. As he reached for the gown, Bamford said, "And the
drawers. Don’t know why they let you lot wear those--nothing but more laundry."
Renfield scowled at him. "You’re a filthy minded wretch, Bamford." He picked up his gown. "I’ll
take them off AFTER I have my gown on." Renfield quickly slipped the gown over his head, then
shoved his underwear down, stepping out of them. He turned to deposit them on the chair, then cried
out in surprise as a big hand grabbed the back of his neck and shoved him face-first against the wall.
A large, heavy body pressed against him from behind, pinning him to the cool stone. "Filthy minded,
am I?" Bamford hissed in his ear. "Think I don’t know what you and the doctor get up to?"
The weight crushing him to the wall was bad, but the sense of helplessness was what was stealing his
breath. That, and the jumbled memories of pain and humiliation that began to swirl through his mind.
"Let me go!"
"What’s wrong, loony? A workin’ man ain’t good enough for you? You want someone with nice,
clean collar and cuffs, eh? Someone with soft, smooth hands?" Bamford jerked the hem of Renfield’s
gown high. He still held Renfield pinned with one hand on the back of his neck, but with the other he
slapped the smaller man’s ass--hard. Renfield yelped at the sting, and Bamford grabbed one soft, pale
globe, squeezing brutally. "I ought to teach you a little respect for the common man."
Renfield felt the man’s hand clench even harder, rough fingers sinking into his tender cleft. "Please,
don’t!" Renfield whimpered. "Not again. Oh, please, not again!"
"Bamford!"
Renfield was released abruptly, and he slumped, crumpling to the floor, sobbing. He heard the man
say sullenly, "He was actin’ funny, Prosser, and I was just checking to be sure he hadn’t smuggled in a
weapon."
"Up his arse? Get out of there, you shite-headed idiot. You saw what happened to those other two the
doctor caught fiddling with the patients. They’re gone, and with pitch-black marks on their
characters. They’ll have to leave the area to be able to find work--do you want to end up the same,
just for a quick cuddle?"
Prosser stepped into the room, going to the little man huddled on the floor. "Here now," he said
gruffly. "It isn’t as bad as all that, is it?" He helped Renfield to his feet. "Just a bit of a rough joke."
Renfield, still trembling, wiped his face. "I’m glad you came before the punch line."
Prosser glowered at his co-worker. "Bamford didn’t mean no harm."
"I was overcome by your charms," Bamford drawled.
Prosser was surprised by the clear hatred in Renfield’s eyes when he looked at Bamford. There was
still fear, but there was cold rage, too. "I’m going to ask him to kill you. He might do it for me. He
might."
This made Prosser uneasy. Renfield had been fairly non-violent since his arrival, and he’d never been
aggressive toward the staff. Of course, he supposed he couldn’t blame the man--Bamford’s intentions
had been obvious. "Don’t be troubling yourself about that." He guided Renfield over to the bunk,
urging him to get in, then pulled the blanket up to his chin. "He won’t be bothering you any more."
He shot Bamford a hard look. "I’ll see to that."
Renfield caught his hand, and smiled sweetly at him. "You’re kind. You should be safe, but if there’s
any doubt, I’ll ask him to spare you."
Prosser felt flustered. He rubbed Renfield’s head, saying awkwardly, "There’s a good lad." He
followed Bamford out of the room, shut and locked the door, then rounded on his companion. "Jesus
Christ and all the saints, what the bloody hell were you THINKIN’ of?" Bamford remained silent.
"Oh, right--you WEREN’T thinkin’, or if you were, you were doin’ it with your PRICK! Messin’ with
the inmates is bad enough, messin’ with one who obviously ain’t interested is WORSE, and messin’
with Doctor Seward’s particular pet is cuttin’ your own throat. Leave off him, Bamford, or I’ll knock
some sense into you meself. You go up and keep watch."
"But I usually..."
"I’m stayin’ down here tonight. You’re goin’ to be away from temptation." Grumbling, Bamford
stamped up the stairs.
In his room, Renfield gazed up toward the window, whispering. "Please come." The moonlight
slanting through his window faded, and Renfield saw the mist drifting outside. He felt the hair prickle
on the back of his neck, and felt a pull, deep inside. He sat up, excited, whispering, "Please, please,
please." The mist drifted farther away. "No! Don’t go, don’t leave me here alone! Why won’t
you--? Oh!"
Renfield leaped up, shoving the chair against the wall, and climbed on it, babbling. "I’m sorry, I’m
sorry! This wasn’t for you." He reached for the tattered paper cross, then hesitated. He stared into the
swirling mist, and said softly, "He... He isn’t with you, is he?" There was silence, but some of the
apprehension left his expression. He stretched his hands high over his head and tore down the
makeshift cross, crumpling it. Then he stepped down, and tossed the wad of soggy paper under his
bunk.
The mist drifted through the bars, pouring down. As it came it thickened and coalesced, seeming to
draw into itself. In seconds it solidified, taking on the shape of a tall man. In a moment, Prince
Draculea stood in the small, dark room, gazing down at Renfield.
Renfield dropped to his knees, gazing up at the vampire, and murmured, "Master." His eyes widened
as he took in Draculea’s revitalized appearance. He would scarcely have recognized the man, if it
were not for the bond they shared. "Master?"
Draculea smiled at him. "Yes, Robert. As you can see, I am well. And you?"
Renfield tittered. "They tell me that I’m mad."
"They?"
"All of them--the doctor, my employers--everyone."
Draculea snorted softly. "And some people believe that Rill is feeble minded."
Robert’s face lit up. "Rill! Is he well? Does... does he miss me?"
Draculea’s grim expression softened a little. "He’s worried about you, Robert. I wish that I hadn’t
had to send you away. Do you wish to come back to Transylvania with us?"
Renfield clasped his hands, eyes shining, but then fear crept into his expression. "I... don’t think I can,
Master."
"What do you mean? Rill will be very sad if you refuse. It will break his heart."
"But Master... I can’t... If... if HE... the other one..."
Draculea closed his eyes briefly. "I’m sorry about that, Robert, but Rock will never hurt you again.
He’s dead." Draculea opened his eyes to see Renfield cocking his head, looking at him questioningly.
"The true death this time."
"Did you kill him?"
"I took part. He tried to harm Jonathan..." Renfield clutched his head, keening and rocking in grief
and rage. Draculea caught his shoulders. "No, listen to me, Robert. He did not succeed. Rill stopped
him." He smiled grimly. "Rill battered his rotten skull to a bloody pulp, and after I tore his head off,
he burned what was left. Simion discarded the trash in the river, and by now the ashes, chips of bone,
and bits of charred, decayed flesh will have washed into the sea. He will never hurt anyone again."
Renfield quieted, then swallowed hard, and smiled at him tremulously. "That’s all right, then. I can
go back with you? I can live at the castle with Simion, and Rill?"
"Yes."
His eyes shadowed. "Will Sinn be there?"
"Yes, but I will give him strict orders to leave you be. He will obey--he’s always been clever when it
comes to his own survival."
"Yes, Master. I want very much to go with you. But I’m not sure that Doctor Seward will allow it."
Draculea gazed at Renfield silently, then raised an eyebrow. Renfield started giggling again. "I know,
I know. It IS funny. Wait!"
Renfield scrambled up and went to his bunk. He flipped up the coarse sheet, and wiggled his hand
into a slit in the think mattress. A moment later he came back to Draculea. Bowing his head, he lifted
his hand toward the vampire. A brown mouse peeked over the top of his hand, whiskers twitching.
"They found the other one, but I hid this one. He’s nice and fat--full of blood."
Draculea’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. He said gravely, "I thank you, but I have eaten well
tonight."
"Oh." Renfield petted the mouse’s head with one fingertip. It turned its head and nipped at him. He
gasped, looking at the tiny streak of blood left on his finger, then popped the tip in his mouth and
sucked it. "If you don’t want him, can I eat him? I haven’t been able to catch many spiders lately."
"Let him go." Renfield frowned, like a child denied a treat, but he set the mouse down. It scuttled
away, squeezing under the door. "I have something better for you." He held out his hand. "Come
here."
Renfield went to him trustingly. He could not clearly remember much of what had happened to him in
his final days at Castle Draculea, but all his fear and rage was centered on Rock. He knew that
Draculea had somehow helped him back from the physical and emotional hell into which he’d been
plunged, and through that he’d come to realize that the prince loved Jonathan--loved him even more
than Renfield himself did. Renfield could forgive much for that. And now Draculea was offering him
all that he’d never had--a home, with people who would care for him, and care ABOUT him.
Draculea slipped an arm around Renfield’s back. With his other arm, he unbuttoned his shirt. "You’re
mortal now, Robert--fragile. Rill knows that we’re different from most men, but it’s hard for him to
accept about people he cares for. All he has known for many years is our household. Sinn and I are,"
he shrugged, "what we are. Simion does not age. The Rom are only with us for a handful of
years--they leave my service when they begin to age. It would grieve Rill if he had to watch you grow
old, and die, but I can prevent that."
He pulled aside the cloth. The nails on his free hand had grown long and sharp, and now he sliced one
across his chest. A shallow slit opened up, and blood oozed out freely. Draculea urged Renfield
closer, guiding him. "Drink."
Renfield whimpered, then clutched at Draculea’s arms, and pressed his mouth to the seeping cut. He
sucked, swallowing mouthfuls of the salty-sweet, warm fluid. Renfield closed his eyes in rapture.
Yes! This was what he’d been seeking when he devoured the tiny creatures that he caught in his cell.
He could feel life, heat, and strength flowing into him. He unconsciously began pushing his pelvis
against Draculea.
Renfield straddled Draculea’s leg as he drank, and the prince felt the hard nudge of the man’s erection
against his thigh. He smiled. The sharing of blood often caused this reaction. Many times he’d
indulged those who gave, or received, by touching them till they found their release. When Renfield
hunched against him, Draculea released his hold on the man’s neck. Reaching down with both hands,
he cupped Renfield’s buttocks through his gown, squeezing gently. Renfield mewled softly. He
licked at the last trickles of blood, hips jerking quickly, rubbing against the vampire’s body. Then he
trembled, and Vlad felt a warm dampness against his leg as Renfield found his release.
The little man let his cheek rest against Vlad’s chest. Then he rolled his head, peeking warily through
the hair that had fallen before his eyes. Draculea stroked his hair back. "It’s all right, Robert," said
Draculea quietly. He set the man back, and said, "I must go now."
Renfield grabbed at his sleeve. "But you promised!"
"And I will keep that promise, but you can’t come with me now. I have to find Jonathan again, and
then I have to make him understand. That may take some time. Until then you must stay here."
"Can’t I go an stay with Rill and Simion? They’ll take care of me."
"Not yet. If I were to just take you away, there’d be an uproar. They’d turn the countryside upside
down looking for you, Robert, and I need time and quiet."
Renfield calmed down. "I understand. You couldn’t very well court him if everyone in the county
was running about, looking for an escaped lunatic."
"I AM sorry."
Renfield smiled at him. "You’ll come for me soon. You promised, and you keep your promises."
"I do." Draculea turned, looking up toward the window, prepared to leave.
"Master?" Draculea looked back at Renfield questioningly. Renfield smiled. "Give him chocolates.
He likes sweets."
end part 95
Back to index
Chapter 96: Chapter Ninety-six: Settling In

Pairing: None this section
Rating: FRM
Summary: Vlad and company begin to settle in--and the legendary name is finally used. :)

