Dracul (11 page)

Now I’m holding tight to the back of a chair. Slowly, it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten since lunch. I’m light-headed for several reasons. “We should translate. I need to know as much as I can learn. But the book—”

“I do not have it with me. I’ll have to fetch it. Give me two minutes?”

“Take as long as you need. I’m going to fix us something to eat.”

Constantine nods solemnly, then disappears.

Quickly, I head to the kitchen, unwrap some steaks from the fridge, toss them on the griddle grill-plate of the gas stove, and breathe a blast of fire, searing the outsides nicely before I turn on the gas.

Constantine returns as I’m getting out plates.

“I thought you could use some iron after the blood you lost,” I explain as I lift the meat from the griddle.

“That is very thoughtful of you. I will translate while we eat. Where did I leave off?”

“Vlad Dracul was assassinated, Mircea was buried alive, and Vlad Dracula returned to rule in his father’s place.” I grab utensils for us both.

“Ah, yes.” Constantine sits and turns the pages to the appropriate spot, pausing a moment while I slice into my beef. “This is not such good dinnertime reading,” he apologizes.

I’ve already stuffed a bite of beef into my mouth, but I talk past it. “Just fill me in on the important things. You can read the Romanian in your head while you chew.”

Hopefully he can see the urgency on my face. The taste of food has revived me, and I’m alert to the real danger now. Constantine had a stake driven between his ribs. They were clearly aiming for his heart.

We don’t have time for him to wait for the optimum moment to share his knowledge. The vampires out there are willing to kill for this information.

I can suppress my gag reflex long enough to hear him speak.

Constantine begins with the next incident in the timeline, which I’ve read about in other sources.

“Upon his return to his homeland, Dracula sought out those with knowledge of the place where his brother, Mircea, had been buried alive. He had the coffin exhumed and found that, indeed, the rumors were true. Mircea was lying face downward. There were claw marks all over the inside of the coffin, a testimony to his struggle to escape. His fingernails had broken off—”

I hold up one hand for Constantine to stop. “That’s enough detail. Let’s get on with the story.”

“Dracula was forced to bury his anger toward those who had tortured his brother. He had to work with them to establish his rule, but he did not forget.” Constantine eats bites of steak between paragraphs, relaying the political intrigues between the various parties as Dracula’s power increased over the next several years.

“Finally, by Easter of 1457, Dracula’s opportunity for revenge had arrived. He assembled those local rival leaders who were responsible for his father’s and brother’s deaths. After feeding them a lavish feast, Dracula had the most able-bodied among them put in chains. They were marched fifty miles upriver, and forced to labor making bricks, building his castle with walls thick enough to withstand cannon fire. They labored in their Easter finery until their clothes fell from their backs.

“But the worst of the offenders—those who had personally executed his father, who had heartlessly buried his brother, deaf to his pleas for mercy—those men, Dracula had impaled alive on stakes, and left their bodies there to rot as a warning to all.”

By this point in the telling of the story, I’ve finished eating my steak—which is a good thing, because I’m not sure I could swallow a bite with that picture in my head. But this pivotal moment in the Dracula narrative—the incident that got Dracula labeled
The Impaler
—has been greatly debated among historians.

I want to know the real truth. “How many?”

“How many?” Constantine looks up from his silent reading of the Romanian text. “How many what?”

“How many were impaled that day?”

Constantine’s lips twitch. It isn’t the full smirk this time, but something softer, almost regretful. “What have you read?”

“Oh, there were claims of hundreds—two hundred, even five hundred. But I’ve also read the courtyard where it happened isn’t big enough to hold more than forty. And the census records before and after the event hold almost all the same names, so unless the census counted the bodies on the stakes…”

“Six.”

“Six? Six men were impaled that day?”

“Yes. Though from the sound of their screams, which carried for miles around, you might have thought there were hundreds. Rumors spread and Dracula let them. It was in his best interest for the locals to fear him. His political enemies circulated pamphlets claiming inflated numbers, much the way political enemies launch smear campaigns today. Why does it matter how many? The only thing that matters is that Dracula had men brutally killed. He got his revenge. And yet, he did not stop there.”

