Part 18 (2/2)

Still I rode. And when, some hours later, I arrived upon Vlad's family estate, night had fallen utterly. Taking care to remain undetected, I went not to the castle but to the family home I had seen in a dream (or was it more properly a vision?), the night Arminius rescued me from an icy death.

There it stood in the moonlight, upon a slope of dead gra.s.s peeking through half-melted snow. Beyond to the north the forbidding stone turrets of Vlad's dwelling jutted into the heavens, their predatory blackness blotting out stars and light and indigo sky.

I entered the home of my ancestors with a deep sense of awe and obligation, with a sense of their presence. This was indeed a house haunted by restless, whispering ghosts. For when I at last managed to light lamps and tapers, their portraits stared beseechingly at me from the walls-pleading for help, for release from torment.

How could I refuse them? For my own son was among their unhappy ranks.

With lamp and bag in my hands, I found my way up the stairs to the little chamber I knew was waiting: The nursery, with dried-out braids of garlic framing the window, and its poignantly empty cradle. Here I took my rest for the night, on the floor beneath a Byzantine wall icon of Saint George the dragonslayer. I lit the votive candle and whispered the prayer I remembered from my mother's diary: Saint George, deliver us. . . .

But I could not help feeling I prayed only to myself.* * *

And on a morning bright and blue and bitter cold, I went to the castle. I took great care to prepare myself mentally, adjusting my aura so that not even the Devil himself could hear my breath, my step, or smell the scent of my warm living blood. I crossed the short distance between home and castle on horseback, trying not to remember the single short word Arminius had spoken, the word that had sparked my ire and frustration: Years.

I was convinced of my ability to destroy Vlad, still angered at the mere thought of the accursed existence that word doomed me to.

As I rode, I marvelled at the view that had been earlier hidden by the night. In the distance stood the wintry white peaks of the Carpathians, sparkling in the sun as they spiralled high into the heavens: an awesome sight for one accustomed to the flat broad expanses of Dutch polders. This was not the drab colourless landscape it had seemed the night before; the soft hills and steeper mountains were bright with evergreen. Indeed, there were trees everywhere, more than I had ever seen in one place: gigantic pines in the forest, and orchard after orchard of bare-limbed fruit trees surrounding the estates. In spring, the area must be fragrant with bloom.

Overall, it was a scene as cheerfully blue and white as the Swiss Alps-until one looked to the northern sky and saw the huge sinister grey towers of Vlad's castle overshadowing the estate.

Soon I arrived at the castle's main entrance. The looming structure sat on a great three- sided cliff, so that on all but its front face was a sheer dizzying drop down to thick evergreen forest; beyond those wilds lay the steepest mountains in the Carpathian chain. The building was indeed a fortress, impenetrable from all sides save one.

Once I gained entry, I did not hesitate but found my way quickly to the terrible throne chamber. It was empty, devoid of any sign of the violent struggle that had once taken place.

The corpse of the aged woman, Arkady's body, Stefan's, had all been removed. No trace of their final agony remained, save for the large dark brown stain upon the stone where my brother had died.

I did not linger at the sight, nor permit myself the luxury of sorrow at the memory it evoked. My brother would be better served by my hardening my heart and completing the task at hand; the time for mourning would come later.

So I stepped quickly, lightly, soundlessly through the great chamber, to the door that led to the much smaller room within-the room from whence Zsu-zsanna and little Jan had emerged. It lay half ajar, as though in invitation.

I entered without fear, without hesitation, without thought other than attention to maintaining my protection and silence.

But had I not been so prepared, the sight that greeted me would surely have filled me with unease. Against the windowless room's far wall stood an altar draped in cerements of black, upon which a single candle burned. Before that candle, carefully arranged, sat the golden chalice and a round medallion on which was etched a five-pointed star.

The malignance, the evil that issued forth from that altar provoked from me an involuntary shudder. For it was surrounded by an aura the likes of which I had never seen: one of such utter darkness that it did not glow but rather seemed to emit a hunger, an unalloyed darkness that consumed all that came near it-all light and life and love. And before that altar lay two coffins: both polished ebony but of different size, the larger being draped with a banner bearing the emblem of the winged dragon. From each issued the unmistakable blue-black glow I had learned to a.s.sociate with the vampire; but the smaller's aura was feeble compared with that of the larger, which radiated a dark streaming brilliance to match the glory of the setting sun.

I stood some time before those coffins as I contemplated Arminius' warning. Should I yield and make no attempt to destroy Vlad now, instead limiting my attack to the safer, less cunning target of Jan? Or should I surrender to instinct and risk the danger, in hopes that Vlad's second death would free my little boy from his monstrous existence, without his suffering any further pain?

Reason could find no hold in this father's heart.

Softly, I placed my bag upon the ground and retrieved from it the stake and mallet. With my mind set upon the cross s.h.i.+elding my heart, and the stake held aloft in one hand like a spear, the mallet in the other, I lifted the coffin lid.