Ring o’ Roses Tavern, Near the Westenra Estate, Outside London
Chapter Ninety-six: Settling In
You never knew about stormy nights at a tavern. Either it would be desolate, nearly deserted, or
overflowing with people seeking shelter. Tonight it was quiet at the Ring o’ Roses. Only the most
entrenched regulars were willing to brave the gale for their evening pint.
Digby, the owner, leaned on the bar, idly polishing one of his few, precious pewter tankards. Pottery or
cheap, heavy glass was good enough for most of his clientele. The pewter had been passed down from
his father, and his grandfather. It was reserved for ’quality’ customers--and those were few, and far
between. Still, they weren’t unkown.
Lord Arthur Holmwood himself dropped by occasionally, when he was in a merry mood. He came
when he got tired of paying court to that high society wench who lived in the big estate just down the
road. Holmwood liked Nancy, the barmaid currently snuggling with one of the tavern’s few customers.
Nancy might not be able to converse on art, literature, and the current styles, but she knew what to do
between the sheets to make a man feel like a man. He wasn’t likely to be in tonight, though. As much
as the gentry swore that they loved the country life, there weren’t many of them willing to actually get
out and experience it when the weather got mucky.
He looked up as the door opened, admitting a moist gust of air--and two new customers. He started to
fix his usual smile of greeting on his face, but hesitated when he got a good look. They were a stocky,
fair-haired man, and a swarthy younger one. The second one was unmistakable. Digby raised his
voice. "No gypsies!" The quiet murmur of conversation stilled as all eyes turned toward the door.
Instead of leaving, the new arrivals approached the bar. "You both deaf? I said no bleedin’ gypsies in
here!"
The fair-haired man slapped his hand down on the bar. When he withdrew it, he left the gleam of gold.
"Is this enough to overcome your prejudices, at least for a little while?"
Digby’s gaze was drawn to the coin, and his eyes widened. It was a half sovereign. He kept a few
rooms above the tavern for guests, and that single coin was worth more than what he would normally
charge for the best one--for a month. "Sorry, sir--I seem to have been mistaken. What’s your pleasure?
I have a good room upstairs, an’ there’s a nice stew on the stove in back."
Simion turned to Salazar and spoke to him in Rom. "Dogs will dance for gold. We’ll take a few
minutes to get dry, and see how close we are to the Prince’s property. It should be nearby. I expect
you’re hungry?"
Salazar nodded, smiling. "Couldn’t take a meal on board, like the master and young Rill."
Digby fidgeted as the two men conversed in some heathen tongue. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t want
to give up that coin. Finally the man said, "We’ll have the stew, and ale. As to the room, we may be
moving on soon, but we’ll let you know if we want it." He smiled slightly. "Do you think it will still be
free?"
Digby wasn’t a sophisticate, but he wasn’t exactly thick, either, and he recognized sarcasm when he
heard it. Still, gold... "Quite likely, sir. Choose your seats, an’ Nancy will have it to you in just a tick."
He slapped his hand sharply on the counter. "Nancy!" Nancy looked up, and Digby indicated Simion.
"Supper for these two, an’ move your arse." When he removed his hand from the counter, the coin was
gone.
They took their seats, and Salazar said, "So, what now?"
"Now we wait for the ship to be discovered. It shouldn’t take too long, though we might have to wait
till morning."
"Those two on board are snug enough, but what of the master?"
Simion gave him a wry look. "You think that the master cannot take care of himself?" Salazar
shrugged sheepishly. "Don’t worry about him. Even before he reached his present state, the prince
knew how to survive. He’s always been a warrior, not one of those soft, spoiled royals. He hasn’t gone
out much during your time with him, but during the early years after he lost his love, he was restless.
He once gave me a fine scare." Simion shook his head. "He didn’t come back one morning. I near
went mad with worry, but he showed up the next evening. He’d wandered farther than he’d thought,
and when daylight came, he buried himself--scratched himself a shallow hole, then pulled the dirt in
behind him." Simion smiled. "He wasn’t very happy, but he’d learned a valuable survival tactic."
The tavern keeper had finished drawing a pitcher of ale, now he reached for two pottery mugs. But he
hesitated, thinking of the gold coin in his pocket. He set one of the cherished pewter tankards on the
counter. After considering a moment, he added a second tankard. He didn’t like the idea of the gypsy
drinking from his best vessel, but he had a feeling that the paying customer might take offense if he
thought his companion was being slighted. He brought the drink to the table, ignoring the ironic looks
of the two customers.
When he left, the girl arrived with a tray of food. She studied the two men as she unloaded stew, bread,
and cheese. They certainly didn’t look rich, but if that pinchpenny Digby was willing to break out his
precious pewter, there had to be more to them than first met the eye. It might not hurt a girl to be
friendly.
The older man nodded his thanks, then said, "Tell me, girl--do you know of an old abbey nearby?"
She bobbed them a curtsy, smiling. "Yes, sir. The old Abbey be just two miles up this road toward
London. But why would you be interested in that gloomy old place? It’s been abandoned for more
years than my grandma has been on earth."
"My employer has purchased it."
Nancy gasped. "Oh, sir! You’re never going to stay there, are you? It’s haunted."
"Is it now?" Simion’s tone was amused. "No need to worry about me, girl. I’ve seen things in my life
that would make the most bloody specter run screaming."
Nancy looked doubtful. "Well, I’m hoping you’ll be well there." She gave Simion, then Salazar a
glance from under her eyelashes. "If you’re in the mood later, sir, there be a nice plum cake in the
kitchen."
"I’ll let you know," said Simion. The girl bobbed again, and sauntered away, swinging her hips.
Simion noticed how Salazar’s eyes followed the sway.
Salazar caught his look, and grinned. "I wouldn’t mind a slice." When Simion gave him a sharp look,
he continued, "Just saying. I know better than to go tasting, at least before we get things settled here."
Simion grunted, pulling a bowl closer, and reached for a spoon. "I’m glad to hear that. Areas like this
are notoriously intolerant of strangers, especially anyone they consider a foreigner. And you,
Salazar--you could have been born and bred here in England, and you’d still be a foreigner to them."
They had almost finished their meal when the door banged open, and several excited men entered.
"There’s been a grounding!" one of them shouted. "Ship’s run aground not a half-mile from here.
Something more is wrong with it than that, though. There’s not a speck of light anywhere on board."
Another said, "Should be signal lights all over it. Should have been a flare sent up. We need whoever
can to come out and see what’s going on. I’ve already sent someone for Doctor Seward, in case any of
them are sick or hurt. But if any of them ARE sick, we might not want them coming ashore right
away, and it would be good to have a few more men."
The other few customers started for the door. Simion called out, "Can you see the name?"
The first man frowned. "Not through this storm."
"I’m on my way to London to meet a ship. It could very well have been blown off course, and fetched
up here. If it is The Celestine, please send word back to me."
"I’ll do that. Is it a passenger you’re supposed to meet?"
"No, I’m just an agent, and I’m to collect a small cargo. If it is my ship, I’ll be happy to pay to have
the property unloaded."
There were appreciative murmurs from the other men. A hundred years ago a grounded ship would
have been cause for a looting spree. Most people living in the area were cash poor, and any paying job
was a boon. The fact that the local constable was present was probably what kept history from
repeating itself.
The increased crowd hurried off into the waning storm. Simion beckoned the tavern keeper over to the
table. "If that is my ship, then there’s certainly no point in traveling on to London. In fact, this may
save me some time, since the cargo’s final destination is nearby. If I can get it off the ship tonight,
would you have a place I could store it until I can arrange to have it transported there?"
"If it isn’t too great. There’s a stable in back, but it’s only used when a customer has horses, and that
isn’t often. It’s empty now."
"That would be perfect. We’ll wait for word back from the others. If they’re back within an hour or
two, I’ll arrange to have the cargo brought here, and I’ll take that room you spoke of." The man left,
and Simion poured himself more ale.
Salazar watched him, then said, "You’re thoughtful."
"It’s just sinking in. I’ve been moving toward this place, this situation, for a long, long time, Salazar."
Simion took a sip of ale. "As long as the prince. When Rill came into my life, he completed me. I think
of how I would feel if I lost him, and I can imagine the pain and grief that Draculea has suffered.
Trying to help him find his lost love has been the driving force in my life for so long."
"And now it will soon be over," said Salazar. "You are apprehensive? You think that life will be empty
without this purpose?"
Simion gave him a puzzled look, then laughed shortly. "No! To finally see my prince once again
happy and contented?" He held up his tankard, as if in salute. "I can’t wait."
~*~
Draculea left the asylum feeling a little reassured. He’d been a bit guilty about Renfield, and he was
glad to see that the little clerk now wasn’t quite so broken. He had to see about removing Renfield
from the asylum soon. While he had been searching out Renfield, he had sensed things along their
bond. Robert had been, in general, treated well, but there were disturbing elements in the asylum. He
might not be safe for long.
Judging from the letters that Jonathan had written at the castle, his fiancee was nearby, staying with
one of her friends. Jonathan had made mention of her--Lucy Westenra. He’d spoken of Renfield being
housed in the neighboring asylum, and his hopes that Mina would look in on him, and let him know if
his friend was all right. Yes, that was where they would bring his beloved. He would want to have
some knowledge of the place, the ins and outs--the weaknesses. He assumed his wolf form again, and
loped toward the nearby lights.
Draculea had spent most of his life in houses designed for royalty, or at the very least, nobility. It was
a sign of the changing times that a place like the Westenra estate could be owned by a commoner.
Luckily, it had been designed for style and comfort--not defense. It wouldn’t be difficult to get in
unseen, but that would come later. Tonight was for exploration.
He avoided the expanse of lawn in the front, and made his way through the surrounding trees toward
the back. Here there was a garden. It had been designed with clumps of bushes, and beds of tall
flowers and herbs--there would be sufficient cover, if he was careful, to keep him concealed.
He made his way closer, as close as he dared, and lay down in a thick bed of something with lavender
flowers. The leaves he crushed emitted a faint smell of cinnamon. As sometimes happens, the scent
triggered a memory--Nicolae in the castle’s kitchen, hovering as the teasing cook prepared spiced
cakes. The wolf whined softly in the back of his throat, the sound an almost human moan.
He watched the house for a while. None of the draperies had been fully closed for the evening, all
being left with an even, decorative gap. He could see a figure pass occasionally--servants, judging
from their dress.
His eyes were drawn to the second floor. Two rooms on each side shared balconies, and the drapes on
the left corner room were opened wider than the others. This would be an important room, reserved for
family members, or honored guests. He watched, willing himself to patience, and his patience was
rewarded.
A young woman appeared in the window, gazing out. Her eyes were fixed on the sky, and she was
speaking to someone in the room behind her. She was quite pretty, with curly blonde hair, but the
overall first impression that Draculea received was ’spoiled’. From her lively expression he imagined
that she was speaking of the storm, but somehow he had a feeling that the grandeur of nature did not,
as it did for so many, make her feel insignificant.
He’d never seen the girl before, but there was something familiar about her--something beyond the
physical. The same was true of the girl who joined her at the window. This one was dark-haired, with
large, dark eyes. Somehow she didn’t seem quite at home her rich surroundings. She would be a guest,
not a part of the family. *Mina,* Draculea thought. *The one who thinks she holds Jonathan.* His lips
wrinkled back unconsciously, baring teeth.
The two girls stood close together, talking. Mina slipped an arm around Lucy’s waist, and the smaller
girl leaned against her. His eyes narrowed. They looked cozy together--very cozy. Mina leaned down
and pressed a quick kiss to Lucy’s cheek.
Vlad knew that though the English were thought distant and standoffish by the rest of the world, they
prided themselves on their devotion in friendship. It was praised in song and story almost as much as
romantic love. Rhapsodies were written to friends who were closer than brother, or sisters.
Lucy reached up, hand cupping the back of Mina’s head, and drew her down for another kiss. This one
was full on the lips, and it lasted far too long to be considered sisterly.
Suddenly something clicked into place for Draculea. The dim memory of two other women, physically
different from these, but alike in aspect, was suddenly clear. A low growl rumbled in the wolf’s chest,
a sound that was too full of hatred to sound entirely wild. Hot yellow eyes fixed on the two.
In the Westenra house, Lucy broke the kiss, turning her gaze outside again. This time she lowered her
eyes to look down into the garden. The rain had thinned to a drizzle. The clouds were scattering, and
the moon shone through, silvering the wet leaves, but among the silver glints there was another of
gold, and it drew Lucy’s attention. "Mina, I think there’s a dog in the garden."
"It’s probably one of your father’s hunting spaniels," said Mina.
"No, it wouldn’t be. He’s very careful of them. They’ll all be in the kennel."
"Perhaps it’s a fox."
"I don’t think so. I get the impression it’s rather large. See? In that bed, there."
They both stared at the yellow eyes, and Mina shivered. "I don’t like the idea of something that big
being this close to the house."
"Oh, don’t be afraid, darling. I’ll tell father tomorrow, and he’ll have the groundskeeper set traps, or
the game keeper will hunt it down." She looked again, and shivered herself. "It hasn’t moved. It’s
almost as if it were watching the house--watching us."
"Don’t get morbid fancies, Lucy," said Mina firmly. "It’s just a beast. It’s waiting to see if there are
any scraps thrown out, or perhaps it’s hoping for a nice, fat lap dog."
"You’re awful, Mina." She bit her lip. "I don’t know. I keep thinking I’ve seen something like that
before."
The two girls stared toward the shadowy figure lying in the tall herbs. The wolf stared back. Despite
the distance, it was as if they were looking into each other’s eyes. The feeling of recognition grew in
Draculea, and a similar feeling, faint and uneasy, grew in the girls. A single, common thought passed
quickly through each one’s mind, so brief that it was almost unconscious.
*I know you.*
The girls flinched as the golden eyes suddenly flared red, then disappeared. There was a brief glimpse
of a shadowy, shaggy form racing back into the trees as Lucy and Mina clutched at each other.
Breathless, Lucy said, "I will not wait till tomorrow!" and hurried from the room to tell her father that
something dangerous was roaming their land.
end part 96
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Chapter 97: Chapter 97: Old Enemies

