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| Vlad Drakulya (The Impaler) |
Today I'm sharing with you a portion of a chapter out of Vampire Nocturne, where Sabrina Strong meets Vlad Drakulya--the real one, who has found a way to turn himself into a vampire, and lives in another world where vampire's out-number humans ten to one, and where Drakulya is ruler of his own realm. I had to do a good deal of research on Dracula, and also about Victorian dress for this book. I hope you enjoy it and if you have not bought it, or any of the other Sabrina Strong series, I hope you take advantage of the sale price going on now through November 3rd--all my books are $0.99!
Now without further ado...
I hesitantly stepped into a large study
of wall-to-wall bookcases and one huge fireplace. A normal-sized
person could easily stand upright in the fireplace at the other end
of the room. Gas-fed light washed the room in gold, bronze and
browns. Wingback chairs were positioned at angles before the
fireplace. Mahogany panels covered the ceiling giving the room a
gloomy atmosphere. A large mahogany—or cherry—desk with
ball-in-claw feet was
stationed in the corner. Odors and scents ebbed and flowed
conflicting with one another as
I paused a few feet inside the vampire's lair. Drakulya's aura hit me
first. Impressive. It was the scent—or, in this case,
stench—that bowled me over. As
with every vampire I've ever met they all had their individual
scents. Dracula smelled of a dense musky odor of an old house, with a
pungent reek of decay cloying around it. I had to hold my breath
against it.
The
door shut behind me with a terrible thud.
Without
warning an unbidden vision flitted through my mind: A dark haired
child huddled in a filthy cell where plumbing was not available, and
soap and water were not involved in regular hygiene either. Someone
screaming in the background... the dark haired child smiled
cruelly... “I know what they do here... they like little boys... my
stupid brother bows to their whims... they know I will resist them...
”
I
pushed the scene out of my mind and scowled at the man standing
across the room from me. I presumed he fed me this scene to give me
an idea of how fowl he can be. Vampires were able to give you any
visions they wanted, whenever they wanted. For some reason this was
something he wanted me to see, and I knew this came from when he was
a prisoner as a child in Transylvania.
Woodsmoke,
the burning gas lanterns, and some other odd scents came to my
olfactory's rescue. It nearly concealed Drakulya's unpleasant vampire
odor. I cursed my werewolf heightened sense of smell. A dozen cans of
Lysol, and twenty bottles of Febrize would not help, I
decided. I resisted the need to pinch my nose. If only I had a jar of
Vick's to plug up my nasal cavities. I was relieved that his vampire
scent was so repugnant. He would have to be appealing to someone
in order to have kids. Or, maybe not.
I
stood facing the back of the vampire who had summoned me. He wore a
red tunic made of the richest velvet, belted in a gold mesh and held
rubies the size of quarters. The gold and rubies glittered in the
candlelight. His legs were ensconced in scarlet hose, black boots
came up to his knees, then doubled over, pirate-style showing off
their fur linings. I found it odd that he chose to dress in attire
which did not reflect what I'd been seeing. He rejected the 19th
century apparel, apparently. Dark hair threaded with silver flowed
down his back in tight curls and it reminded me of Vasyl's mane, but
not as black, and not as shiny—or as clean. The thought of Vasyl
turned to a longing; I wished Vasyl were here now, because he would
be able to protect me from this vampire. Would I never be able to
separate myself from the male who could protect me? I now felt
foolish for traipsing into this by myself.
I'll
be fine. Right.
“You
are a stranger in my land,” his accent thick, his voice deep and
rich. I imagined he could, were I not wearing my ring, put me under
his thrall the second he spoke. He was most likely wondering why I
wasn't at this very moment kneeling before him, holding out my
unprotected wrist or neck for his drinking pleasure.
“This
is true. I am a stranger to your world,” I said, keeping my voice
even in tone, trying not to sound scared to death. I should be
nominated for an Oscar, because I was scared shitless.
“I
have been told you are from the Earth realm.”
“This
is also true,” I said. I had expected the news of my visit would
precede me. I had guessed correctly.
“Since
I am also from Earth, do you know who I am? Who I was, when I was a
living man?”
“Yes.”