For the next couple of hours, Constantine reads me more of the ups and downs of Vlad Dracula’s reign. At one point, since the fire has burned out, I rise and put the plug back in the chimney. At other times, I ask questions. But mostly, Constantine reads and I take notes.

And though the story is a fascinating, if detailed one, something burns inside me, its intensity increasing with each passing hour.

When Constantine reaches the end of a passage, I take a chance and voice my concern. “What about the gold?”

Chapter Eleven

Constantine raises one winged eyebrow. “You mean the tribute Vlad was to pay the sultan?”

“No, I mean making gold. You told me your ene—fellow vampires,” I catch myself before we can squabble over terminology again, “are after the information you have about making gold. But you haven’t told me anything about that.”

“It is best understood in the context of the story.”

“But the story is a long one. We’re not even to Vlad’s Hungarian imprisonment yet, let alone his wars against the Ottomans. By the time you tell me the whole story, it may be too late for you to tell me what you know about the gold, and the other vampires will have the advantage.”

Constantine sighs. “I don’t know how to make gold. I only have pieces of the puzzle, and I don’t understand how they fit together. Perhaps, if I tell you some of what I know, you can help me try to piece it together.”

“Yes.” I’m relieved he’s willing to finally share some useful information. “What do you know?”

“The information I have gathered over the years, it has all come to me in different, ancient languages. I have made notes of these things.” He opens the
Viața
to a page near the back, and pulls his chair over next to mine.

“These verbs,” he presses spread fingertips against the page and runs his hand lightly down a complex chart whose symbols I barely recognize, “they are all in reference to making gold, yet none of these words is properly translated
make, grow, create
. No, they are better translated
convey, deliver, carry, bring
.”

“So, they’re not talking about making gold at all? They’re talking about mining gold?”

“Not mining. Not paying tribute. It is a sense in which, from the context,” he flips forward a couple of pages, “the gold is drawn forth from somewhere…”

“From the earth? Pulled out of the earth like with a magnet?” I’m trying to sort out what Constantine means. He asked me for fresh perspective, for insight. I fear I’m failing him.

“Not mining.” He flips back to the first chart and stabs a cluster of symbols with one fingertip. “Congealed.”

“Gold is
congealed
? It’s a unique element of the periodic table. You can’t stir a few different things together and expect to get gold, not even if you boil it down.”

“Boil it down,” Constantine repeats. “Draw it forth, isolate it—”

“Pull together scattered molecules?” I offer.

“Deliver. Bring forth—it is almost, in a sense, like being born.”

“Or giving birth?”

“How does life enter the womb?” Constantine asks.

“Uh, cells…replicate.” I am not giving him the birds and bees talk right now. A guy of his age ought to know already, and anyway, that can’t be what he’s referring to. “Do you mean gold can be grown like a culture in a petri dish?”

Constantine turns to face me. With his chair so close to mine, our noses are now inches apart. “What do you know about making gold?”

“I—I don’t. I mean,” I search for words. I don’t dare let on to him that my brother Felix made gold…and told me everything he knows about what happened, as he tried to figure out how to make it happen again. But Constantine’s eyes are so close to mine, searching.

“I’m not even sure,” I start to bluff, but his eyes immediately narrow.

He can read my face, can’t he?

Of course he can.

I’m an idiot. I close my eyes and shake my head. “It’s late. Or rather, early. The sun will be up in a couple of hours. I have a light class load today, and then it’s the weekend.”

“The weekend. Yes.” Constantine tucks the
Viața
back into the insulated lunch bag. “I had hoped you might be ready to play blackjack this weekend—”

“In Vegas? I’m not nearly ready.” Nor do I want to leave town just as my father might be arriving, but I can’t tell Constantine that.