Child of the Night, Chapter Ninety-seven
Ring o’ Roses Tavern
Old Enemies
The group that meant to investigate the grounded ship had not been gone long when the door opened
again. This time, when he saw the new arrival, Digby nearly dropped the glass mug he was polishing.
The man was tall, with long, dark hair plastered across his face by the rain. He shut the door after
himself, and raked the hair out of his face with an impatient gesture. Sharp, light blue eyes swept the
room quickly, and Digby knew that they missed nothing.
The man’s clothes were sopping, dripping a puddle on the floor, but only a blind man would not
recognize their quality. And his boots... A man’s footwear was even more important in judging a
man’s class. Shoddy, flimsy shoes were a dead give away of the lower class, but boots or shoes that
were too pristine and fussy were just as telling. This man’s boots had obviously seen use, but they
were well kept and supple, and obviously well made. They were the boots of a gentleman.
Digby was about to hurry over to greet the man when the other two strangers stood up. Their deference
was clear--neither sitting till the newcomer had indicated that he wished them to. Before he took a
seat, the gypsy came toward the bar, and Digby had another one of his pewter tankards ready. The man
shook his head, and mimed opening a bottle. Digby understood. He trotted hastily into the back of his
tavern, and returned with a dusty bottle of wine, and a single fine cut glass goblet. This was even more
precious to him than his beloved pewter ware--he had only one left.
Salazar returned to the table, pouring wine for Draculea with the skill of a practiced servant. Draculea
sipped, then gave the bartender a brief nod. Digby felt himself swell with pride, at satisfying someone
of quality.
As Salazar resumed his seat, Simion said, "You found Renfield?"
"Yes. You will be able to assure Rill that he is quite well--physically, in any case. He’s still..."
Draculea made a wavering motion with his hand.
"Yes, that’s to be expected," said Simion. "I fear that the poor man was teetering before he came to us.
Rock was happy to launch him over the edge."
"He’s better than he was, though. He spoke to me, and he made sense, but he’ll be so much better once
he’s out of that place. It’s a lunatic asylum, Simion. I could feel the madness all around me, like a
dense, stinking fog. He’ll never get any better in a place like that. He needs our Rill to care for him."
Vlad cocked his head, studying his old friend. "It won’t bother you?"
Simion smiled. "No, my lord. Even if they should occasionally take pleasure of each other, I know that
no one could ever take my place in Rill’s heart."
"Good. As much as I want Rill to be happy, I couldn’t sanction anything that hurt you, my friend.
Speaking of Rill, how are things progressing with the ship?"
"It goes well, I believe. The ship has already been discovered, and a party has gone to investigate. I’ve
put out the story that I’m in charge of the cargo, and I’ve made arrangements to have it brought here,
till we can have it moved to your property. We were lucky to find this place. It’s close to the ship, the
asylum, AND the abbey."
"And to one other most important place. I’ve found where they’ll be taking Jonathan." Draculea
twirled the goblet in his fingers, watching the light glint on the glass. "I’ve been there--and I’ve seen
something." Simion caught the nuance in Draculea’s voice, and sat forward with interest.
Draculea kept his eyes fixed on the cup. "During our conversations, he spoke of his life in England. I
wanted him to. I want to know who he is now, as well as who he has always been. He spoke of this
Wilhelmina--the woman who thinks she will own him. He spoke of her friend--Lucy. He was ever the
gentleman, but one can learn things from the tone, and the things that are left unsaid. It would seem
that those two are closer to each other than Wilhelmina is to Jonathan."
"Ah." There was a world of meaning in Simion’s tone. "You think they might be...?" He trailed off.
Draculea nodded. "I saw them together, and I believe that we should say are instead of might be."
"Do you think Jonathan knows? He is planning to marry the girl, and why would he wed someone he
knows loves another, and can never truly love him?"
Draculea gave Simion a humorless smile. "People marry for many reasons." He said nothing more,
simply pressing a hand to his own chest.
Simion’s expression hardened a little. "Yes, my lord, but hopefully we can prevent another incident
like that."
Draculea sighed. "I can’t really hate her, you know. If not for Beta, I would never have found my
Nicu. No, she was only a silly, shallow, self-centered chit. Left on her own, she would have been quite
harmless, perhaps even pleasant, in her own way. But the other one..." A flame seemed to flicker in
Draculea’s eyes. "It wasn’t enough, Simion. All that she went through before she died--it wasn’t
enough."
"No, my lord. Comfort yourself that she spends eternity entertaining Satan himself."
"But does she? I told you, Simion, that I recognized the women. I think the recognition goes deeper
than Wilhelmina Murray, and Lucy Westenra."
"My lord?"
"If my Nicolae has been reborn, and he has--I’ve no doubt of that--then who is to say that others,
though less worthy, might not have done the same?" Simion sat back in surprise, and Draculea nodded.
"We never thought of that. We never considered that Lena Abul might be allowed to crawl back from
the depths and befoul the world again."
"If this is true," said Simion slowly, "there is no justice in the world."
"Not true, old friend. Nicolae did come back. As to the other..." The bartended blinked suddenly,
rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Perhaps he should light more lamps. His eyes were playing tricks
on him. For a moment, the new customer’s face had looked somehow distorted. The man caught the
bartender’s gaze, and his eyes glittered like ice over deep water. The bartender looked away quickly.
Draculea looked back at Simion and continued, "As to the other," he smiled slowly, "we must see to it
ourselves."
The door opened, and several men entered. The men in the group had been excited when they left to
investigate the ship--they were even more agitated now, but it was more distress than excitement. As a
group they went directly to the bar, and the leader said, "Whiskey, Digby, for everyone." Digby gave
him a dubious look, and the man growled, "I’ll pay for it, damn your parsimonious soul. We need it."
The bartender began to set out small, heavy glasses, and the speaker looked around, "Wasn’t there
someone with an interest in the ship?"
Simion stood. "Yes, over here. Join us. And innkeeper, I’ll take care of those drinks with my own bill.
These men have earned at least that much."
There were murmurs of thanks as the men began reaching for their drinks, and the leader carried his
over to the table, taking the chair that Salazar pulled out for him. He gave Draculea and Salazar
curious looks, but addressed Simion. "I spoke to you before we left, I believe. I’m Bran Ellis,
constable for this area."
"Then we’re glad that you were along on that expedition," said Vlad. "I’m sure that these are honest
folk, but sometimes there are great temptations to bend the rules on salvage."
"There’s no need to fear that," Ellis assured them. "The cargo is safely on its way here--all, since there
wasn’t much of it."
"And it survived in good condition?" asked Vlad. "None of the cases were breached?"
"All tight and undamaged."
"Good. My thanks to you and your people. The contents of those crates would be worthless to anyone
but myself, but to me--they are precious." He smiled. "Sentimental value."
Bran hesitated, then said, "You gentlemen are strangers here." He paused, obviously waiting for an
introduction.
Normally Simion, as his lord’s steward, would have formally announced Draculea, making sure that
all were aware of his master’s rank. Now, though, he hesitated. This was a situation where anonymity
might better serve the prince’s purpose. He waited now for Draculea’s response, ready to take his lead.
"Strangers, yes, but we feel very welcome." He indicated his companions. "Salazar, who is in my
employ. Simion, who is... I suppose the English term would be personal secretary, or assistant." He
smiled, "And I am Count Vlad Dracula, of Transylvania--the last of an ancient, and faded line. I have
purchased property near here. We shall be neighbors."
The constable smiled politely, thinking, *Oh, yes, and I take tea with Lord Holmwood every
Thursday.* "I’m afraid we found something very disturbing on that ship--or rather there was
something we should have found that we didn’t. There was only one man on board, and he’ll not be
telling us what happened."
"Injured?" asked Simion.
"Dead, sir. Very dead." Ellis shuddered, gulping his whiskey. "Being constable, I’ve seen the dead
before. Drownings, accidents... I helped cut down a man who’d hanged himself." He shook his head.
"It had been at least a week since he’d done himself. I’ll never forget... And we did have one murder a
few years back--laborer killed his wife with a tile cutting knife. That was bad. But I’ve never seen
anything like this." Simion gestured to Salazar, who went to the bar and brought back the whiskey
bottle, filling Ellis’ glass again. "My thanks. This is all I will take. I need to keep my head clear
tonight."
"The dead man?" Draculea asked.
"He was lashed to the wheel. I’ve heard that sailors will sometimes do that in a bad storm. I’ve never
seen such a look of terror. His face was twisted, as if he’d seen the devil himself coming for him, and
his throat... It... There wasn’t much left of it. The rain must have washed away most of the blood,
because there should have been a pool all around him, but there was scarce a drop. There was more
blood elsewhere, though. We found it in both the cabins, and in the hold. There was violence done on
that ship."
"Mutiny?" asked Simion.
"That’s a possibility."
"I had two agents on that ship," said Dracula. "They were loyal men. I would hate to think that
something had happened to them."
"I’m sorry, sir, but it seems likely that they’re dead. I’ll do what I can to find out what happened, but I
fear that, unless we can find a survivor, it’s going to remain a mystery."
"It isn’t that I doubt you," he said judiciously (doubting a gentleman’s word could still cause trouble
for a working man), "but you do have papers showing ownership?"
Draculea, now Dracula, looked at Simion. "Simion?"
"Of course." He pulled a waterproof parcel from his shirt, opening it and removing several documents.
"Our contract with the ship owner, and the bill of lading."
The constable examined the papers, then said, "The name here is Prince Draculea."
"A distant relative," said Dracula smoothly. "He still clings to the archaic spelling of the family name."
He shrugged. "And our line of the monarchy is long deposed. I only use my title out of family loyalty."
The constable was satisfied. He handed back the papers, saying, "I’ve told the men to store the crates
in the stable. I’m sure that you’ll have no trouble having them transported wherever you need. You
will be staying here?"
"I will leave Simion here to see that the cargo is transferred, but I will go on to the abbey. I wish to
look over my new home, settle in... prepare myself to meet my neighbors."
"My lord, you will take Salazar with you." The way Simion said it made it a statement, rather than an
inquiry.
"Yes, you’re right," said Dracula, glancing at Ellis. For a nobleman to live rough and unattended in a
near derelict house would raise suspicion. The constable wasn’t to know that Salazar would not be
acting as valet or cook, but rather as bodyguard for his sleeping master.
The constable insisted on having the landlord provide lanterns. He stood before the tavern with
Simion, watching the lanterns carried by Dracula and Salazar dwindle to specks as they went down the
road. He looked over at Simion and said, "They should be all right. There’s the asylum nearby, but
they’re careful of the lunatics, and there’s little real crime in this area."
"Really?" said Simion. "How fortuitous." *What a shame. It will be harder for the master to procure
fresh blood without restraint. A good criminal population means good hunting.*
~*~
Lucy hurried into her father’s study, saying, "Father, you need to set the dogs loose at once! I’ve
seen..." She halted abruptly, frowning at the rumpled, damp man standing beside the fire. "There were
no visitors announced." She came closer, examining him. "It’s Constable Ellis, isn’t it?"
Her father said, "Lucy, I won’t scold you for bursting in so rudely, because there are more important
matters at hand. Where is Wilhelmina?"
"I think she’s coming right behind me. What’s wrong?"
The constable started to speak, but Mister Westenra said, "Please wait for Miss Murray. This may
concern her."
Wilhelmina came into the room, stopping by the door. "Oh. Lucy, maybe we should wait till the
morning, and..."
"Come in, Mina, and have a seat," said Mister Westenra.
Mina felt apprehension. Lucy’s father had always been nothing but pleasant to her, but now there was
a sort of sad kindness in his voice that worried her. She sat down, and Lucy went to sit beside her.
"What is it?"
"Constable Ellis has brought me disturbing news. Mina, you must be brave. A ship has run aground
nearby."
Mina blinked at him in incomprehension, but Lucy grasped the situation immediately. "Jonathan!"
"Jonathan?" Mina gasped.
Westenra held up his hands. "Stay calm. Something very bad happened on that ship. It seems to have
been abandoned before or just after it ran aground. There was one body found on board, but from what
the constable tells me, it’s not Jonathan."
"Is he sure?" Mina asked.
"Well, Miss," said Ellis, "Your friend is a young man--about your age?" She nodded. "Dark hair and
eyes, and he’s a clerk in a law office? This man is older. I can’t say the color of his eyes, because
they’re..." He pulled at his collar. "Anyway, this one was no office worker. He’d lived a rough life. I
don’t think it was your Mister Jonathan. I’ll be searching the ship more thoroughly later, and I’ll look
for the captain’s log, so we can be sure, but this seems to have been a cargo ship. I’ve spoken with the
man who commissioned the voyage, and he had people on board, so I doubt there were other
passengers."
Lucy hugged Mina comfortingly. "Oh, poor Mina! Don’t be afraid, darling. I’m sure that wasn’t
Jonathan’s ship. You wait--he’s even now sailing to safety. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already
landed in London, and is even now making his way here."
Mina clutched at Lucy. "But what will I do if..."
Lucy cradled her friend’s head down on her shoulder. "Don’t worry about that now. You know very
well you can stay here with me for as long as you need, as long as you want." She petted Mina. "And
if it takes a long time for Jonathan to recover, I’m not going to let you go off to nurse him alone. I’m
sure that if he’s as frail as they indicate, he mustn’t go back to crowded, dirty old London, and be
cooped up for hours on end in an airless office. I can persuade Arthur to give him a job tending the
library at his estate, and then you’ll be able to stay nearby, perhaps even on the estate. Oh, it would be
perfect."
Constable Ellis listened to this, disconcerted. He’d been prepared for fainting, or perhaps even
hysterics, but neither of the young ladies were as distressed as he would have expected. Miss Westenra
even seemed almost excited by the thought that her friend’s fiancee might be incapacitated to the point
of leaving them both in need of her assistance.
end part 97
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Chapter 98: Chapter 98: New Arrivals