I didn't pause. I could see he wanted to bask in his own egotistical
thoughts of himself as a great man. I decided to oblige him if only
to inflate his already over-blown ego. It wouldn't hurt. Vampires
might be cunning, but they were push overs when lavished upon with
utterances of how great they are—or in this case, were. “Vlad
Dracula, a.k.a. Vlad the Impaler, prince of Wallachia—sat upon the
throne at least three times during your life. And also a novel named
after you was written in a later century by an Englishman by the name
of Bram Stoker. You are called Count Dracula in it.”
Dracula was a prince, not a count.
“Am
I handsome in this book? Brave? Fearless?”
“You
are a vampire who attacks humans. Women, mostly.”
A
sharp bark of laughter told me he found this delightful. “But of
course,” he said, sounding impressed with himself and I saw him go
up on his toes a little bit and bounce some. Relief wash through me.
This news delighted him. But I knew it would be short lived.
“How
does it end?”
“You
are killed.”
“How?”
“With
a stake through the heart, I believe.” I had never read the book.
But I caught the movie version of it in all its erotic overtones and
blood, in different versions remade in different decades. I enjoyed
the one in which Gary Oldman played Dracula. He had done a fine job,
but the real Dracula standing here had me wringing my one glove, my
mouth became parched. The real Dracula would tend do that.
Drakulya
laughed. It was a crude and cruel laugh and stopped abruptly. His
head leaned back, eyeing—I supposed—the large painting of himself
there above the mantle. He gestured toward it. “I was the Prince of
Wallachia. I ruled with an iron fist.” His hand clenched. He then
relaxed and dropped his hand to his side and finally half-turned to
look at me, his head cocked in a curious pose. In the light of
several tapers, I took him in. His eyes were Byzantine large, the
nose somewhat long and thin—aquiline—the end of which fell over
the bushy mustache. His lower lip seemed ruddier that it should have
been for a man, but common for a vampire who may have just fed. The
high cheeks were sharply defined in this light. The mustache rose
with what may have indicated a smile, but it was not a friendly one.
I could not see his upper teeth, only the lower ones, and they were
not perfect; some were crooked one gaping hole revealed a missing
lower incisor as well. It isn't true that all vampires are beautiful,
or perfect. It depended upon what their human life had been like. In
Dracula's day there were no dentists. Having lived the life of a
prisoner for nearly half his life, a warrior-prince the other half of
his 45 years, had taken a toll on his over-all appearance. There were
scars on his face, hands, and I suspected there was one that ringed
his neck where he'd been beheaded during his last and final battle
against the Turks. This one fact flashed in my mind. How was he here
now? Vampire or not, the decapitation of the head was a stalling
point I couldn't get my mind around.
Having
become initiated, so to speak, in vampire lore, I had looked up
anything to do with vampires, and Dracula had come up in my
search—the historical, and Bram Stoker's Dracula. How Dracula's
body and head had wound up reunited, I couldn't guess. The head had
been severed in battle, and sent south to Constantinople and
displayed on a spike for the sultan to gloat over. Meanwhile, his
body was buried in a hidden grave on an island outside of Bucharest.
How he'd become a vampire was his little secret, but I didn't doubt
that some sort of black magic was involved. It wouldn't be wise to
pull up the memories of his human downfall, or ask Vlad the Impaler
details of his transformation from death to un-death. But my
curiosity was really spiked.
He
had an eager look in his his large dark eyes and I knew by the way
they swept over me while the mouth curved down with something like
disdain, I'd already insulted him.
“You
are a warrior?” he asked me, turning to face me fully now. One hard
knuckled hand at the hilt of a large knife, the other sweeping toward
me in his gesture at my choice of clothes.
I
looked down at myself. It had not been the first time tonight the men
found my attire unbecoming, or unwomanly. What could I say? Get
over it, already.
“Yes.”
He
smiled now, the upper teeth flashing, fangs drawn. Shit!
“You
are human, and yet I cannot thrall you.” He surged toward me in
long, threatening steps, his voice carrying through to the towering
reaches of the ceiling. If he'd wanted, he could have been on me in a
second, but wasn't, and I wondered why in the one and a half heart
beats I had left to think.
I
stood my ground, thinking to go for my squirt gun would be a
foolhardy move; his six-foot frame had crossed the room in a matter
of two seconds, which didn't give me enough time to draw a gun and
properly point and pull the trigger. But I had to stop him, and stop
him now. Quickly, I reached for the only other thing I knew would
stop him: the chain around my neck attached to the crucifix. I knew
for a fact he had been a Christian in his human life. I hoped the
sight of it would stop him in his tracks.