Fortunately, he doesn’t argue. “You are correct—you are not nearly ready. But I can meet with you to do more translation, as well as practice with the cards.”

“I don’t know.” I keep my face turned away from him at an angle so he can’t read my expression. Constantine can’t be around when my dad shows up. “Call me first. I’m way behind on sleep and schoolwork, and I need to go through the notes I already have. That paper’s not going to write itself.”

Even without looking at me directly, Constantine seems to pick up on my subtext. “I have been monopolizing your time. Forgive me.” He stands and heads toward the front door so quickly I have to hurry after him.

“It’s fine. I mean, you saved me from the bats and the vampires—”

He shoots me a guilty glance that reminds me he
is
a vampire.

“Anyway, I appreciate the time you’ve spent with me.”

“I hope I have been a help to you, not a cause of more trouble.”

Unsure how to respond without lying or confirming his fears, I look at him for an awkward moment.

And then he disappears.

*

I sleep as long as I dare, take a quick shower before my first class, and just make it into my desk before the instructor starts his lecture. The day passes without anything strange happening. No one tries to steal my backpack, nothing flies at me out of anywhere. Constantine doesn’t even call.

After the week I’ve had, and especially after last night, I’m too tired for even my fear to keep me awake. I head to bed early and sleep hard, awakening to a bright, sunlit Saturday morning. Crystalline snow has fallen overnight, coating every outdoor surface with reflective prisms like hoarfrost. It’s blinding outside.

Which, thankfully, means the vampires should all stay well enough away, at least until the sun goes down.

Today will be an uneventful day.

I could not be happier.

So I enjoy a delicious breakfast of steak and eggs, and I cover the dining room table with my notes from Constantine’s translation, then pull out my notes from my other sources, and start color coding everything with sticky tabs. I’ve got a large white board on one wall, and I’m making columns to represent the major points of my thesis.

Everything’s going great until I realize I need more sticky tabs and my fridge is nearly empty, so I take a quick shower and run to the store.

I’m hauling bags of food and office supplies up the sidewalk while trying to keep steady footing on the new, slick snow, when I glance up at my house and notice, not for the first time, that when the sunlight hits the front picture window just so, I can see clear into the living room, even through the sheer window curtains.

And it is through those sheer curtains that I see a person.

Inside my house.

Sitting on my sofa.

My foot slips and I scramble to stay upright.

Once I have my footing back, I look again.

No one is there.

No, wait.

Is there?

I walk closer, careful not to fall, my eyes riveted on the back of the sofa. It wasn’t an out of place throw pillow or a backpack sticking up over the back of the couch. I clearly saw the outline of a head, neck, and shoulders.

Just as clearly, it’s no longer there.

Did the person duck away? Lay down? Teleport out of sight? Change into a bat?

Too many crazy things have happened in my life lately. The possibilities are endless.

It’s way too bright out for Constantine to visit, isn’t it? Or can he teleport in spite of the sunlight? I’d check my phone for a call, but my hands are full of bags.

Cautiously, I climb the front stoop and try the door.

Locked, just as I left it.

I set the bags from my right hand near my feet, pull out my key, and slide it into the lock, while craning my neck around to peer in through the front window.

Movement. On the couch. From this angle, I can’t really see who or what, but—

The door flies open, and Felix is standing in my entryway, his smile eager.

“Rilla! Let me help you with your bags.” He grabs the ones I’d set by my foot. “Is this steak? I’m starving after that flight. Barely stopped to rest. Haven’t eaten anything since tuna in the Atlantic.” He’s headed to the kitchen, but glances back over his shoulder long enough to give me a look that clearly says he prefers Pacific tuna to Atlantic.

Yup, we siblings can read each other.

I pull the door closed solidly behind me before I choke back my startled sob. This is the worst possible thing. Of all people, he should have stayed furthest away. Ugh! “What are you doing here?”

“Dad said you needed someone to stay with you—somebody stole your backpack, weird things, and whatever, Mom gave me her key.”

“Were you on my sofa just now?”