Child of the Night, Chapter Ninety-eight
The Holmwood Estate
New Arrivals
The crates had been brought to the tavern in short order, and Simion was able, for a good fee, to hire
the wagon and service of one of the men. The man was curious as to what was so important that it
couldn’t wait in the stable till daylight, but he wasn’t inclined to question. Simion paid in advance.
He paid well, too, because the man didn’t relish the idea of going to the Abbey at night. There were
stories about the old place, though they varied, depending on who you spoke to. Some said that a nun
had been walled up and left to starve, another said that wastrel noble had repented his wicked life and
joined the order just before he died, and still walked in penance. The man knew that wild animals
tended to favor abandoned buildings, and that was enough to make him less than happy about being
there.
The driver was prepared to refuse to enter the building, but it didn’t come to that. The gypsy came out
to meet them, and in short order the crates were unloaded at the door. The driver was eager to go,
jumping back to his seat as soon as the last box was settled. Simion called. "Wait! Give me that bar
in the back of your wagon. I’ll need a way to open these."
The man ignored him, lifting the reins, ready to slap them down on the horse’s back. The gypsy
stepped up quickly and grabbed the horse’s halter, giving the man a hard stare. "I ain’t staying here
while you take the time to use it."
"No, you’re not." Simion tossed a coin up on the seat beside the man. It was enough to pay for a
dozen of the tools. The man tossed the bar to Simion, almost throwing it at him. He was a little
surprised at the ease with which the man caught it, plucking it out of the air as neatly as if it were a dry
branch. Simion nodded to Salazar, and the gypsy loosed the horse, stepping away with an ironic bow.
The driver slapped the reins sharply, and the horse started away. In later evenings, over pints at the
tavern, he would remark that those two would likely be right at home in a haunted house.
As soon as the cart was out of sight, Simion went directly to a case. He laid a hand on the lid and said,
"Rill?" There was a faint tap from inside. Simion immediately wedged the thin end of the bar under
the edge of the lid and began to pry it up with impatient jerks. The nails ripped free, and in moments
Simion tossed down the lever, hastily grabbed the lid, and lifted it.
He eagerness to free his lover made him careless, though, and one of the nails jabbed into his hand.
He hardly noticed it in his anxiety to be sure that Rill was safe. The young vampire blinked up at him,
then wrinkled his nose. "I don’t like being closed up like that when I’m awake," he complained.
"I’m sorry." Simion reached down to help him stand.
"Oh, you don’t have to be sorry," said Rill, as he stood, stepping out of the box. "I know I had to. I
was just saying." There was a thumping sound, and muffled curses. "We’d better get Sinn out. He’s
going to be in a really foul mood if he has to stay longer." Salazar picked up the lever and set about
freeing the Frenchman. Rill made an exclamation of distress, and took Simion’s wrist. "Simion!"
There was a small tear on the side of his hand, oozing blood. "You’ve hurt yourself." He pulled a
handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the wound clean, then bound it up.
Simion watched with gentle affection. It was a measure of the boy’s devotion that it hadn’t occurred
to him to at least taste the blood. *As quickly as I heal, it’s hardly worth binding it.* Rill finished,
tying the makeshift bandage neatly, then looked up at Simion with a smile. *But he wants to take care
of me, so I say nothing, and I’ll wear it longer than I need.* "Thank you."
Rill looked around. "Where is the prince?"
"He is exploring the Abbey. It isn’t as large as the castle, but we’ve never really NEEDED all that
space. He visited Renfield before he came here."
Rill’s eyes lit up. "Robert! Will he bring Robert here?"
"Not yet, but he made sure that your friend is well. You must be patient."
Sinn was grumbling to a stolid Salazar about his recent confinement when Dracula came out of the
Abbey. "Simion, excellent work, as usual. We’ll be well settled before dawn."
"Yes, my lord, though if this rain continues, we hardly need worry about sunrise."
"True. Sinn, come here. I have something important to tell you all." When the others had gathered
round, Dracula said, "I expect that we will see more of the neighbors here than we did in
Transylvania. They are not to be eaten." He looked at Sinn as he said this, and Sinn shrugged.
"Salazar, you’re still to keep intruders away, but try to do it without bloodshed. The constable in this
area doesn’t strike me as the sort to look the other way. And when we speak to the people here, I am
no longer Draculea." Rill looked confused, and Dracula rubbed his head. "It’s a game, Rill.
Pretend?" Understanding lightened the boy’s face, and he smiled eagerly. He loved to pretend.
"From now on, you serve Count Dracula, a distant relative of Prince Draculea."
Sinn shook his head. "I will never understand. The need for a different history is clear--we do not
know how much Jonathan remembers. But to willingly go from prince to count..."
"You’ll fit in well in English society, Sinn," said Dracula dryly.
~*~
The Next Day
Arthur Holmwood felt someone shaking his shoulder gently. Not opening his eyes, he muttered,
"Pickens, what the devil are you doing waking me up in the middle of the night?"
"Sir, it’s your usual time--just gone half-past-seven."
Arthur slitted his eyes open, then quickly shut them. "Tripe. It can’t even be dawn yet. The room
should be abominably bright. Where’s the sunshine?"
"I should imagine that it’s behind the clouds, sir. The storm may have passed last night, but it left
behind a good bit of rain."
Arthur reluctantly opened his eyes. He sat up, and his valet tucked two pillows behind him, so that he
could sit comfortably. As the valet went to fetch a tray from the small table by the door, Arthur peered
at the window. The drapes were open, and he could see why the room seemed so dim. The only
illumination in the room was from the two lamps--there was no ambient light. "Well, I don’t suppose
I’ll be riding this morning."
"I wouldn’t advise it, sir." Perkins unfolded the legs of the tray, positioning it over his employer’s
legs. He poured a cup of tea, then added sugar.
"Though it might let up, I suppose." Arthur watched as Perkins stirred sugar into the tea. When he
was done, Arthur picked up the cup and sipped, then nodded his approval. "Where’s the rest of my
breakfast?"
"Lady Holmwood requests that you join her in the morning room, sir."
Arthur set down his cup with a sigh. "Oh, bloody hell. Mother never bothers me before noon unless
she wants something. What is it now?"
"I wouldn’t like to say."
Arthur gave his valet a jaundiced glance. "Perkins, I know very well that in this household the
servants usually know things before I do. If I have to face my mother on an empty stomach, I don’t
want to be at a total loss."
Perkins folded his hands and said judiciously. "Well, sir, it seems that the butcher’s boy brought
something besides the order this morning. He brought news. The kitchen staff got the story from him,
and you know how gossip spreads below stairs. The footmen got it from them, and the maids got it
from the footmen. Your mother heard the maids gossiping, and had the butler get the full story from
them. She then asked me to inform you that your presence was required."
"A wonderful explanation of the estate grapevine, Perkins, but it tells me precisely nothing. Mother
seldom bothers to pass along servant’s gossip to me. What’s so important this time?" As Arthur
finished his tea, Perkins related the mystery of the ghost ship that ran aground, deserted save for one
mutilated corpse, lashed to the wheel. "Yes, I can see how that would make the rounds quickly. I’d
wager it’s going to spawn some gruesome ghost stories. Soon we’ll have phantom ships sailing under
full moons, with
skeletons beckoning to unwary folks on the beach. But is that all? I’d think mother would save that
story till luncheon."
"Yes, sir. I believe that she wishes to speak to you about owner of the ship’s cargo, who arrived not
long after the ship grounded, and has taken up residence at the old Abbey. It seems, sir, that he is of
the nobility."
"Really? I haven’t heard of any new families moving into the area."
"Not surprising, sir. The gentleman is not English. He is from Transylvania--a count."
"Transylvania?" Arthur sounded incredulous. "Everyone’s handing out titles these days. I think I can
guess why Mother wants to speak to me. Dash it all, I’ll have to go out into the weather anyway."
"Yes, sir. Might I suggest your brown tweed? It’s excellent at keeping out the damp, but still looks
nice enough to make a welcoming call on minor nobility."
"Fine." He smiled as he finished his tea. "You’re a worse snob than I am, Perkins."
"Yes, sir."
~*~
Lady Jocelyn Holmwood looked up as her son entered the breakfast room, and came over to her. She
lifted her cheek for his kiss. "Good morning, Arthur."
"No, it isn’t, Mother. It’s filthy outside, and I suspect that you’re going to require me to leave my
cozy nest and walk abroad."
"Don’t be unpleasant." Arthur shrugged, and began to fill a plate from the covered dishes sitting on
the sideboard. "Something very interesting happened last night..."
"Grounded ship, deserted, mutilated body, mysterious owner now at The Abbey, and in need of
welcoming. Does that cover it?"
Lady Jocelyn was too well bred to look shocked by anything less than a social impropriety, but she
DID look annoyed. "Really, Arthur! You’ve been listening to staff gossip again."
Arthur seated himself beside his mother and picked up his knife and fork. "How did you find out
about it, then?"
"If you’re going to be this rude, perhaps I shouldn’t ask you to visit the count."
"Nonsense. You know very well that I’m only rude with you because you love me to distraction, and
will forgive me anything. I’m generally quite charming. Ask anyone." He smiled as he buttered his
toast. "Even poor old Jack Seward will say the same, and I’m going to marry the woman he loves."
"Please don’t sound so smug about it, Arthur. It’s terribly common. I understand there is no lady in
the Count’s household, so it wouldn’t be proper for me to call until we’ve been introduced. But I want
you to go over and tender my regards. Once that’s done, I can see about arranging a small dance or
supper party to introduce him to the local society."
"Such as it is. I’ll do that, but you’ll have to be fast off the mark, Mother. You know how much Lucy
wants to be the premier hostess."
Lady Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed. "She’s a sweet child, but very ambitious for her age. I hate to say it,
but I think she may be marrying you mainly for your position."
Arthur shrugged. "She could be, but would that make her any different from most of the society
debutants? I’m marrying her because she’s respectable, she’s pretty, she’s socially adept, and she’ll
eventually bring a packet of money to the estate."
"Arthur! Don’t discuss money. It’s so vulgar."
"So grandmother never told you that it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one?"
His mother looked away, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. Arthur knew all the local gossip--old and
new--and his mother was rumored to have once been very taken with a certain young vicar. Her
parents favored the previous Lord Holmwood--Arthur’s father. When the vicar had an unbelievable
stroke of good luck, and was posted to a very comfortable position almost on the other side of
England, the budding romance was nipped, and Jocelyn married her titled suitor. Arthur had pity on
her. "If I take the brougham instead of the gig, I can drop by the Westenras and see if anyone there
wants to dash over. Lucy will be thrilled if I give her a jump on meeting the newest additions to local
society. If he’s at all presentable, it’ll be a feather in her cap. Well, if I’m to present myself at The
Abbey without previous introduction, I ought to at least know who I’m going to see. What’s his
name?"
"Count Dracula."
"Dracula." Arthur sniffed. "Sounds rather barbaric."
~*~
Arthur Holmwood arrived at the Westenra estate just after nine o’clock. Mister Westenra had gone
visiting earlier, but Mina received him in the salon. She stood up from a small writing desk to greet
him. "Lord Holmwood, what a surprise!"
"Hullo, Mina. Where’s the lovely Lucy?"
"Either still abed or just beginning her toilet, I should imagine. In any case, you’ll have a good hour or
two before she makes an appearance."
He gestured at the boxy typewriter on the desk. "Are you still fiddling about with that contraption?"
She smiled. "I want to be able to help Jonathan with his work. I’m getting quite good at it. I can
rattle off, oh, forty words a minute now."
"That much? What a speed demon you are."
"We seldom see you before noon, and I would have thought that today of all days..." She gestured
toward the window. It was almost as dark as night outside, streaming with rain.
"Yes, it IS beastly. But Mother has wind of a new arrival to local society, and I’m to draw first blood
by greeting him before anyone else. I dropped by to see if you and Lucy would like to steal a march
on the other ladies by coming along."
Quincy Morris entered the room, looking around. "Oh, pardon me, Miss Mina. I didn’t know you had
company. I was just looking for Miss Lucy."
Mina noticed with wry amusement the way the two men reacted to each other. Both offered slightly
stiff nods of greeting, with a barely polite murmur. *Not quite like two cats ready to dispute territory,
but not far from it.* "I was just telling Lord Holmwood that she hasn’t come down yet. Lord
Holmwood has graciously offered to take us to call on our newest neighbor. I can go ask her if she
wants to go, but I’m not sure how she’ll answer. She may want to wait and make a grand appearance.
Who is it?"
"Some minor European nobility, from one of those little countries that are so small and disorganized it
surprises you that they have an actual government--Transylvania," said Arthur. "His name is Count
Dracula, and... Mina, you have the most peculiar look on your face."
"Jonathan was visiting a Prince Draculea in Transylvania when... Well, when whatever happened,
happened. I wonder if he’s any relation?"
Arthur shrugged. "Could be. For all we know the Dracuwhatsit name might be as common as mud
over there, like Smith or Jones is over here. Say, if Lucy’s going to be all that long, I think I’ll just
toddle off. I want to get this visit over."
"Just wait a moment. I’m sure she’ll want to go." As Mina hurried out of the room, she thought,
*She’ll go if I have to drag her by her hair.*
~*~
No such violence was needed. A mysterious European aristocrat was just the thing to pique Lucy’s
curiosity. She was dressed and downstairs in less than a half hour--an unheard of feat for her. It was
decided that Quincy would accompany them. Rather, Lucy decided it--Arthur acquiesced rather than
argue with her in public. When Quincy was around, Arthur didn’t feel QUITE so sure of his claim on
Lucy, and he didn’t like that at all.
It was still raining, and as dark as twilight as they road to The Abbey. When they pulled up at the
front door, they stayed inside while the driver jumped down and went to rap on the door. Naturally the
quality folk would not step out into the rain until it was certain that they would be received.
The door was opened by a coarse looking, swarthy-skinned man. Lucy gasped, "A gypsy! Father had
the most dreadful time with them last spring. Chickens were disappearing from the tenant farm, and
when he had the constable run them off, the farmer’s daughter went with them. Shameful."
"What’s he doing in the house?" said Mina anxiously. "They might very well have squatted there
when it was empty, but if they found someone living there, who knows what they might have done to
them?"
The coachman was speaking slowly, distinctly, and very loudly to the gypsy. He waved at the
carriage. "Visitors, for the count. Lord Holmwood. Very important."
Salazar stared at him with a bored expression. He looked toward the carriage, his expression never
changing. Then he grunted, and made a ’stay here’ gesture, shutting the door.
"The nerve of the man!" said Lucy. "Just leaving us out here to..."
"Lucy, he’s probably gone for someone who will better understand what’s going on," said Mina. "And
you’d hardly admit a group of total strangers into your house so easily, would you?"
"But Mina--we’re respectable," she protested.
Mina smiled at her. "Contrary to what you may think, one cannot always trust the appearance of
respectability."
The door opened again. This time a stocky, fair-haired man bowed, looking past the coachman to the
passengers of the carriage. "My master, Count Dracula, bids you welcome, and begs you to come in,
that he might show you hospitality."
"That’s a bit more like it," said Arthur with satisfaction.
Shawls were held over Lucy and Mina’s heads as they hurried into the building. Once they were all
inside, the man bowed, saying, "I am Simion, Count Dracula’s steward. If you will follow me, the
Count and his companions will be down to greet your shortly."
They were led into a large, gloomy sitting room. The floor was dusty, but the pile of dingy furniture
cloths piled in one corner had kept the seats from becoming dirty. The numerous candles, and the
large fire snapping on the hearth, went a long way toward cheering the room.
Simion left, and the two girls took seats on a small sofa before the fire. Arthur strolled about the
room, examining it critically, and said, "He’s got a lot of work in front of him to make this place
livable."
"Perhaps I ought to offer to have him stay over with us," said Lucy.
"Oh, Lucy, you CAN’T!" said Mina. "Ask a complete stranger to stay at your house, without your
father’s permission? I know that he lets you get away with a lot, but I’m sure that would be the last
straw."
"Miss Murray is right," said Quincy. "I know it’s just that you have a generous heart, but you don’t
know these people."
"You’re quite right, young man." They all looked. A tall, regal looking man stood in the doorway.
He entered slowly. "One must not take a viper to one’s bosom, at least not until you have been
properly introduced." He bowed slightly. "I am Count Vlad Dracula, of Transylvania. I understand
from my servant that I have the pleasure of greeting Lord Holmwood?"
Arthur stepped forward to shake hands, and introductions were made all around. After shaking hands
with the girls, he said, "Two such charming ladies." His eyes were fastened on Lucy. "Lucy is a
pretty name, but tell me, Miss Westenra--do you have a second name? I know that it is often the
custom among the more gently bred. My own second name is in honor of an ancestor--Tepes."
"Why, yes, I do," said Lucy. "It’s Elena." Lucy knew that well-bred young ladies did NOT fidget, but
she wanted to, badly. The man’s gaze was so intent.
Dracula looked at Mina. "And you, Miss Murray?"
"It’s Elizabeth."
Dracula looked between them, and nodded. "Elena, and Elizabeth. How... appropriate."
end part 98
Back to index
Chapter 99: Chapter 99: Gathered at Last

Rating: FRM
Summary: Dracula’s entourage charms the locals, and Jonathan arrives in England.
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Notes: Yes, this chapter is a little dry, but it was necessary to set things up for chapter 100.