It
did. He stopped within inches of me, but he didn't hiss and cover his
eyes or glance away, like Nicolas had, who was 200 years younger than
Dracula. I stared into his dark, malevolent eyes—something I
probably shouldn't have done, but if I didn't challenge him he would
think me a sniveling cowardly woman in man's garb. My hackles were
up, and really, I was not going to back down from this asshole who
had some how cheated death. If the wolf came out and I chewed him to
pieces, I figured I saved this world from his tyranny.
His
eyes flitted from my face to the crucifix and gazed at it for a long
moment with what I could only call self-pity.
“It
pains me that I can no longer wear a crucifix, let alone touch
one—the cruelty of it all!” He looked longingly toward the
object, licked his lips, then turned on his heal and stalked back
toward the fireplace. Hissing his frustration, he leaned against the
mantle with both hands, head bent. “I, who was responsible for five
monastic foundations and endowments, I built churches for those
ignorant cur to pray in!” He threw something. It crashed to the
floor steps away. I jumped as shards hit my legs and boots. “I was
voevod!” he roared and twirled around. “I never let the
boyars think that they could get away with anything!” Swiftly he
crossed toward me again, but not as quickly. He stopped an
arms-length away, swinging one hand in the air above his own head. “I
made them pay! All of them! I impaled five hundred of them on the
spot! I knew among them were my father's enemies—those who plotted
against him and caused his death!” Fists balled up, he was in my
face. Spittle hit me. It was all I could do to remain stock still and
not run for dear life. I knew if I did show any sort of fear he'd be
on me like a pit bull. He would use my fear in a way only a vampire
would: To feed on me. Fear enriched the blood, I was told once. Thus
it would feed his jaded need for something more than mere calm,
sedated blood. His cocktail consisted of the fear-induced, not those
he could simply enthrall. No. He wanted to terrify me. But, I wasn't
playing along, and I think that really pissed him off more than
anything.
“What
faith are you?” he asked, eyes darting from my face to the crucifix
and back again.
“I—uh—I'm
Methodist.”
His
lip actually arched into a snarl, the mustache lifting, like a black
cat arching its back. “Methodist,” he repeated as though the word
was repugnant. His mouth fell open in a feral pose, the mustache
trembling slightly. Fangs glistened.
“Yeah.”
“Do
you pray, Sabrina?” Right now I am.
“Yes.
Occasionally.”
Leaning
toward me, the flesh of his face like a tight mask over the bones of
his nose, cheeks, chin and skull. Still grimacing with that hideous
open-mouth as if ready to strike me like a viper, he stared intently
into my eyes, willing me to bend like a blade of grass to his
mind-touch. “Why can I not bend you to my will? You are human, yet
your blood—it is different somehow.” He wanted me to put away the
crucifix. Na-a-a-a-ah.
“I've
been bitten by a werewolf,” I said, hoping he would buy it.
“No.
That is not it.” He turned away, swiping a hand to dismiss what I'd
said.
“I
also belong to a master vampire, older than you, at home waiting for
my return.”
Renewing
his efforts, he swiftly twirled back to me, the cape flying wildly.
Once more he was before me, eyes darting over me, searching for
something that would reveal the clue to my abilities to resist him.
“I am told you wear a ring.”
Oh,
God. Skrlock had told him about the ring. The rat fink!
Before
I realized it, he grabbed the wrist of my right hand and held it up
to examine the mystic ring. His grasp crushed my wrist enough to make
my knees bend. I winced, tears burst to my eyes, but I held back my
scream of pain. Instead, I growled a warning, my own teeth now bared.
The Were in me wanted to come out. Another moment, it would have. I
knew from the last time someone tried to really harm me, full moon or
not. I didn't care what Jett and Skrlock had said about me not being
able to go into a complete change here.
“Perhaps
if I cut your finger off? See if that makes the difference.” A
large dagger was in his hands, blade shimmering in the light.
“And
let's see what my crucifix might do to your flesh!” I countered
between gritted teeth. The holy object automatically in the fingers
of my other hand, I pressed it to his face. I touched him for barely
a second, before his eyes flashed wider with realization and I
smelled the stench of burning flesh. Crying out angrily, hissing a
curse in his language, he let me go and flew across the room. Winding
up next to his fireplace, he bent slightly at the waist, holding his
hand to his face. His burned flesh would heal quickly. Within
seconds, in fact.