“Yes. Waiting for you. I let myself in not five minutes ago. I had just put my head down to rest when I heard you at the door.” He starts unpacking the grocery bags in the kitchen. “Do you realize your fridge is empty?”

“That’s why I went to the store,” I murmur, trying to think how I can explain to Felix that he needs to run away home as quickly as possible, although would he mind taking a circuitous route in case the vampires try to follow him? And to convince him to trust me, instead of stubbornly opposing me as dragons so often tend to do.

“Mind if we cook up some of these steaks? I really am famished. I don’t think I’ve ever flown so far so quickly before. And in this cold. It was exhilarating, but I’m spent.”

He plants the packages of meat on the countertop and looks at me expectantly. “I haven’t even gotten a hug.” His eager grin turns serious. “What’s wrong?”

“You can’t be here. It’s too dangerous.”

“If it’s too dangerous for me, it’s too dangerous for you.” Felix crosses his arms in a pose that says he’s already digging in his heels.

How do I make him understand? “There are these vampires, and they want to know how to make gold. They followed me home from the British Museum, and they tried to steal my backpack, and then they did steal my backpack—”

“Is that the slashed-up bag by the stairs?” Felix unwraps the steaks and plunks them on the griddle, shoving the rest of the groceries down the countertop, away from where there will soon be fire.

“Yes. A friend of mine got it back for me, but they impaled him with a stake.”

“With a stake?” Felix places the last steak on the pan. “What kind of stake?”

“A wooden stake. Sorry. It’s a long story, but the main thing is, you can’t be here. They torture people who they think might know how to make gold. I fought these guys. They’re bad news.”

While Felix blows a long blast of flame at the steaks, I try to organize my thoughts. Mostly I’m wondering how I could have prevented Felix from coming here in the first place, and worrying about what will happen if the vampires find out about him. But those concerns aren’t helpful. I need to focus.

Felix turns the burner on and lets the meal cook. “So, who is this friend of yours, and why did they impale him? Did he die?”

“His name is Constantine. He didn’t die. They missed his heart. He’s immortal. He’s a vampire.”

“I didn’t know vampires were real.”

“Neither did I, but clearly they are. Anyway, I don’t think he realizes dragons are real, or if he does, he doesn’t know I’m one or you’re one. He doesn’t know you exist, and I’d like to keep it that way. Especially we can’t let any of them realize what you’ve done or they’ll torture you.”

Felix frowns. “I don’t want you mixed up in this. We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“I
can’t
leave. This is my last semester. I’m going to graduate in May. Besides, the vampires followed me here. Who’s to say they won’t follow me when I leave? So where can I go? I don’t dare expose anyone else to danger.” As I’m talking, Felix flips the steaks, and I notice the gold rings on his fingers.

“You’re wearing your rings? You need to take them off.”

“Why?”

I give him an exasperated look.

“You think they’ll figure out I made this gold?”

“Shh! Don’t say it out loud. You don’t know who might hear you.”

“I think it’s a good thing I’m here. It hasn’t been good for you to stay by yourself. You seem…overwrought.”

I shoot him another exasperated look, this one loaded with warning that I might have to tackle him like I did when we were little.

Even though he’s bigger than I am now.

Still.

“Tell you what,” Felix continues, ignoring my glare. “Let’s eat. You can tell me all about what’s been going on, and then we’ll figure out what to do.”

So I clear my papers and sticky notes from the dining room table, and we eat. He eats five steaks to my one, which might not seem fair, except if he really did just fly all the way to Montana from Azerbaijan, then five steaks is not nearly enough. He could probably eat a moose.

I should check to see if they’re in season.

Anyway, I don’t have time to eat much, because I’m telling Felix everything from the first bat and Constantine’s arrival Monday morning. I spare him the details of the
Viața
, because that would take forever to summarize and frankly, I’d want to look at my notes to be sure I got everything right. But I tell him all about my stolen backpack, the gambling deal, and most importantly, the vampires’ quest for gold.