The Old Abbey
Gathered at Last
Rill watched Sinn as the younger vampire frantically pawed through the contents of the crate sitting at
the foot of the bed. The vampire was swearing in French, but he suddenly threw up his hands,
exclaiming, "I KNEW that we would leave something important behind. I might have just managed if
I’d been given an entire box to myself, but no--there is no time, we must travel lightly and swiftly."
"I’m sorry, Sinn," said Rill. "I told Simion I didn’t need much, but he kept on packing. What are you
looking for?"
"My sage green vest. It does wonders for my eyes."
"I think the striped one looks nice."
"Nice, yes--but so common. Still, it will have to do. The gray one is too drab." He took the striped
vest out of the crate and donned it. "I simply cannot meet an English aristocrat wearing a plain vest. I
suppose a cravat would be too much for a casual afternoon visit. What a pity." He made a face as he
selected a charcoal gray tie--one that matched the vest. "I tell you, cheri, that true fashion for men has
died an ignominious death." He slipped into his jacket, made a few minute adjustments, then said,
"Rill--my hair?" Rill took a comb from his pocket, went to Sinn, and smoothed a few hairs into place.
"Thank you, mon ami. This is the only thing I dislike about our state. How can a man ever be sure he
looks his best if he cannot consult his reflection?"
"You always look nice, Sinn."
Sinn patted his cheek. "You are a dear boy, but perhaps a bit prejudiced." He took the comb from
Rill, and the boy stood patiently, letting Sinn fix his hair to his satisfaction. "Bon. I believe the prince
will have had sufficient time alone with our visitors..."
"The count."
Sinn smiled, shaking his head. "Ah, yes--of course. Thank you for reminding me, Rill. Now, let us
go and meet the neighbors."
They made their way downstairs, and Simion was waiting in the front hall. "Remember, you two--you
must be very careful."
"I was careful with Robert, and Jonathan," said Rill.
Simion touched his cheek. "I know, but the situation is different. Then we were in our own home,
now we are in their territory. We have to step carefully. You remember how it was when we were
traveling." He looked at Sinn. "And you..."
Sinn sneered slightly. "Please. Before the grandparents of these people were born, I was doing well in
a society much more delicately balanced than this one." Simion grunted, but he knew that Sinn was
speaking the truth. He led the two men to Dracula, and the visitors. The paused at the entrance to the
room, and when the group turned to look, Simion said, "Mister Sinn, and Mister Rill."
Dracula gestured, and Sinn and Rill went to him. "Allow me to present Mister Sinn Barbee, who is a
friend from France, and Rill--my adopted son."
Rill hadn’t been expecting this, and his smile became brilliant. The visitors were quickly introduced.
Lucy made a quick assessment of the new arrivals, and decided that Rill would be the easier conquest,
so she focused on him first. She scooted to the side, putting a little more space between herself and
Mina, and patted the cushion. "Sit here by me, Mister Dracula."
Rill took the seat, but said, "Please, Miss--just Rill." He glanced at Dracula, who gave him a small
smile. "He has made me part of his family, but there is only one Dracul."
Mina was looking at Rill, askance. It was unheard of to offer the use of one’s Christian name so
quickly. She’d gone to school with Lucy for months before they mutually extended this intimacy.
"You have an interesting accent, Mister Rill..."
"Just Rill." Simion, standing out in the hall, didn’t bother to hold back his smile. He could imagine
how a young lady of polite society would react to Rill’s ingenious insistence on informality.
Mina hesitated. "Rill, then. Your accent is a bit different from the Count’s."
Rill looked at her, puzzled, then looked toward the Count. Dracula said, "We lived in Hungary during
Rill’s youth. Naturally he picked up the speech patterns of those around him."
"Your time there didn’t affect your own speech?" Mina inquired.
Dracula smiled. "Miss Murray, I was already quite old, and set in my ways. I’ve traveled much in my
life, but I never remained in one place long enough for it to impact on me very strongly."
"Mister Sinn," Lucy said brightly. "Tell us about the latest styles in Paris." When Mina gave her a
look, she said, "Well, we have to rely on fashion papers, and they can be months out of date. If we
have a fresh source, we have to take advantage of it."
"Alas," said Sinn, "I am afraid that I can be of no help. I have been living with the Count, and the area
about the castle is..." He smiled. "Shall we say less than urbane? There are no ladies in the
household, and I’m afraid that I’ve limited my interest to the male side of fashion." Snob that he was,
Sinn had been looking forward to meeting Lord Arthur Holmwood--but he found His Lordship rather
bland when compared to the other visitor. "And I must commiserate with you ladies in that I feel
woefully behind the latest modes. For instance, Mister Morris’ boots."
Quincy had been watching Sinn with interest, letting the smooth, lightly accented voice wash over
him. Now he suddenly found himself the center of attention. Everyone was looking at his feet. These
British were almost as surrounded by horses and dogs as he was at his ranch, so one had to
occasionally be careful. He glanced down at himself, wondering if he’d stepped in something outside.
"Pardon?"
Sinn came closer, and gestured. "I thought that I knew every style of boots currently in fashion, but I
do not believe I have ever seen any quite like those. The toes are so pointy!"
Quincy found himself blushing faintly. "My mother told me I’d look foolish if I didn’t let one of your
valets dress me. I wasn’t thinking, and I put on one of my usual pairs instead of the ones I bought
when I was in London."
"Ah, American--that explains it."
Quincy was a genial young man, but usually a bit reserved with people who fit his image of
’elegant’--and this company did that. Sinn, though... There was something about him. Maybe it was
the fact that he was French. The only other time he could remember having this sort of response, it
had been with a Creole gambler in New Orleans. He remembered the weekend they’d shared. Now
the heat was not only in his cheeks. "Not just American--Texan."
Sinn raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Cowboy?" Quincy nodded. "Magnifique!"
Sinn felt like he was about to bubble over with anticipation. Quincy was a strapping, handsome young
man, who exuded an almost animal vitality--and he was already interested. Yes, being Nosferatu had
its advantages. The senses were so much sharper, and with a little dedication and concentration, it
almost seemed as if one could read others’ minds. *But even before I gained this state, I would have
known about Monsieur Morris. Ah, the heat! It looks as if I will have my own amusements while
Dracula courts his Jonathan.*
The group talked for a little while, making polite conversation about nothing of significance. The
more socially adept--Lucy, Arthur, and Sinn--did most of the talking. Dracula was content to spend
most of the time listening, and watching.
Finally Arthur said, "Count Dracula, my mother is eager to meet you. She..."
"The you MUST bring her to dinner at my home tomorrow," said Lucy brightly. She ignored Arthur’s
annoyed look and smiled charmingly at Dracula. "You will come?" She included Sinn and Rill in her
smile. "All of you. I know it’s short notice, but..." she gestured prettily at the room. "You CAN’T be
very comfortable here. Let us give you at least one good meal in welcome."
Dracula tipped his head in agreement. "We would be honored, Miss Westenra."
"Would you like for me to help you find a cook, and perhaps a few domestics?"
"You’re very kind, but that won’t be necessary."
"Are you sure? Good servants are hard to find, and quite frankly the locals may be reluctant to take
employment here." Her voice lowered. "I’m afraid your new home has a bit of an eerie reputation."
He smiled. "I’m familiar with the superstitions of the lower class, Miss Westenra, and it doesn’t
bother me. Again, thank you, but no." His smile widened slightly. "And my household has very little
use for a cook."
~*~
The Julyan arrived late, but safe. It sailed into London harbor around noon the day after the storm.
Jonathan argued with Lukas that he should simply deliver him to his former lodgings. He had no
doubt that Mrs. Halifax would be delighted to take him in and nurse him till he regained his full
strength.
Lukas replied patiently that it was out of the question. He had promised the good abbess that he would
deliver Jonathan safely to his intended at her friend’s estate, and he would do so. He had promised
God that he would watch over Jonathan until he was convinced that the young man was, indeed, safe,
and he would do so. He still refused to tell Jonathan exactly WHAT the
danger he feared was.
Jonathan would have left the ship when Lukas went to arrange transportation (crawling if necessary),
but he didn’t get the chance. Lukas had told the crew at the beginning of the voyage that his charge
was delicate, and... excitable--given to flights of fancy. When Lukas explained the situation, the first
mate was happy to purchase the train tickets, and arrange a carriage to take them to the station.
Jonathan was not left alone for a moment. The station provided a wheeled chair, so at least he was
spared the humiliation of being carried to the train in Lukas’ arms. Since the train’s door and corridor
were so narrow, he managed to convince Lukas to let him walk to their compartment--supported by
Lukas, and a porter.
Lukas insisted that Jonathan recline on one of the bench seats, as he sat on the other. They had the
compartment to themselves at the beginning of the trip, and they remained alone. Several times
Jonathan saw a passenger pause and look through the glass panel set in the door. His expression
would be vaguely sympathetic when he looked at Jonathan, but then his eyes would
wander to Lukas, and he would quickly move on.
The trip was long. Jonathan kept hoping that Lukas would fall asleep--then perhaps he’d be able to
slip out. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he managed that. Ask for help? What would he say? That
Lukas was over-solicitous in his care? That the man’s religious fervor made him nervous? That he
seemed to have focused that fervor on Jonathan himself, like a missionary grimly determined to save
an endangered soul?
No, Lukas didn’t sleep. He quietly read his Bible, or said his rosary, but he showed no sign of
sleepiness or, indeed, weariness. It was Jonathan who dozed, lulled by the rhythmic motion of the
train and the knowledge that, despite his disturbing company, he was once again in a comfortably
familiar land.
Perhaps he wasn’t quite as recovered as he thought, because he slept for most of the trip, awakening
only when they finally pulled to a stop at their destination. Again Jonathan hoped that he might have
at least a few minutes alone while Lukas arranged their transportation to the Westenra estate, but the
station clerk proved to be infuriatingly obliging. It seemed that he had
a cousin who lived just by the station, and was in the habit of ferrying travelers, for a very reasonable
fee. As he was bundled into the back of the man’s wagon, Jonathan thought that he was heartily sick
of traveling. All he wanted to do was settle in one place and stay there for a century--or the rest of his
life, whichever came first.
The trip to the Westenra estate was short, but Jonathan felt weary by the time they arrived. The driver
pulled the wagon to a halt in the drive before the front door, and looked back at them. "Here we are.
Ya goin’ ta need help shiftin’ him?"
"I have no doubt that there will be plenty of willing hands. Go let them know of our arrival."
The driver looked surprised. "What--knock at the front door?"
Lukas snapped. "Do not delay! This young man is to be an honored guest--he’s expected. Now is no
time to worry about encroaching on your betters."
The driver obeyed reluctantly. He hopped down and approached the door. He pulled off his hat
before he knocked. The door was opened quickly, and a supercilious-looking footman gazed out at
him, then said, "The tradesman’s entrance is at the back, but they’ll not be taking deliveries at this
hour."
He started to close the door, and Lukas called sharply, "You are expecting Mister Jonathan Harker."
The footman was galvanized. "Mister Harker? One moment--I’ll get assistance to bring him in." He
disappeared inside, but only for a minute. News could be spread quickly in an English country house.
In no time four sturdy footmen had come out, bringing a blanket to be used as a litter. While Jonathan
protested futilely that he should be allowed to attempt to walk, he was lifted in the sling, and the
footmen began to carry him to the house.
Before they could reach the door, Mina hurried out, followed closely by Lucy. "Jonathan! Oh, my
poor darling." Luckily the footmen had a firm grip on the blanket. They didn’t drop him as Mina
pushed in close, half-embracing Jonathan.
Jonathan waited for the sense of relief and joy that he knew should come at his reunion with the
woman he was to marry. Instead all he felt was a vague sense of discomfort, and embarrassment.
There was something not quite genuine about Mina’s effusive greeting. She’d never been so
emotionally demonstrative before. He was almost grateful when he heard Lukas say, "Young lady,
please--he is not well."
Mina pulled back a little, allowing Jonathan to breathe, and frowned at him. "Who are you?"
The man bowed. "I am Lukas Kreski, porter of the church in Tepeslau. I helped Father Josef when he
found Mister Harker on the bank of the river. I have been his caretaker during the journey here."
"Well," said Lucy. "You must stay with us for a day or so before you return to your home. We’ll find
you a room in..." She was about to say ’in the servants’ quarters’, but it occurred to her that Lukas did
not quite fit into the domestic class. "A comfortable room. Have funds been provided for your
passage home?"
"The Lord will provide," said Lukas calmly. "But my return journey is of no concern now. I will be
staying to look after Mister Harker."
There was a brief silence while Lucy and Mina tried to assimilate this declaration. The footmen
exchanged amused glances. The entire domestic staff knew of the grand nursing plans that Lucy had
been nurturing. They also knew that her nursing would consist mostly of fluttering about in a lacy
apron, occasionally fluffing a pillow, feeding the invalid a few spoons of broth, and perhaps reading
aloud to him--if she wasn’t too bored.
Finally Mina said stiffly. "That is most kind of you, but hardly necessary. It is my duty, as his
betrothed. Lucy will help me, and as you can see," she gestured at the patient footmen, then to where
one of the maids waited in the doorway, "there are ample helpers. We do not know how long Jonathan
will need assistance, and we couldn’t possibly ask you delay your return till..."
"I’m told that Mister Harker has at last arrived." Mister Westenra strode out of the house, going
directly to Jonathan. "Well, my boy. You’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you? But you’re safely
home now, and we’ll take good care of you. Lucy would never forgive me if I didn’t give Mina’s
intended every accommodation I could." He looked at Lukas. "And who is
this?"
Before Lucy or Mina could speak, Lukas bowed and said, "Lukas Kreski, sir. I rescued Mister Harker
from the river, and I have sworn that I will not leave his side until I, myself, am satisfied that he is
completely well, and completely safe."
"That’s an admirable sentiment. Are you trained in caring for an invalid?"
"I alone have tended Mister Harker during the journey. He was entrusted to me by the Abbess of the
Little Sisters of the Five Holy Wounds, and she would not risk the health and safety of anyone she had
placed under her care."
"That’s fine, then. It isn’t easy to arrange for trained nurses out here. The only ones nearby are at the
asylum, and I’m sure Seward couldn’t spare any of them. Besides, they’re jobs are more keeping the
lunatics in line than actual nursing. Lucy," he patted his daughter’s arm, "This will free you to get on
with your plans for the Count’s visit tomorrow night. I know how you fret over every little detail.
Peters, take Jonathan to the spare room over looking the back garden. That way he’ll be close to both
of you ladies, and you’ll be able to cosset and spoil him to your hearts’ content." Satisfied that
everything had been arranged, Mister Westenra nodded, and went back inside.
There was another short silence, then Lucy laughed. "Well, there’s a reason why Father has been so
successful. He sees a situation, he settles it, and he moves on. It looks as if Mister Kreski will be
staying with us for a while. There’s a small room for a lady’s maid just down the hall from Jonathan’s
room--that should suit. Come along, Mister Kreski, and I’ll show you where Jonathan will be staying.
You can tell me if you need anything that hasn’t been provided." She led him into the house.
The footmen were prepared to follow, but Jonathan grasped her hand, tugging, urging her to bend
down again. She did, refraining from embracing him this time. "Mina," he whispered. "Please, send
Lukas away."
"Jonathan, you heard what Mister Westenra said, and it DOES make sense. I don’t particularly like
the man, but he seems competent."
"You don’t understand, Mina. There’s something terribly wrong with the man."
"But what?"
"For one thing, he’s a zealot. Religious fervor is one thing, but he’s taken it to unwholesome lengths."
"How so?"
Jonathan stared at her. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t tell a well-bred, sheltered young woman like
Mina about Lukas’ insane self-mutilation. "You must trust me on this, Mina. The man is a danger--to
himself, if not to others."
She shook her head, pulling away. "You’re not thinking clearly." She touched his head gently, and he
winced slightly. The lump was much reduced, but still had not completely receded. "My poor
Jonathan. Don’t worry--I won’t let anything harm you. Everything will be all right now. You’re back
in England," she smiled, "and what is there to fear in England?"
end part 99
Back to index
Chapter 100: Chapter 100: Reunion Unaware

Pairing:
Rating: FRM
Summary: There are some who, though separated by time, space, trial, and hardship, are fated to meet
again.
Archive: Mailing lists, WWOMB, and anyone else who already has permission
Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, I don’t own them. I derive no profit from
this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who
portray them. Since Bram Stoker has been deceased for over 75 years, this work is copyrighted to the
author.