In
the meantime, my wrist felt as though it had been held in the jaws of
a vice grip, and it had simply released me. Residual pain still
throbbed through me to my core. Gasping, and bend at the waist, I
thought the bones might be broken. After a few moments the pain eased
and I straightened. I slowly opened and closed my fingers to test
them. Painful, but not unbearable. My Were blood working on the
healing process already. As the vampire healed, I healed. I don't
think he understood I too could become a mindless creature, filled
with the blood lust. Possibly Skrlock had been right about my not
changing completely into a beast, but I would become more violent.
Which suited me just fine at the moment, considering the company.
Having
realized I had a weapon, and I could not be thralled, Drakulya
returned to his spot near the fireplace. He still didn't know I had
something worse than a crucifix. Something
I could throw him across the room with the magic of my ring. But, I
didn't want to piss him off even more, because I couldn't kill him
with anything I had at my disposal, plus I didn't feel the ley line I
would need to get out of here pronto, big chicken that I am.
He
leaned again against the fireplace, but then he straightened, looking
wary of some other presence. His eyes flashed to the other end of the
room. Odd that I hadn't noticed it before, but someone in a
full-hooded black cloak stood there. Because he stood so still and
wore black, he simply blended in with the shadows. He made no noise
and stood absolutely still. I could see no face within the deep cowl,
and his hands were hidden inside the roomy opposite sleeve. He looked
like someone in a Halloween costume assuming the persona of Death. I
really hoped this was not an omen. My Knowing told me this being
wasn't human, but something more. Supernatural, but what, I wasn't
sure. I couldn't get a read from it. Not at all, and I couldn't feel
an aura. Almost as though the thing didn't exist. Even a ghost would
give off something I could read. I became aware of an oppressive
feeling of dread emanate from it. I shouldn't have gotten that at
all.
Drakulya
flung a book across the room at this cloaked thing. The wrath
vanished like a ghost. The book hit an object, and crashed. Drakulya
cursed again, raged toward the place where the strange spirit had
been. He muttered something and spun around. His hard frown turned to
a smile that widened as his eyes glared at me.
As
if forgetting about the apparition, Drakulya moved back across the
room.“I understand you seek someone from your world?”
Skrlock
and his big mouth. I'd have to remember the man was a big squealer.
Possibly he was Drakulya's spy. Whatever. I would never trust saying
anything in front of him again.
“Yes.”
“She
is a relative, or a friend?”
“Relative.
A cousin,” I said.
“And
what will you do once you find her?” he asked, thumbs hooked on his
belt, looking down his long nose at me.
“Take
her back,” I said.
He
chuckled dryly. “You can try. But you will fail. Anyone who crosses
through the Black Veil, can never go back.” I cringed at the
expression on his face. The worse I had yet seen—it was an almost
feral smile with sexual undertones.
I
swallowed. “So I've been told.” I had done it once before, I knew
I could do it again. All I needed to move from this world back to
mine without really trying was a ley line. Odd that Skrlock had
failed to tell him this one talent of mine.
“You
might as well consign yourself to becoming my Blood Dame, because
that is your destiny here.”
I
snorted. I know. A bad time to show my confidence, but I couldn't
help it.
“You
doubt me?”
“I'm
sure we'll both find out soon enough.” I knew I would not win a
battle of wits with The Impaler. In fact I'd probably dig myself in
deeper. Time for a different strategy. I glanced around the richly
decorated room. “Actually it wouldn't be bad living here.” I
stifled a yawn. This conversation had come to a boring conclusion and
I wanted to find a ley line. I would pop back home for a while, and
re-group, find a larger crucifix, and maybe buy a flame thrower come
back and take out a couple of vampires, starting with Vlad here.
Drakulya
pulled a satin length of cord which hung from the ceiling. The door
opened behind me. I turned as the majordomo stepped inside.
“Yes,
master?” He bowed deeply.
“Take
this one upstairs, for my entertainment later,” Drakulya
instructed.
“Yes,
my lord.” He bowed again.
“I
want her to be treated in the same way as all those I have sent
there,” he added, as if secretly imparting something that only the
servant would know.
