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The massive slab over their heads had a beard of long icicles, like a mouth with sharp, jagged teeth. It almost looked as if the entryway were trying to eat them. The gray hulk of Castle Poenari rose menacingly behind them, sparkling with the same ice that crunched under their boots every time they moved. A bitter wind howled around the mountain, and I could hear one of them struggle to breathe, the air rattling wetly in his chest. But they hadn’t dared to light a fire. Their master frowned on any sign of weakness, and I guess they preferred pneumonia to ending their lives writhing on the end of a stake.
Since I shared that view, I decided that a frontal assault might not be the best plan. I was confident that I could take on a couple of half-frozen guards, but if one managed to raise the alarm, it would put an early end to my evening’s plans. I looked for other options, but there weren’t many. Despite being located at the peak of the mountain, the castle was surrounded by high, deep walls of natural stone and featured three tall watchtowers designed to keep people like me outside.
I became well acquainted with those walls, since I spent the next half hour scaling them, clinging to the few narrow ridges where the outer stones didn’t fit together perfectly. Every time I stayed in one place more than a few seconds, my hands froze to the rock, ensuring that when I moved on, I left a little more flesh behind. My movements caused chunks of ice to cascade from the edge down the fifty feet of dirt slope that surrounded the castle, to the steep drop-off below. I looked down once, and immediately regretted it. I didn’t look again.
The wind almost knocked me off twice, bringing with it stinging bits of ice that scoured my skin and threatened to blind me. It howled around my ears like an angry demon, seeming to take it personally that I continued to hold on by my fingertips. More than once, I was bashed against the stone hard enough to have me worrying about the state of my rib cage. And when I finally made it to the top, I had to wait, hanging on the almost featureless outer surface of the walls, until the guards on patrol moved away.
As soon as they did, I hauled my half-frozen body over the parapet and dropped to the ground. It was less of an improvement than I’d hoped. The biting wind was gone, only to be replaced by the bone-chilling cold of winter air trapped inside thick stone walls. Even worse, I had no idea where I was supposed to go and the castle was crammed with soldiers. Everywhere I looked, bodies flowed through the shadows before coming out into the moonlight.
I’d hoped that an assault in the middle of the night would find most people asleep, but I should have known better. Considering whom I was dealing with, night around here was probably busier than day. I finally lost patience and crossed the open courtyard at a run. For a wonder, no one saw me. It helped that most of the guards were huddled into their cloaks, more worried about not freezing to death than about possible intruders.
I entered the castle unseen. The cavernous arches of the corridors were immense above me, and even my softest footfall seemed to ring into infinity. I ghosted along the walls and somehow made it to the large main hall without being seen. The air was filled with the clatter of plates and goblets, and lanterns pushed at the darkness, spilling large puddles of light on the floor and dispelling the concealing shadows. It was obvious that I would have to wait for the group of soldiers gathered along one of the room’s long tables to finish a late meal before I continued. The smell of their food made my stomach growl; how long had it been since I’d eaten? I couldn’t remember, but the scent of beer and cold lamb caused my abdominal muscles to clench uncomfortably.
I turned my attention to the sight of a new-looking tapestry on the back wall. It showed an armor-clad figure at the head of an army, who I assumed was either the father or the son because he was riding a dragon. Both belonged to the Order of the Dragon, a group created to fight the Turks, which had given them their famous nickname. “Dracul” means dragon, so “Dracula” was literally “son of the dragon.” It seemed a good bet that the painting was of the son—he was spearing an enemy on the point of a pike.
The soldiers finally left and I moved into the echoing space, trying to keep to places that did not have dried rushes on the floor to crackle underfoot. The ceiling above was so high that it disappeared into darkness, and seemed to pick up every stray echo of sound. At last, I reached a high, arched door, leading to a short, dimly lit corridor. Nearby, a set of stairs wound up into blackness, the lack of torches an encouraging sign, as only my prey was likely to be able to see his way without them.
I reached the top to find myself facing a heavy oak door. It was cracked slightly, pouring a line of orange fire-light over the stones. I edged forward cautiously and nudged the door open with my foot. The room inside was large, but more cozy than the vast dimensions of the rest of the castle, and was perfectly circular. I peered around and realized two things: I was alone and I wasn’t likely to stay that way for long. The lit candles told me that much; no one bothered to light an unoccupied room, especially if the means to do so, like most other supplies, had to be dragged sixteen miles up a mountain. Someone was expected. I just hoped it was the right someone, since I really didn’t feel like wading through half the guards to get to him.
The room was full of booty. Several dozen plush prayer rugs brightened the walls, helping to insulate the cold stone. Many of the silver and gold vessels scattered about had Arabic words enameled onto them, the carpet was a Persian in blues and burgundies and the shiny brass lamp that hung from the ceiling didn’t look local. A sudden wave of exhaustion made the exotic colors run together, and I swayed slightly as the last of my adrenaline was used up. I hurt everywhere, but that was nothing new. What undid me was the sight of a real bed dressed with a pile of lovely furs and blankets, so high that they made a mound. I walked toward it unconsciously, my head spinning from pain and wonder.
I must have made it, because I fell onto something soft and squashy that my dazed senses identified as a feather mattress. The impact hurt my bruised ribs, to the point that I think I passed out for a minute. When I came around, I discovered that my first impression had been wrong: I wasn’t alone.
I was slumped over a body that was seeping a crimson stain onto what had been clean white sheets. It didn’t have a pulse, but that didn’t worry me. His kind never did unless trying to pass for human.