The Westenra Estate
Reunion Unaware
Lucy felt a rising irritation as she watched Lukas critically examining the room that had been provided
for Jonathan. Her father had spared no expense in indulging her tastes in decoration and furnishings,
and the room was one of the best in the house. She knew it was fit for nobility, and now this rough
man was daring to judge whether or not it would do for a simple law clerk. Finally she said, "Well,
does it suit? They’ll be bringing him up soon."
Lukas gave her a slight bow. "I do not question the quality of the accommodations you offer, gracious
lady." He indicated the French doors that led out onto the balcony. "But this troubles me. I would
prefer that the young gentleman’s room not have an outside access."
"All the rooms on this floor have doors onto a balcony."
"Then perhaps he could have a room below?"
"No, there are no bedrooms on the ground floor."
"It need not be a bedroom--just a quiet room with a divan or sofa, one deep in the house."
Lucy was shaking her head. "We can’t ask the poor man to make do in the study or salon when we
have perfectly good bedrooms available. It won’t do."
"Then perhaps the floor above?"
Now Lucy looked almost scandalized. "That’s nothing but storage and servants’ quarters. Besides, it
gets so stuffy and gloomy up there. No, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with this room. If the doors
bother you, then here..." She walked over to the set of doors that led onto the balcony and turned the
key that sat in the lock. "And here..." She shot the small deadbolt that sat high up on the doors, then
turned to him, spreading her hands.
He stared at the locks, then turned an unimpressed gaze upon her. "Those? You have led a very
sheltered life, have you not, Miss Westenra?"
Lucy could feel herself flushing. She’d always prided herself on being cool and unaffected, no matter
with whom she was speaking. Why did this man make her feel so self-conscious, and even (she hardly
cared to admit it to herself) a little silly? "That is of no pertinence to the situation." She busily turned
down the spread and sheets on the bed, arranging the pillows invitingly. "This will be Jonathan’s
room while he stays here. I am on one side, and Mina is on the other. You are just down the hall.
With so many caring helpers so close by, he cannot help but recover. Now, come along, and I will
show you to your room." She started toward the door, then hesitated. "You didn’t bring a trunk?"
"He travels most swiftly who travels light. I believe that the coachman will have left my duffle bag
downstairs. The few simple garments that the sisters provided for Mister Harker will be with it."
Lucy didn’t bother to keep the distaste out of her voice. "He can hardly wear such things now that
he’s home. Oh, well--I believe that Arthur is about his size. I’m sure I can persuade him to provide a
few things till we purchase more. Besides, if he’s going to be bedridden for a while, he won’t need
much."
They heard the shuffling of feet, and mutters of, "Careful, now! Hold up your end, or we’ll drag him
on the floor."
Lukas quickly turned down the covers on the bed as the footmen carried Jonathan in. He said, "Hold
him steady," and carefully scooped Jonathan out of the makeshift sling.
As Lukas deposited Jonathan on the bed, the head footman said, "Will you be needing anything else,
Miss Westenra?"
"I think not. We’ll call if we do." She bustled over to the bed, and managed to move Lukas aside
without actually seeming to crowd him. "Oh, poor Jonathan!" She considered him, then smiled, and it
was a little sly. "Oh, but you cannot sleep in your clothes. I must play nurse, I suppose." She reached
out and began to undo the top button on his shirt, saying, "I never thought I’d be doing this for a man
till I was married."
Jonathan and Lukas moved simultaneously to stop her. Jonathan pushed at her hands, saying, "Lucy!"
Lukas was more direct--he grabbed her arm, pulling her away. Lucy gasped, "Unhand me!" Lukas let
go of her immediately, and she rubbed her arm, saying, "How dare you lay hands on me?"
Lukas’ voice was quiet, but firm, "In your enthusiasm to be of service to
Mister Harker, you have forgotten yourself, Miss. It would be indecent for a
maiden to undress a young man. Even among the holy sisters, when a patient
must be attended to, only the most senior of the nuns, those far beyond the
temptations of the flesh, do such services."
"Oh, I suppose so." Lucy stroked Jonathan’s forehead. "I must go, dear
friend. We are to have guests tomorrow, and I have a hundred things to do.
The servants are totally lost without me." She bustled out.
Lukas watched her go, thinking, *He is not only an invalid, but her best friend’s betrothed, and she
simpers for him. Already I have seen vanity and pride in her nature, and now it would seem that there
is lust, also. Well, I dare say that though she is a sinner, she is not actually evil--no need to guard
against her. The young man must find the strength to resist some temptations on his own.*
One of the footmen appeared at the door, and spoke to Lukas. "I have your bag, sir. Will you require
it in your room?"
"Tell me, sir, is there no way that I might sleep in this room? The thought of Mister Harker left alone
in his weakened state worries me."
"Well, sir--that is a very old bed. There is a trundle under it, intended for a servant, or a small child
that cannot be far from its mother. If you wish, we could..."
"No!" Jonathan’s voice was stronger than it had been in a long time. When Lukas looked at him, he
said, "Lukas, you have fulfilled your vow--you have brought me to my homeland, and you see me
among friends. I am not nearly as helpless as you seem to think, and though I know you mean well, I
feel as if I will go mad if I do not have a little privacy! I cannot order you from
this place, but I CAN demand that I have my room to myself. If you insist on sleeping here, I shall
somehow make my way downstairs and sleep on the kitchen hearth, if I must."
Lukas shook his head. "And with healing comes stubbornness. Very well. I suppose you will be safe
enough for now. If I cannot be at your side, I will take other precautions." He went to the balcony
doors, reached into his pocket, and removed a crucifix, then hung it from the handle. "That will serve
until I can truly fortify the room." He bowed to Jonathan. "May your dreams be untroubled, good
sir." He left.
~*~
"Jonathan seems very worried about something," said Mina. "I would have thought that once he
reached England, his troubles would be over, but he’s so uneasy. Lucy," Mina put a hand on her
friend’s arm, "could we have Doctor Seward come over? Perhaps he could set Jonathan’s mind at
ease."
"Mina, that would be just the thing!" exclaimed Lucy. "And since Jack is a doctor of the mind as well
as the body, he’ll be able to tell us how much of Jonathan’s troubles are physical, and how much
are..."
"Lucy, stop it."
"Well, Mina, you might as well face facts. After all, that other one came back from Transylvania
absolutely mad, and Jonathan might very well have been exposed to the same influence. You told me
yourself that he wasn’t acting very stable." Lucy had been sitting beside Mina on a sofa in the salon,
and now she went to a small writing desk and started to scratch out a note. "I’ll send one of the
footmen for him right away."
"But it’s getting late."
"Oh, he won’t mind," said Lucy carelessly. "He’ll come right over for me."
"Yes, I’m sure he would, but is it right to ask him?" Lucy gave her an uncomprehending look. It
would never occur to her that she didn’t have a perfect right to ask for anything she desired. "Never
mind. Yes, ask him. I’ll feel so much better once a good English doctor has seen him."
~*~
Renfield sat almost primly in the chair before Jack Seward’s desk. Seward occasionally glanced up
from the notes he was taking, studying him. Renfield was relating a particularly vivid hallucination.
He believed that he had been visited the night before by his mysterious ’master’. "And you believe
that he came to protect you from the unwanted attentions of one of the staff?"
"Oh, no. No. He has other business here, more important business." Renfield smiled proudly. "But
he came to make sure that I am all right, and am not being maltreated. He’ll take me away with him
when his other business is done."
"And what would that be, Robert?"
Now Renfield’s smile was knowing. "Oh, that would be telling. But I can assure you that before he
leaves, people will know of him." He nodded. "Yes, some people will be made QUITE aware of
him." He paused. "I’m going to ask him to kill Bamford."
Seward had been writing again, but now he stopped, looking up sharply. "Why?"
Renfield bit his lip, looking away. "I’ll ask him to spare the other one--Prosser. He’s not so bad, not
like Bamford." Renfield made a face. "Isn’t that an ugly name?"
"What’s so bad about Bamford?"
Renfield turned haunted eyes on Seward, and whispered, "He’s like that devil--Rock, the hard one.
Maybe not quite as bad, but he isn’t as strong, you see. He’s only a HUMAN monster."
"But what does he do?"
"He didn’t. He didn’t have a chance. Prosser was there."
"Robert, I need to know what Bamford did to you. If he’s transgressed, then he must be punished."
"He will be, but not by you."
"Tell me why you think he should die."
"You know."
"Renfield, if you won’t tell me..."
Renfield suddenly bared his teeth, his eyes gleaming. "He wants to fuck me." Seward flinched. For
extended spells Renfield would seem almost sane, and then there’d be an outburst like this, a sudden
flash of crudity or aggression that was totally at odds with his usual meek demeanor. Robert was
continuing. "There! Now I’ve said it, and you can write it in your little book--or will you? Perhaps
you’ll just write that I fear him sexually." He snorted. "Hardly sounds as if I should be upset, does
it?"
Jack laid down his pen. "You don’t fear me, Robert."
The look Renfield gave him was almost amused. "You’re hardly in the same category, Doctor." Jack
could feel himself flush, and Renfield shook his head. "That isn’t an insult. What we’ve done
together..." His voice trailed away, and he licked his lips. Seward felt a wave of warmth. "That isn’t
the same thing. I’ve wanted it." He smiled again. "You’ve forced nothing on me, but the only reason
I can say the same of Bamford is that he hasn’t had the chance. He will, you know." He shivered,
suddenly looking small, and lost.
There was a tap on the door, and it was opened by Prosser. Seward said sharply, "I told you that I
didn’t want to be disturbed when I was in here with a patient."
"I wouldn’t usually, sir," said Prosser apologetically, "but we’ve had a message from the Westenra
estate, and I thought you’d want to hear about that."
"Yes, of course. What is it?"
"They sent a note." The man came in and handed the note to the doctor. As Seward ripped open the
envelope and took out the note, Prosser felt a tug on his pants leg. He’d stopped right beside a chair,
and he looked down to find Renfield gazing up at him. The little man gave him a sweet smile. "Hullo,
young fellow. Having a nice visit with the doctor?"
"Not as nice as it could be," Renfield stroked his own thigh, "if you hadn’t come in unannounced."
Prosser swallowed hard. He was a married man--he loved his wife, and loved what they did in bed.
He’d never thought that he’d think of another man in a sexual way, but there was something about
Renfield--small and soft, mad and wise, all at the same time.
Jack Seward stuffed the note in his pocket and shut his notebook. "I must go at once." He stood up
and got his doctor’s bag. "Take Renfield back to his room, Prosser." He left quickly.
Renfield looked up at Prosser, peeking at him through the hair that had fallen before his eyes. He
giggled. "Yes, Prosser--take me to my room, please." This time he caressed Prosser’s thigh.
Prosser reached down and took his arm, pulling the smaller man to his feet. "None of that," he said
roughly.
Renfield shrugged. "As you wish." He giggled again. "But I wouldn’t mind..."
~*~
Jonathan lay back on his pillow with a sigh. *No one listens to me. I don’t think anyone has listened
to me since my mother died.* He considered a moment, then thought, *No, that isn’t true. They
listened to me at the castle--I think.*
That was something that had troubled him ever since he had first regained his full senses. He couldn’t
clearly recall what had happened, before he awoke in the convent infirmary. He knew that he had
been taken there from the village church, but that was more from what he had been told than what he
remembered, and before that...
He clearly recalled his distress at learning of Robert’s troubles, and his displeasure at not having time
to visit him before he went abroad. The journey itself was a series of impressions--railway cars,
cramped inns, and jolting coaches. More vividly there was a memory of standing on a rough road,
near wilderness, in fast falling darkness, listening to the sounds of wild things, and then... *Blue.
Blue eyes.*
He shook his head, but that was the clearest thing about his trip--those eyes. There was something
familiar about them, as if he had gazed into them before, long ago. That was impossible, of course.
He thought about Prince Draculea, and smiled a little, thinking of what his father would have made of
him. The senior Harker loathed anything he considered the least bit exotic, and the Transylvanian
royal was certainly that. Jonathan thought of the elderly man in his rich, velvet dressing gown, his
white hair flowing down his back in a braid, his age speckled, slightly gnarled hands resting on the
arms of his chair. *He had nails like a Mandarin, but somehow that was appropriate. The Mandarins
did it to show that they did not have to labor, but he had a feeling that Draculea simply had a regal
disregard of what was expected of him.
*He was kind... wasn’t he? The prince was a complete stranger, but he made me feel welcome--more
welcome than I felt in my own father’s house. I know that Draculea did not look down upon me, as I
had thought that one in his position might.* Jonathan closed his eyes. His time at the castle was the
vaguest of all. He knew that he should remember--he knew that he should WANT to remember--but
somehow the uncertainty was comforting, rather than distressing.
All he knew was that something terrible had happened there. He’d been attacked; he was sure of it,
but by whom? He had an impression of something twisted, and distorted--something not quite
human. He’d fled, running as far as he could, climbing... Yes, he’d been on the roof of the castle, and
then he’d been on the edge of a great drop. And then... and then...
*Flying. I’ve often flown in dreams, and this was so like... Perhaps it WAS a nightmare. No, not
flying--falling. I fell into blackness, but there was someone there--someone reaching for me.
Someone came for me, but too late. Perhaps if I concentrate, if I think hard enough, I’ll be able to see
his face.*
"Mr. Harker?" Jonathan opened his eyes to find a man standing at the door. He was in his thirties, and
rather handsome, though a little haggard looking. "I’m sorry if I woke you up. I’m Doctor Jack
Seward." Now Jonathan noticed the black satchel that the man was carrying. "I’m the director of the
Seward Sanitarium, just down the road. Miss Westrenra sent word to me that you’d arrived, and asked
me to come have a look at you."
He came over, setting the satchel on the bed, and shook hands with Jonathan. "Thank you. It will be
good to have a real doctor examine me. Perhaps I’ll be able to finally convince everyone that I’m not
at death’s door."
Seward opened the satchel and took out a stethoscope. "I’m sure you’re not, but we want to set the
ladies’ minds at rest, don’t we? Unbutton your shirt, please."
"Very well."
Jonathan opened his shirt while Jack fitted the stethoscope about his neck. The doctor was preparing
to fit the ends into his ears when he stopped abruptly. "I say! Lucy didn’t tell me you’d been knocked
about so."
Jonathan looked down. His torso was mottled with purple bruises, fading into lavender and green
around the edges, and a few dark, crusted scrapes. "They’re much better now. They were positively
frightening when they were fresh."
Seward peered at the injuries closely, and prodded one deep patch over Jonathan’s ribs. The young
man hissed softly, and Seward said, "I’m sorry. Have you had any trouble breathing?"
"No."
"Good. And there’s no sharp pain, no sense of something grating inside?" Jonathan shook his head.
"Very good. I sincerely doubt that any of the ribs are broken. Judging from the marks, that’s a lucky
happenstance."
"Yes. I think all the injuries were caused when I was thrown against rocks in the river. I’m lucky my
brains weren’t dashed out, or that I didn’t drown."
Seward donned the stethoscope. "Do hold still, Mister Harker, and breathe as I tell you" Seward
moved the end cone of the instrument over Jonathan’s chest, listening to his heart and lung sounds.
All sounded as it should--strong, regular, and clear. Seward was holding the metal cone between his
thumb and forefinger, and he’d splayed his other fingers out to hold it steady. Now it occurred to him
that his fingers were spread on warm, smooth skin. His right pinky rested just beside one brown
nipple, and he realized that the flesh had drawn up a little, skin crinkling. He found himself staring,
then thought, *It’s from cold--I should have warmed the metal before I started examining him.* "Can
you sit up and lean forward, Mister Harker? I need to listen from the back."
"Surely. I’m not sure who you’ve spoken to--Lukas, Mina, or Lucy--but I haven’t been able to
convince any of them that I’m not all that helpless."
"Perhaps not, but you mustn’t be hasty in your attempts to get up and about, Mister Harker. A patient
often thinks he’s more recovered, and sets himself back by trying to do too much too soon."
Seward pulled Jonathan’s opened shirt away from his body, and again listened, this time his hand
moving over Jonathan’s bare back. He murmured apologies when Jonathan winced at a touch on a
scrape. He stopped when he found that he was considering running his finger down the ridge of
Jonathan’s spine from nape to base.
If Jonathan had been any other patient, Jack would have asked him to remove his trousers, so that he
could assess the injuries to his lower body. Instead he contented himself with gently flexing Jon’s
knees and ankles to be sure of their mobility. Finally he put away his instrument, saying, "Well,
Mister Harker. I’m sure you haven’t been comfortable, but it isn’t all that bad. I’ve seen people much
worse off from taking a spill during a hunt."
"Then I won’t have to convalesce?"
"Not as such. I would like you to get a good sleep tonight, and perhaps remain in bed part of
tomorrow. You’ve just completed a long journey, and a little more rest won’t come amiss. Then if
you’re careful not to exert yourself too strongly till your bruises no longer cause you discomfort, you
should be fine."
"But I CAN get up, and I won’t need a nursemaid?"
"I don’t think so." He smiled. "Unless you want one. Lucy and Mina seem determined to coddle
you."
"I’m sure they have the best of intentions, but the sooner they realize I’m well, the sooner we can send
my escort back to Europe." He hesitated. "Doctor Seward, you are a psychiatrist?"
"Yes, but I am a medical doctor, also, so I’m quite qualified to..."
"Yes, I understand. I just wanted to ask you... If someone had a religious mania, and even," he
swallowed hard, "if they mutilated themselves due to this belief. Would this person be a danger to
others?"
Seward frowned. "It would be hard to say without an extensive examination. Some of these people
are a danger only to themselves, while others might exhibit violent tendencies, especially to those they
felt were violating..."
Lucy came in, carrying a nightshirt over her arm. "I’ve brought something for you to sleep in,
Jonathan." She laid it across the foot of the bed, then tucked her hand under Seward’s arm. "How is
he, Jack? The poor dear keeps telling us he feels fine, but I’m sure he must be poorly." She spoke in a
tone that said she obviously did not expect to be contradicted.
Jonathan wanted to roll his eyes when Seward gave her a placating answer. "He’ll only need a little
nursing, Lucy. He should be able to get up and about in no time."
She frowned prettily; obviously reluctant to give up her dreams of being an angel of mercy, but then
something occurred to her. "Good. We’re having a small dinner party tomorrow, and you’ll be able to
join us downstairs, Jonathan. You’ll never guess who is coming to visit--a noble from the very
country you just visited, a count. In fact, I think that he’s related to your client. Wasn’t his name
Dracula?"
"Close, Lucy," said Jonathan. "It was Prince Draculea. If this man is a noble, it’s possible that he
belongs to one of the other branches of the prince’s family. If I remember correctly, the prince had no
close relatives. I’d like to meet him. Perhaps he has some news of the prince. I wish I hadn’t left
without speaking to him again. I’m afraid he may have been worried about me."
"I’m sure he’ll be able to send word back that you are safe. So, Jack, you think he’ll be well enough to
come down to dinner tomorrow?"
"I should think so, if he rests until just before."
"In that case, I have to arrange dinner clothes for you, Jonathan. It’s late to send for a spare set from
Arthur, but I believe that the seamstress should be able to alter some of Father’s in time. Now, Jack, I
will see you downstairs, like a proper hostess. Jonathan, the bell cord is just beside your headboard.
Only ring if you need anything, and someone will come directly. Good night."
Seward made his farewell, and they left a small lamp burning on his bedside table. Jonathan lay back
for a moment and thought wryly, *And so much for Miss Lucy’s dedicated nursing. A servant will
attend my needs during the night.*
Still, he wasn’t disappointed that Lucy wouldn’t be attending him personally. Her flirtatiousness had
always made him uncomfortable, and now that she was engaged, it seemed to be even less innocent.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and began to undress. He wanted to get changed
quickly, lest Lukas reappear and offer to do it for him. He was a little stiff, but he managed handily.
Just to be cautious, he did not get up to arrange his clothes, but folded them on the foot of the bed
before getting beneath the sheets.
At last he blew out the lamp, and lay down, and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. *How odd to be
back in England at last. I should feel as if I’ve come home--but I don’t. Surely that’s because I’m
here at Lucy’s house? But if that is so... I can’t imagine anywhere else I’d feel at home. Not with
Father. And my landlords in London were kind, but still...*
He turned his face to his pillow and drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of wild mountains and forests, of
looming stone walls and echoing, vast rooms somehow made familiar and welcoming because of those
who lived within. He dreamed of those things, and his deepest core knew it as home.
~*~
"I wish you could come, too, Simion," said Rill.
Simion finished adjusting Rill’s white tie, and gave his lapels a final brush. "But I am coming."
Rill made a face. "You know what I mean. You’ll be there, but you and Salazar will be eating in the
servants’ hall. I don’t like that."
Sinn patted him on the shoulder. "But you know how these things are, cheri. The rest of the world
would not understand Simion’s unique position in our household. Simion, my friend, please assist
me." He handed over a pair of mother of pearl cuff links. "I simply cannot place these things as
neatly as should be done."
Simion did as he requested, but said, "Are you sure about these, Sinn? I believe the upper classes here
usually favor something simpler--like plain gold or silver."
"I know, I know. But I am sacrificing by wearing their dreary black--I must allow myself a little touch
here and there. Besides..." He admired the gleam of the cuff links. "I believe that Mister Morris will
appreciate them. I’ve heard that Americans can appreciate an occasional flourish, and that Texans are
more flamboyant than most."
Dracula had entered the room. "Just remember where you are, Sinn. I won’t forbid you a bit of
amusement, but be cautious. If an alarm is raised because of anything you do, I will be very
displeased." He didn’t need to say what penalties invoking his displeasure could entail.
Simion had given Dracula a clean shave, and trimmed his hair, though it still wasn’t as short as was
conventional among the English gentry. Dressed in his evening clothes, he looked like nothing more
than a handsome, vigorous man in his early forties. Even if Jonathan had not suffered the disorienting
fall into the river, and the blow to his head, he would have had a hard time recognizing Dracula as the
elderly prince Draculea.
"I want both of you to keep your ears open for news about Jonathan. But try not to be obvious about
it. As far as they know, none of us have ever met him, so we must be cautious in what we say. As far
as they are concerned, Jonathan was visiting a distant, elderly, and very eccentric relative of mine."
"Yes," said Rill, smiling. "This is pretend, as if we were putting on a play--but more important. I
won’t forget."
Dracula went to him and smoothed his hair. "I know, Rill. You never forget the important thing."
~*~
"Arthur, I’m so pleased that your mother was able to come," said Lucy. "I’m afraid we’re going to be
woefully unbalanced, since we’ll have eight men and only three women, but I simply couldn’t invite
anyone else suitable on such short notice."
"You mean that you couldn’t invite anyone who wouldn’t be any competition," said Arthur dryly. He
looked over to where his mother sat stiffly on the sofa between Mister Westenra and Quincy Morris,
with Jack Seward occupying a chair nearby. "And she’s quite miffed, you know. When she found out
that you’d beat her to the post, she almost chewed my head off--in a ladylike manner, of course. Eight
men?"
"Father, you, the count and his two companions, Mister Morris, Jack Seward, and Jonathan."
"If you wanted to keep things even, you needn’t have invited Seward--then you could have had a man
seated on each side of the ladies."
"Oh, Arthur, I COULDN’T snub poor Jack like that. It would have been cruel, especially after he was
kind enough to come over and examine Jonathan so late yesterday evening."
"Speaking of Harker, is he well enough to attend? From the way you were talking the other day, I
expected him to be prostrate."
"Jack seems to think it will be all right, and I’m glad. I must admit that it would have been tedious if
he could do nothing but mope about in bed. I’m sure Mina would have hovered over him, and we’d
have had no time together."
The butler came to the door and announced, "Count Dracula, Mister Rill, and Mister Barbee."
Lucy hurried over, extending her hand as the three men entered. "Welcome, gentlemen. I’m so
pleased you could come." Dracula took her hand and held it for a moment, Rill gave it a timid shake,
and Sinn lifted it, ghosting a kiss over its back. Lucy refrained from giggling, but it was an effort.
"Such gallantry! Please, let me introduce you to the others. This is Lady Holmwood, and you’ve
already met her son, Lord Holmwood, and Mister Morris..."
~*~
Lukas watched Jonathan, disapproval evident in his expression. He’d come in as the footman that
Lucy had sent up was helping him with the final touches to his appearance. "It’s no use glowering,"
said Jonathan. "The doctor said I might go down if I wished, and I’m going. I refuse to be treated like
an invalid. You can see that I’m quite able to care for myself now, and you can safely begin to plan
your return trip."
"We shall see, Mister Harker. I had a short conversation with Mister Westenra. He is a most sensible
and considerate man. He says that I must not think of making an immediate return, and that I am
welcome to remain here for a little time." Lukas smiled. "I expressed an interest in speaking with the
local clergy, in order to discuss theological matters."
Jonathan looked at him sharply, and thought, *He knows I couldn’t justify asking them to drive away a
man studying religion--not without seeming boorish, or unreasonable. I believe that Lukas is more
cunning than most give him credit for.*
Lukas said, "Mister Harker, you do not find it unusual that tonight’s guests have arrived from the very
place you lately left?"
"It’s a coincidence, but nothing more."
The footman finished adjusting the set of Jonathan’s jacket. "There, sir. It looks as if it was made for
you. Shall I tell Miss Westenra that you will be down soon?"
"No need to bother--I’ll only be another minute or so." The man left, and Jonathan turned on Lukas.
"I rather expected you to counter what I last said, Lukas. You don’t agree that it’s a coincidence?"
"That would be the most likely explanation," the older man agreed. "But some things that appear
coincidental have a deeper reality. I beg you to be prudent tonight, young man."
Jonathan paused at the door. "I’m only going to a dinner party, Lukas--I’m not going to meet my
fate."
~*~
Once everyone had been introduced and was settled with a glass of sherry, the polite conversation
began. Count Dracula, as the most important male visitor, sat with Lady Holmwood and Mister
Westenra, the host.
Lucy attempted to engineer the other conversational groups, and was successful--for the most part.
She had intended to have Mina entertaining Arthur and Jack, while she held court with Sinn, Rill, and
Quincy. However, only moments into the chat, Sinn drained his glass and said, "I am afraid I have
been indecorous, but it is such a fine sherry. Miss Westenra, do you suppose that I could have just a
touch more?"
Lucy had been making Rill blush, and she was annoyed at having to stop, but as hostess, she couldn’t
ignore the request. "Of course, but the footman has removed the sherry to my father’s study, the
stupid man. I shall ring for him."
She gathered her skirts to stand up, but Quincy quickly said, "No need for you to trouble yourself,
Miss Lucy. If you don’t mind, I’d be proud to fetch it for Mister Barbee."
"Would you, Quincy? You’re such a lamb."
Sinn stood up. "No need to fetch, sir. I feel the need to stretch my legs, so with Miss Westenra’s kind
permission, I will accompany you." Lucy didn’t like the thought of losing another admirer, but she
could hardly complain, so she smiled graciously.
The two men made their way to the door. Dracula, smiling at Lady Holmwood as she related some bit
of local gossip, caught Sinn’s eye, and gave him a warning look. Sinn returned it with an almost
imperceptible shrug.
In the study, Quincy went to the decanters, and regarded them. He picked up one cut glass bottle, and
turned. He was startled to find Sinn almost at his elbow. Quincy prided himself on always being
aware of what was going on around him, and a man who could move as noiselessly as Sinn Barbee
needed to be watched. The Frenchman smiled at him. *Watched for all kinds of reasons,* he
thought. "I think this is the sherry."
Sinn didn’t even glance at the bottle. He held up his glass. "You have a fine eye, Mister Morris, so
I’m sure you are right."
Quincy poured some of the amber liquid into Sinn’s glass, and replaced the stopper in the bottle. He
put the decanter down, and watched as the other man took a sip. "Yes, quite right. A very pleasant
drink, sherry." He turned the glass in his hand, regarding the contents studiously. "But somehow I
feel that it would not be your first choice. Sherry, I think, is a bit too delicate for you, Mister Morris.
You strike me as a man with strong appetites. I would think that your usual drink would be whiskey."
He paused. "Straight?"
"I’ll use a little water with it sometimes. I bet that you drink mostly fancy wines."
"I do enjoy a good vintage." Sinn drained the glass, then reached past Quincy to set the glass on the
table. "But I also enjoy more robust refreshments. I feel that America could provide something I’d
like." He regarded Quincy, smiling slightly. "Something strong, almost overpowering--perhaps a
little raw, but with... authority."
Quincy gazed down at Sinn, feeling a tingle of pleasure and excitement. It seemed that the hopes he’d
been having since first meeting this man might come to fruition. Though Sinn presented an elegant
appearance, Quincy thought that the Frenchman might very well be a match, on all levels. That was
what Quincy wanted--NEEDED: someone who could be just as ferocious in his submission as Quincy
was in his aggression.
Quincy was about to say something, he wasn’t quite sure what, when there was a tap on the door. It
opened, and Rill peeked in. "Miss Westenra wants to know if you’re coming back, or should she just
send your dinner in on trays." He frowned slightly. "I think she was making a joke."
As they started for the door, Quincy said, "I hope Miss Lucy seats us together. This is a conversation
I’d like to continue."
Sinn nodded. "Or perhaps expand upon."
As they made their way down the hall, Quincy said to Rill, "Why did you knock when you came to
fetch us?"
Rill gave him a look that said he was asking a silly question. "You were alone with Sinn, weren’t
you?"
~*~
Jonathan paused at the bottom of the stairs. One of the footmen bowed to him, saying, "In the blue
salon, sir, down this hall to your left."
"Thank you."
"Allow me to introduce you." He preceded Jonathan to the salon. Stepping inside, he said, "Mister
Jonathan Harker." He bowed and left, as Jonathan entered the room.
Lucy bounced up and hurried to him. Mina moved more sedately, but she came, also, and each
quickly took one of his arms. "Dear Jonathan," gushed Lucy. "How brave you are to struggle down
her all on your own. You MUST sit down immediately."
"Yes," Mina agreed. "You shouldn’t force yourself to do anything beyond your strength, just to be
sociable." She and Lucy were guiding Jonathan to a seat, and the young man allowed it--he was too
well bred to shake them off. "I’m sure our guests wouldn’t have minded if you’d stayed upstairs and
rested."
"There you are wrong, Miss Murray."
The voice was deep, and somehow familiar. Jonathan had taken his seat, and now he half-rose,
turning toward the voice. When he saw the speaker, he suffered a sudden dizziness, a feeling that he
somehow knew he’d experienced before. The man was a stranger, but it was as if a memory had risen
from deep in his subconscious, appearing for only a split second before fading back again, leaving him
confused and frustrated.
Jonathan dropped heavily back into the seat, and Mina cried, "Oh! I knew you were trying to do too
much!"
"No, I’m all right," he murmured. The man had risen from his seat, and was approaching. "I don’t
know. Maybe I came down the stairs too fast. It was just..." He trailed off as the man loomed over
him.
Vlad gazed down at the young man. There were so many things that he wanted to do--roar in triumph,
sweep Jonathan into his arms and carry him away from these fools, fall to his knees and bury his face
against Jonathan’s thighs as he had done so many times with Nicolae...
He did none of these things, for though there had been a flicker of something like recognition in
Jonathan’s eyes, it had passed quickly. Now was not the time. Now was the time for subtlety, and
courtship. He extended his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Jonathan grasped it. "Allow me to
introduce myself. I cam Count Dracula, and I have been waiting to meet you..." his grip tightened, and
Jonathan drew in a breath, but did not try to pull away, "for what seems like forever."
end part 100
Back to index
Chapter 101: Chapter 101: Dinner