“Very
well, master.” Rumbel bowed more deeply.
“Sabrina.”
I was half-way out of the room when Drakulya called to me.
Turning
to glance back at him, I swung my hair off my shoulder. I gave him a
raised-eyebrow look.
“Do
not play the fool with me, Sabrina. I have killed lesser women than
you.”
“So
I've read,” I said. “Gutting them like fish and impaling them
takes absolute detachment. ” And an absolute lack of empathy. “You
must get really bored with yourself.” Psychopath.
Face
burning, I turned and swiftly left the room. My spine tingled. My
hand went to my water pistol filled with holy water underneath my
jacket. What I wouldn't give to have had the Dagger of Delphi on me.
My ears cocked, listening for the slightest rustle of his clothes
should he move a muscle.
The
door shut with a definitive click, and I strode along the hallway
with Rumbel leading me up the curving stairway. I realized it was
carved out of marble. The carvings were exquisitely done, if only I
could get past the fact each and every newel was an impaling. The
good old days personified in marble. Lovely. He had not impaled
anyone here recently—like within the last two months. I would have
read it from the occupants of the dining hall, and seen the impaled
carcasses along our way here. The only one in recent history was the
werewolf lady Jett had mentioned. From my estimation, Drakulya had
graduated from the need to let blood flow on the ground, to drinking
it to his fill. Thus, impaling was not his ideal mode of punishment
any more. I had yet to meet any of his Blood Mares—no they were not
Zenyetta and Chairelott. I had to wonder where they were kept.
Probably locked in one of those special rooms like I would be
tonight.
A
comfortable room opened up to me. It wasn't exactly the Hilton.
However the bed had a canopy, the colors were warm. Atmosphere, if I
were to describe it: Old World Quaint with a dash of Psycho. A
fragrant vase of flowers—much like the ones in the dining
room—resided on a sideboard. A frilly nightgown was laid out for
me. I made a half-chuckle at the sight. As if! I
understood tonight's meeting with Vlad was a prelude to other
activities.
Pervading
the whole room was the stench of blood, which sort of put a whole new
spin on “Old World”. You can't get blood out of carpet no matter
how much you scrubbed. And with my heightened scenting abilities, I
knew human blood when I smelled it.
The
key on the other side of the door clicked. Drakulya was not messing
around. He would visit me tonight. I was to become his Blood Dame.
No.
Frigging. Way.
There
were no windows, so the room felt more like a prison cell than a
bedroom.
And
there it was. That little tingle in the bottoms of my feet. A ley
line. Perfect!
I
stepped toward the bed. I had been able to go from my world to this
one and back again the first time, without stepping into a damned
portal. What had summoned me here in the first place? That's how it
all had begun. I did have a ley line run beneath my own house, and
there had to also be one here beneath this palace, so knew I could
tap it, if I concentrated. The network, if it worked like Joha had
claimed, would take me precisely where I wanted.
Maybe
if I relaxed some and thought about home I could do it. Dorothy's
mantra went through my head: “There's no place like home...
there's no place like home...”
I
settled on the bed, and found it soft—it was stuffed with wool and
goose down—suddenly I had flashes of all sorts of things that went
on in this room, and knew I wanted no part in vampire games. I also
knew that this was not the original mattress. This one was new. It
had never been tried—so to speak.
Pushing
out images that wanted to play out in my head, I suddenly felt
exhausted. Adrenaline gone from the meeting with Drakulya. My muscles
ached and I reached to rub my opposite shoulder. I'd had a long
night, come to think of it. I couldn't remain here, in Drakulya's
palace—in this room especially. What happened to Johnathan Harker
was nothing compared to what may happen to me.
I
breathed out, settled my hands in my lap, rolled my shoulders, and
closed my eyes. I breathed in and let it out again. I thought and
concentrated on my own room, visualizing it in my mind's eye. I
yawned. Yawned some more.
Hello, my pretties. Well, as you may recall, I've been sick with the flu, these past few days and have not been able to do much but rest--which is what you should do when down with the flu. But today I'm able to sit at the computer--and my eyes aren't burning any more, thank goodness!--so I though I'd bring you a little something about this third book.
Hello, my pretties! Well, I'm going to give you another teaser from the up-coming book, and as a treat, I've placed the picture of a Dreadful here. Something I created in "paints". Hope you enjoy!