My heart was beating so hard in my chest that I thought it might shatter a rib. I noticed irrelevantly that the blood was ruining his clothes. His dazzlingly white tunic had been embroidered at the sleeves and around the slit collar in bright red and gold, but darker patches now marred the pattern in several places. I couldn’t tell how bad the wounds were, because although he was in bed, he hadn’t bothered to divest himself of his fur cloak. It was so silky that my hands completely disappeared in it. I stroked it softly, unable to believe my luck.
I stared down at my victim, and slowly undid the rag holding a sharpened wooden sliver around my waist. He didn’t move, not even to open his eyes. I told myself to get it done, but I hesitated. I’d never killed a sleeping vampire. Their daytime resting places were too hard to find to make it worth the effort; I caught them animated and bent on mayhem, not lying around wounded and helpless. This was so different from the fight to the death I’d envisioned that I simply sat there a moment, staring at him. He wasn’t at all what I’d expected.
His face had the same expressive eyebrows and long, dark lashes he’d passed on to me, but with strong, masculine features underneath that made them look quite different. He was very good-looking, but except for shadowy depressions in his cheeks, he was as white as bone. He looked ill, which was absurd, since vampires don’t get sick. Of course, the blood might explain it; the coverlet beneath him was virtually soaked with it. I had an awful idea: had someone beaten me to it? Had someone else stolen my revenge, while I struggled not to fall off that damned wall?
My hands started shaking and I couldn’t seem to stop them, and my breathing was shallow and uneven. I sat back down on the bed until the room stopped swimming, then started to
pull off the remains of his ruined shirt. The wounds underneath were deep, with a few showing bone, but none looked to be in the right area for a heart blow. So why didn’t he wake up?
I told myself that a dead vampire was a dead vampire, no matter how he got that way. I got a better grip on my stake and decided to stop worrying about who had attacked him in such a half-assed way and just get it done. I positioned my makeshift weapon over the heart, but again I hesitated. I wanted him awake for this, aware enough to know who was about to end his miserable life and why. It shouldn’t happen like this, without him even waking up. Somehow, it seemed almost obscene.
“Are you going to kill me or wait for me to die of old age?” I jumped at the sudden question, and the hand that had been lying so utterly still and limp a second ago caught my wrist. I struggled, but found that I couldn’t move. I stared at my arm as it hung there in the air, the strength that had never before failed me suddenly useless. “It will be a long wait, I assure you.”
Bright amber eyes looked me over as he easily rose to a sitting position, his other arm grabbing me by the neck like an errant puppy. He smiled, showing fully extended fangs. “You had your chance. Now it is my turn.”
I fought and thrashed against the iron hold, but it was no use—I couldn’t move. I screamed, as much in rage as in fear, and the hold tightened, tearing more cries from my throat. A hand clamped over my mouth and I bit it. Someone swore, and it was in French, not a language I’d have expected under the circumstances. It brought me back to myself slightly. I opened my eyes to find Louis-Cesare bending over me, worry clearly visible in his blue eyes. Déjà vu.
“Dorina!” Louis-Cesare’s face blurred in and out. He looked like he was struggling to stay calm. He wasn’t struggling half as much as I was.
I’d met Mircea for the first time in a bar in Italy, around the turn of the seventeenth century, not in a castle in Romania. Especially that one. Cetatea Lui Negru Voda, the Citadel of the Black Ruler, was the real castle Dracula. It had originally been built in the fourteenth century, but Drac rebuilt and expanded it after he returned from his Turkish adventure. The Turks had let him go after learning of his father’s assassination and Mircea’s burial alive at the hands of the nobles of the town of Tirgoviste, who supported a rival family on the throne. They knew he’d stir up trouble as soon as he got home, giving the Wallachians something else to think about besides fighting them. And in that regard, Drac hadn’t disappointed.
He had decided that the only thing that would protect Romania from outside invaders and inner rebels was a show of strength. On Easter Sunday 1459, he started as he meant to go on. Drac invited the nobles of Tirgoviste to a lavish dinner party. Once there, they were arrested and forced to march fifty miles to the town of Poenari, located where the Carpathian foothills turn into real mountains. Those who survived the trek were put to work building him a fortress on a steep precipice overlooking the Arges River. The job continued for months, until their elaborate banquet attire rotted and fell off their bodies—then Drac ordered them to keep working naked. It was the harshest kind of physical labor, mixing mortar and lugging huge stones and timber up the steep mountainside. Many died of fatigue and illness, but some survived. Drac examined his new fortress, decided there was nothing major left to do and ordered the remaining workers impaled.
The castle had, not surprisingly, developed a bit of a reputation. It was said to be haunted by some of the thousands who had died there. Maybe that’s why, when tourists come all agog to see Dracula’s castle, they are taken to Bran Castle in Transylvania, even though the only connection with it Uncle ever had was to besiege it once. But it’s in good condition, while Poenari’s version is a hulking ruin, a great lump of stone and misery, with pieces regularly working loose from the grainy old mortar to drop onto careless-tourist heads.
And Bran doesn’t give people nightmares.
“Dorina! Are you all right?” Louis-Cesare shook me, and from his frantic tone, I had the impression that it wasn’t the first time he’d asked.
The problem was, I didn’t know the answer. I’d been under a lot of stress for a month, without Claire to help mitigate it, not to mention I’d almost died twice in one day. Even with my past experience, that could bring on a troubled night. It could be just a nightmare. But the images had seemed so real, much more detailed than my usual dreams. What if the spell had combined with the wine to dredge up something long buried?
But that didn’t make sense. I’d never been to Poenari, not in its heyday and not afterward. And if I’d never been there, it couldn’t be some residual effects of the spell. So why could I almost feel the rough texture of the stone under my fingertips? Was it a nightmare, or something more? And if it was more, how was I supposed to find out? I couldn’t very well use a flawed memory to search for gaps in the same memory.