Rating: FRM
Summary: Just what the title says, with a little chat. It’s only polite to show interest in your fellow
guests. Dracula and Sinn are more interested in some, than in others.
Archive: Mailing lists, WWOMB, and anyone else who already has permission
Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, I don’t own them. I derive no profit from
this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who
portray them. Since Bram Stoker has been deceased for over 75 years, this work is copyrighted to the
author.
Notes: I got my information on escorting/seating in Victorian times here
http://www.snap.com/snap_frame.php?url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.oldandsold.com%2Farticles05%2Fbusiness-6.shtml&query=dinner+etiquette&rank=1
I’d give you the URL for where I got the list of courses, but I went to Ask Jeeves, and the sucker ran
almost half a page. :) It was easy to find menus for modern restaurants specializing in Victorian
ambiance, but not so easy to find actual menus that were served during the Victorian era. Instead of
specifics, I got the list of courses, then went from there.
1. Hors d’oeuvre 2. Soup 3. Fish 4. Entr’e 5. Roast 6. Salad 7. Dessert 8. Coffee And I figured that
Lucy would want to show off, and would offer at least two or three choices for each course (since she
didn’t have to cook or clean up herself). And yes, people really HAVE eaten bananas with a knife
and fork. Seems ridiculous, I know, but this was Victorian England.
Warnings: Okay, this is mainly fluff, but Vlad can’t just LEAP into courting Jonathan. He has to be a
little more subtle--at least for a day or two. :)
And here’s my chance to give you a little more about Victorian England, and perhaps make you a little
more irritated with Lucy.