Inside lay Vlad-completely white-haired, with skin pallid and drawn so tight over sharp features that he had lost his illusion of handsomeness. His eyebrows had grown wild and bushy, his ears faintly pointed at the tips. His normally ruby lips had faded to pink and were slightly parted to reveal the darkly yellowed fangs of an ancient predator. He looked altogether like the monster he truly was.

And upon his chest, sweetly aslumber, lay my son.

I quailed, tempted to lower the stake, to let it drop to the stone, to surrender. But the memory of Stefan and Arkady, of the dream where Jan begged for my help, bade me hold it fast. Summoning all my protection, all my courage, all my resolve, and banis.h.i.+ng all sympathy and familial love, I placed the tip of the stake -as tall as he, poor child!-above my sleeping son's heart.

Such a perfect, handsome boy, with his golden curls and the smooth, plump, impossibly soft and unblemished skin of childhood! With pale, blue-veined, gold-fringed lids that hid his grandmother's eyes, and his beautiful mother's fine features- Papa, come! Oh, Papa. . . .

I cannot write of the horror of that moment when I lifted the hammer above my head and brought it down in a mighty, ringing blow. Oh yes, it was swift and merciful, but there are no words, no words that can relay a father's anguish at such a deed. I am Abraham, and he was my Isaac; but this time, G.o.d did not rescue, did not provide a subst.i.tute sacrifice.

The weapon plunged deep into my poor child's body-but no farther, for my strength was not enough to also pierce the heart of him who lived by the stake and so richly deserved to die by it.

Jan screamed, a cry high and shrill and utterly inhuman, as he opened eyes afire with terror and rage.

It was not my son's voice, not my son's eyes; this was merely his sh.e.l.l controlled by a malevolent force. Yet I grieved for him just the same. Despite my precautions, despite my efforts to steel myself, I could withhold my emotions no longer but let forth a loud sob while my little boy writhed, thras.h.i.+ng limbs, champing teeth.

But of a sudden he fell still, and the evil glamour veiling his features parted to reveal a sweetly mortal face, like storm clouds scattered by the wind to reveal the sun's bright rays.

He entered peacefully into eternity with his blue eyes open wide, and I watched as the darkness in them gave way to the guileless, loving expression I had known.

His peace gave me strength. I raised the mallet to strike again-a blow that would echo throughout h.e.l.l.

A force, burning cold, clamped down upon my wrist: Vlad's hand. Startled, I looked beyond Jan's eyes to see a second pair-this one ancient and crafty and compelling.

Come to us, Stefan. . . .

I felt his dark aura surge forth and attempt to engulf mine. The grip on my wrist tightened until I thought it would crush bone; the mallet dropped from my hand and struck the floor with the bright clang of metal against stone.

Instinctively I sent a rush of energy to protect my heart and leaned lower towards my attacker, which caused the cross to dangle low over his face. He disengaged as though my flesh scalded like vitriol, and leapt from the casket. The act sent me tumbling backwards and poor Jan's staked body spilling out onto the floor in front of me.

I fumbled for my bag, then crawled towards his little corpse and crouched over it protectively, desperate to wield the blade and complete the act that would bring his young soul freedom. All the while Vlad stood before us, stretching out his arms, his voice soothing, beautiful, the voice of my true father: ”Stefan. My child, look at me.”

I disobeyed, refusing to meet that magnetic green gaze, instead keeping my attention fixed on the task at hand. But ere I could retrieve the knife, a fiendish shriek came from the smaller coffin as the lid was flung back.

Zsuzsanna sprang forth like the ills of the world escaping Pandora's box, jet hair now gilt with silver at the temples. Her appearance, though still formidable, had lost its freshness, like a rose that has begun to drop its petals. Her frame had lost its womanly curves and grown thinner, bonier, while her features had, like Vlad's, taken on a taut severity. Shadows had begun to gather beneath her sculpted cheeks, her eyes-eyes that had lost their soft brown-gold colour and now blazed h.e.l.lish red, like the eyes of an animal catching the lamp- light at night.

She was still beautiful, yes-a beautiful monster.

At the sight of Jan lying on his side, little arms flung forward, hanging limply above the cruel stake that emerged from his chest, she howled again, a sound that chillingly evoked Gerda's keening. And as I knelt behind my son, reaching for the knife that would free him, she struck the air in a sweeping gesture-with a fury directed at me.

I thought it an empty, frustrated gesture, as the cross held her at bay. But in the next instant, I was pummelled by a blast of wind that lifted me from my knees and slammed me backwards against the stone wall.

I struck it with a force that cracked ribs and skull. The sharp blow to my head knocked all thought from it as I slid, stunned, to the floor and pitched forward onto my elbows. But the worse pain was in my chest, when I attempted to take even a shallow breath. I closed my eyes and fought to gather myself, to find the strength to rise to my feet, even to my knees, while Zsuzsanna screamed: ”Murderer! You've killed my child! And now you'll pay in kind!”

Her words cut through my disorientation; and despite it, they provoked such anger in me that I opened my eyes and whispered, though I yearned to shout: ”He was never yours.

Never! Just as your life is not your own but stolen from other's.”

But she was too lost in rage to hear my words; instead, she shouted out past me, at the doorway, ”Kill him! Kill him-he has murdered the child!”

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