The Westenra Estate, England
Dinner
Jonathan continued to gaze up at the man. After a moment he heard a rustling nearby, and the slight
sound of someone clearing his throat, and he realized that he was still holding Count Dracula’s hand.
He gave it a brief, firm shake, and released it. "I’m very pleased to meet you, sir. Your name has a
familiar ring. Are you by any chance related to Prince Draculea, in Transylvania?"
Dracula smiled. "Indeed I am, though I have not seen the old gentleman for some time. He is a very
distant relation." Dracula gestured apologetically. "I’m afraid I cannot even tell you what our exact
relationship is. I would have to blow the dust off my copy of our family tree, and spend a little time
tracing the branches."
"Prince?" said Arthur. "Then you’re related to royalty?" The only thing that could really impress
Arthur Holmwood was someone whose ancestry could be counted as more illustrious than his own.
For foreigners, that precluded everyone but royalty.
"Yes," said Dracula casually. "Though I am entitled to claim the rank of prince myself, but at present,
I choose not to."
Quincy was nodding. "That’s the way. The world is moving slowly, but surely, toward democracy."
Dracula smiled at him. "You speak with the fervency of a true believer, Mister Morris." Dracula
studied Jonathan. "There are a few things in this world that might change on the surface, but if one
looks deeply enough, one will find that it is as it ever was."
Mina frowned. "That’s disturbing."
Dracula inclined his head. "Perhaps to you, Miss Murray. To others, it is
comforting."
"Well," said Lucy brightly, "it looks as if we’ll have plenty of conversation at dinner." She wagged a
playful finger at Quincy. "Now, not too much politics! It spoils the digestion. Shall we go in?"
It was a command phrased as a question. The group immediately began to sort itself out. It was a
peculiar custom among the upper classes that one did not simply choose his dinner companion to suit
his own tastes. The order in which one entered the dining room was rigidly established, and the
hostess had little more leeway designating the seating.
Mister Westenra, as the host, escorted Lady Holmwood--the highest-ranking female guest. Lucy, as
the hostess, was to bring up the rear, escorting the highest-ranking male guest. That would usually
have been Lord Holmwood, but since they were engaged, the honor fell to Count Dracula instead.
Neither of the men was overly pleased by this, but they were both socially adept enough not to let it
show.
Since it was considered bad form for married or engaged couples to stay together (it was assumed that
they saw enough of each other, and they should spread their social attention to others while in public),
Mina was paired with Lord Holmwood. Lucy had suggested to her father that since there were so
many more men than women, the ladies might go in to dinner with a gentleman on each arm. Her
father had replied sternly that Lady Holmwood would be shocked, and Lucy did not need to offend her
future mother-in-law. Besides, it was the lady ornamenting a gentleman’s arm--not the other way
around. The larger group of single men (Quincy, Jack, Rill, Sinn, and Jonathan), made their way
toward the dining room behind the couples.
Arthur would have preferred to escort Lucy. His rank, wealth, and charm had always assured him of a
selection of eager women. Mina Murray was too serious to interest him much, but none of the single
men held much interest for him, either. He’d be polite to the two foreigners, of course, but he had no
desire to spend most of the night chatting to them. Jack Seward was as familiar and dull as dishwater,
and Jonathan Harker--Jonathan was a law clerk--what more needed to be said of that?
Sinn moved up beside Jack Seward as they passed down the hall. "So, Doctor-you study the mind?"
Jack would have hardly expected such an elegant, and apparently shallow, young man to be interested
in such things, but he was always willing to talk about his profession. "Yes. I run an asylum nearby.
I dislike the administrative duties, but the job is important for my studies. It allows me close
observation of patients with a wide range of disorders."
"Ah. I would suppose that these are all unfortunates whose complaints make it impossible for them to
fit into normal society?"
"Well, yes. Their behavior or appearance would be alarming or unpleasant to most people."
"But don’t you agree that there are some... shall we say irregular personalities? That there are people
who hold beliefs and views, who have hidden practices that would shock and horrify the world at
large, but who appear on the surface to be perfectly normal, even..." he smiled, "charming?"
"Oh, without a doubt. These are the most dangerous."
"I cannot help but agree. I do hope that Miss Westenra has seated us together, Doctor. I find this
discussion fascinating."
Jonathan was walking beside Rill. The boy was watching him with such obvious friendliness that
Jonathan felt little discomfort in starting a conversation. "Your country is very beautiful."
Rill nodded. "Yes. I have lived in the country, and in a great city, but the mountains where we make
our home now are my favorite place on earth."
"You live in the mountains as well? The prince I was visiting has a castle in the mountains, near
Borgo Pass."
Rill gave him a sidelong glance. "I’ve been there. It’s quite wild, despite the village nearby. When I
first went there, I had to be careful in my roaming that I did not go too far, and become lost."
"Yes, there were wolves. I heard them."
"Oh, the wolves didn’t bother me," said Rill carelessly. "I just had to be careful that I wasn’t so far
from the castle that I couldn’t return by dawn, or..."
"Nightfall, cheri," Sinn broke in. Rill gave him a puzzled look, and Sinn said slowly, "You had to be
careful to return before nightfall."
Rill looked embarrassed. "Yes, of course."
"I believe that the forest around Castle Draculea is quite dangerous, once the sun goes down," said
Jonathan.
"I suppose so," said Rill, but there was an undercurrent of doubt.
"Myself," Sinn continued, "I like a little wildness. Tell me, Mister Morris, is Texas the pioneer
wilderness that they describe in the dime novels?"
Rill laughed, "Simion says that it’s ridiculous that Sinn has a wonderful selection of literature at his
fingertips, and he has the cheapest, crudest sensationalism available shipped to him."
"What can I say?" Sinn examined his fingernails, then cut his eyes toward Quincy. "One occasionally
has a taste for the... earthy."
They’d entered the dining room. Each person paused a moment just inside the door to give proper
admiration to the beautiful china, silver, crystal and table decorations. Lucy was very proud of the fact
that she’d arranged the centerpiece herself. Of course the gardener had cultivated the flowers, and a
maid had followed her with a basket as she’d snipped each choice blossom, the housekeeper had
brought her the cut glass bowl, and actually placed the bowl on the table after the maids had laid the
place settings. But Lucy HAD arranged the flowers, and she pointed that out with what she was sure
was becoming modesty.
Her artistry was duly admired. "Very pretty, Miss Westenra," said Count Dracula. "How nice to see a
young woman who possesses practical skills, and is not just decorative."
Jonathan looked at him sharply, hearing a certain dry amusement in his voice, but Lucy took the
comment at face value. "Thank you--I try to keep busy. I help the local vicar with his good works,
when I have the time. I’d like to help organize the charity events," she frowned, and the expression
was pettish, "but he seems to think that I’m too young and inexperienced to be given charge." She
gave Lady Holmwood a clearly envious look. The older woman kept her attention carefully on Mister
Westenra, but her spine stiffened a little. She’d heard Lucy’s complaint, but she was too well bred to
comment in return.
Mister Westenra’s place was at the head of the table, with Lady Holmwood to his right, and Lucy sat
at the foot of the table, with Count Dracula on her right. Before they sat down, Lucy said, "Well, since
we don’t have a balanced set of guests, then I don’t suppose we need to hew too closely to
convention. I won’t tell you all where to sit except for one thing--Mina, you have to place yourself
with a gentleman on each side. Don’t try to sit beside myself or Lady Holmwood." She smiled
brightly. "We have to spread our conversation as much as possible."
There was a little shuffling before the guests settled. In the end, there was Lady Holmwood, Jack,
Mina, and Rill on one side, and Sinn, Quincy, Jonathan, and the Count on the other. Lucy, though
she’d directed her guests to choose their own seats, wasn’t completely pleased with the outcome. She
started to suggest that Mina should switch so that there would be a woman on each side, but her father
gave her a stern look. Normally she’d have just blithely continued, but the Count was giving her a
rather narrow look, also, so she simply rang for the footmen to begin serving.
There were lavishly filled fruit bowls flanking the centerpiece, and Rill was staring at the one before
him in fascination. It was crowned by a fat, elegantly curved, bright yellow banana. Since he’d spent
most of his life isolated at the castle, he’d never been exposed to tropical fruit. He had deduced, since
it was placed with apples, pears, and grapes, that it was edible, but he couldn’t figure out HOW. As
the footmen brought in the first dishes, his hand drifted slowly toward the tempting object. Dracula
cleared his throat, and Rill looked up alertly. The Count gave his head a minute shake, and Rill
quickly returned his hand to his lap. Now he recalled what Simion had taught him about eating with
the upper classes--he needed to wait until someone else at the table took a piece of fruit, or it was
offered to him. He’d never purposefully do anything against what Simion had taught him, but it didn’t
stop his eyes from wandering occasionally to the fruit, covetousness and curiosity clear in his
expression.
The first course was a choice of deviled eggs or oysters on the half shell. The oysters were offered in
individual bowls of chipped ice, and when the footman stood at Rill’s elbow, presenting them, the boy
gave the glistening, quivering morsels a near horrified look. His principal diet now was blood, but
he’d never accustomed himself to the thought of eating raw flesh of any kind. He gratefully accepted
two of the stuffed eggs instead. Sinn, on the other hand, welcomed the oysters with relish. "Though
perhaps I should not," he murmured to Quincy, voice low, so that the other diners would not hear.
"Oysters are known to stir up certain other appetites."
Sinn still occasionally indulged in normal food, and Rill had kept the habit, joining Simion in at least
one meal almost every day, but it had been centuries since Dracula had taken any nourishment other
than blood. During his mortal life, though, he had attended many formal dinners. He often had no
desire to consume more than a small amount of the food offered, so to be diplomatic he had become
adept at seeming to eat, while in fact rearranging his food on the plate. He hadn’t had to practice this
deception for a long time, but he was still skilled. He chose the deviled eggs also, but for a different
reason than Rill. It would be easier to look as if he’d consumed a reasonable amount of them, while
the still filled oyster shells would have been hard to disguise.
"I’ll be getting a French cook, of course, when I move into my own household," Lucy confided to the
Count. "But Father insists on keeping the same woman who did for him since before mother died.
She’s all right with plain foods, but one must almost beat her to induce her to use any sauce more
complicated than drawn butter. If Arthur hadn’t volunteered to supply us with produce and fruit from
his hothouses and game from his estate, I doubt I would have been able to come up with a menu fitting
for guests."
*How subtly you call for compliments,* thought Dracula. He chose a clear consomme, waving away
the pale green cream of cucumber soup. "Really, Miss Westenra, you worry unnecessarily. This is
quite a treat for us. As a bachelor household, we dine very simply. In fact, there is usually only one
dish..." Rill chuckled, and Dracula gave him a mock severe look, then smiled. "But it suits us well.
The fare you are providing seems quite rich to us, so you must not be offended if we can manage only
small amounts." He touched his glass of wine to his lips. "Digestion, you know."
He glanced over at Jonathan. From the moment he’d seen him, Dracula had been exercising iron will
not to simply pull him into his arms. Sinn was watching him curiously from the far end of the table.
He knew Dracula had honed his self-control over centuries, but he also knew how badly Dracula
wanted Jonathan Harker. It wasn’t hard for Sinn to imagine Dracula simply seizing what he wanted,
killing anyone who tried to stop him. That could prove interesting. Should the Count break, Sinn
fully intended to take Quincy Morris for himself.
Dracula, voice even, spoke to Jonathan. "You do not seem to have that problem, Mister Harker."
Jonathan had broken his roll, and was about to take a bite. He paused, the bit not quite to his lips,
regarding Count Dracula. Dracula felt his insides squeeze. Again he saw Nicolae perched in the
window of Varga’s castle, eating his simple breakfast, and gazing down at Draculea as he mounted
Lucifer for his morning ride. "Sir? Oh, digestion. No, no. Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. My
father’s housekeeper used to say that when I was around, she hardly needed to use the scrap bin."
"What a charming woman." *How sad that I won’t be able to pay her a call before we leave England.*
As the meal progressed through the fish, the roast Guinea hen, the joint of beef with accompanying
potatoes and vegetables, and the salad, Lucy found herself growing more and more irritated. She was
used to her dinner companions vying with each other for her attention. While the Count would
occasionally pass a remark to her, most of his attention was concentrated on Jonathan. Lucy just
couldn’t understand it. How could a sophisticated man
prefer to spend time with a common law clerk when SHE was willing to sparkle for his amusement?
Her pride would not let her try to engage Dracula in a more pointed fashion, so she instead focused on
Rill. Even though he would not have been her first choice, he was still personable, and his position in
the Count’s household seemed to be a respected one.
Rill politely divided his conversation between Mina and Lucy, but the boy had no idea of current
fashions, no gossip, and was not interested in any of the traditional country pursuits, such as fishing,
shooting, and hunting. He had perked up a little when Lucy had brought up hunting, but then he’d
said, "Oh, FOX hunting. No, I’ve never done that."
"Really? What HAVE you hunted?"
The Count and Sinn became very still, watching Rill closely. The boy turned his attention to the plate
before him, poking at a tomato slice. "Big game. Miss Murray, do you really operate a type writing
machine? They must be awfully complicated. It took me a long time to learn the proper use of a pen
and ink without making a mess..." Lucy was left with the unsettling feeling that this obviously simple
boy had neatly evaded a probe for information.
Mister Westenra had been spending most of the meal conversing with Lady Holmwood. She was an
old friend, and the fact that their children were to be married gave them much to speak of. But despite
devoting most of his time to her, he’d been well aware of what was going on among the other diners.
It seemed that Lucy needn’t have fretted about the uneven number of men and women. The Count and
his companions were having no trouble making conversation. Indeed, the Count and Jonathan Harker,
and Sinn Barbee and Quincy Morris seemed well on their way to forming firm friendships. The
Count’s preoccupation with young Harker, and his subsequent near neglect of Lucy, rather amused
Mister Westenra. He loved his daughter, but he was well aware that she was dreadfully spoiled.
There had been very few times in Lucy’s life that she did not get her own way, and he thought that a
few minor disappointments might do her some good.
The salad plates were removed, and finally coffee and plates of small, ornate cakes were brought in.
Jonathan was eagerly trying to choose a cake, when he noticed Rill. The other young man had finally
taken the banana that he’d been coveting for most of the meal, but he was turning it in his hands,
eyeing it with obvious perplexity. There was another banana in the fruit
bowl, and Jonathan said, "You have a good eye." Rill looked up at him curiously, and Jonathan took
the second piece of fruit. "I do believe that I’ll have one of these, too."
He laid the fruit on his plate, moving a little slowly, and deliberately. Then he picked up his dessert
fork and knife, held the banana in place, and sliced partway through the stem at the end. He laid aside
the knife, held the banana in place with the first fork, and used a second fork to peel away the skin in
strips. Rill watched this carefully, understanding dawning on his expression, then he happily began to
copy Jonathan.
Once the banana was peeled, Jonathan deposited the peel on the side of his place, took up the knife
again, and began to slice off and eat small chunks. Rill followed suit, and was soon happily engrossed
in his treat. Dracula watched him fondly, then turned his eyes on Jonathan. "You are a kind young
man."
Jonathan found himself blushing. "I’m greedy, because not only am I having this banana, but I intend
to have one or two of those cakes as well."
"Perhaps," Dracula indicated one cake that was coated in fondant, the top decorated with sliced,
candied almonds. "That one?"
"Yes, I have my eye on it. I hope I won’t have to race you for it."
Dracula chuckled. "No, it is not the type of sweet I prefer. I will enjoy watching you enjoy it."
"How did you know that was what I’d choose?"
Dracula’s smile faded a bit, and there was a far away look in his eyes. "I once knew someone who
was very fond of sugared almonds. You remind me of him."
end part 101
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Child of The Night

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Chapter 1: Chapter One: Romania, The Year of Our Lord 1460

Chapter 1: Chapter One: Romania, The Year of Our Lord 1460

Child of the Night

Chapter 4: Chapter Four--Substitution

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Ambivelance

Child of the Night, Part Five

Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Courtship

Chapter 7: Chapter 7: The Suitor

Part 7: The Suitor

Child of the Night, Part Eight

Child of the Night, Part Nine

Child of the Night, Part Ten

Chapter 11: Care

Child of the Night, Part Eleven

Chapter 12: Concern

Child of the Night, Part Twelve

Chapter 13: Seduction

Child of the Night, Part Thirteen

Chapter 14: Part 14: The Claiming

Chapter 15: Chapter 15 - Dominance

"Did you ask him to let Nicolae come with me?"

Beta smiled at her coyly. "Nicu says that I am already a princess."

"But what were you doing?"

Feeling breathless, Beta had said, "Yes, please."

"Of course, my darling."

"I wish we had the belt. I wish I could mount you."

"How?" Beta sounded eager.

"Do you wish to try it?"

"I don’t care! Anyway, I don’t see how it could."

"Lena, please, it hurts."

At last Beta said, "This wasn’t what I wanted, Lena."

Chapter 16: Part 16: Lulling

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 17: Part 17: Passage

Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Traveling

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 19: Part Nineteen: Ablution

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 20: Part 20: Retribution

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 21: Part 21: Marriage

Child of the Night, Part 21: Marriage

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 22: Part 22: Mating

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 23: Chapter 23: New Union

Child of the NIght, Part 23: New Union

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 24: Part 24: Rough Justice

Chapter 25: Part 25

Child of the Night, Part 25

Chapter 26: Part 26: Thwarted

Child of the Night, Part 26: Thwarted

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 27: Part 27: Mourning

Child of the Night, Part 27: Mourning

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 28: Part 28: Balances

Child of the Night, Part 28: Balances

The Year of Our Lord, 1460

Chapter 29: Part 29: Frustration

The Year of Our Lord, 1461