Written in Blood

Written in Blood

 

 

The life is in the Blood

 

 

An erotic tale of fearful desires in Millie’s Vast Expanse

 

 

Millie Dynamite

 

 

© Copyright 2021 by Millie Dynamite

 

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes.

A precocious young girl spoke to me in some strange tongue, all the while smiling and laughing at her own witticisms, of which I could understand not one jot. I laughed with her to avoid the appearance of rudeness. The girl’s mother, who spoke some English, thanked me for my kindness and asked my destination.

“The sanatorium at Castle Drago,” as I spoke, a cloud passed over the sun. A shadow crept over us, and the temperature became decidedly chillier.

The woman’s face grew ashen. Her eyes darkened within her pale features, and her lip trembled as she beheld me. At once, the peasant woman hustled her girl into the coach.

Turning to me, she crossed herself, “God protect you.”

She reached behind her neck, unclasped, and removed her necklace with its small crucifix. Bustling over to me, the middle-aged mother placed the cross around my neck.

“May this give you protection from all the dread, terrors of the night.”

 

Written in Blood

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

From Jane Hanson’s Personal Journal

 

 

(written in her own hand)

 

My name is Jane Hanson, Doctor Jane Hanson, and I am about to die. I must explain the start before I tell you of the ending. With pen in hand, I write the events, which are so fresh in my memory. Having found this old, empty book with the word — Journal, emblazoned across its face.

I take this task upon myself to write what has happened to me since I arrived here. Months have transpired with me in this, shall I say, prison. They passed like a flash of lightning in the night since this all began so far from here. With this said, I feel as if years passed by since I first stepped into this wonderful … dreadful … residence. The beginning, yes, the origin of this thing, for I must tell the tale from commencement to conclusion.

I traveled to a land a vast distance from my home for the opportunity to study with one of Europe’s leading minds in the fledgling field of psychiatry. The elementary truth, Doctor Valerie Drago was a woman, piqued my interest. A letter arrived for me in the spring of last year. The details fascinated me, as the doctor told me I had been recommended by a mutual friend.

My mentor, Doctor Cornelius Cantor, and Doctor Drago were old friends. She said he believed I would be an excellent assistant, and she had several unusual cases she would like my help with, and in so doing, I would improve my craft. Whom better to learn from than one of the established masters?

My fiancé, Michael, and I caressed on the dock near the ship’s gangplank. Next to the steam vessel, which would carry me to Europe. We were, all but scandalous, holding our fond farewell embrace for such a long time. I’m sure the onlookers had a frightfully, wicked impression of us. After an extended period, we laughed, hugged, and smooched once more.

Once again, we clung together, holding fast, too, aware soon, far too soon, we would kiss goodbye for an entire year. We broke apart; with sweet Michael’s nervous energy and anxiety about our pending, prolonged separation getting the better of his judgment, he burst into a diatribe to relieve the internal tension.

He prattled on about his life’s work, talking in an endless stream of rushing palaver about his passion until, fearing our time together drew near an end, I grabbed his face. I stood on my tiptoes and brushed our lips together.

Placing my hand to his mouth, I stopped him from resuming his endless burbling about dirigible airships and how his design would change the world. We held one another, as if our lives depended on our touching, until the fateful call, “All aboard who’s coming aboard,” sounded, and the luxury liner’s horn blasted a shrill, ear-piercing report.

“Yes, and Michael Warner,” I said, smiling at his enthusiasm for a future few might envisage, “airboats shall be the most successful means of transportation ever conceived. Now, go, make your dream a reality.”

Kissing his cheek, I put my hand on his chest, lingering a moment longer. Turning quickly, lest I change my mind at the last moment, I marched up the gangway, making my way to the stern of the ship.

At this time, Michael paced back down the dock in the same direction I traveled.

Standing at the rear of the ocean liner, waving at him with one hand, hanging to the handrail with my other hand, the water churned from the propellers, the mighty steam engines, power shuddered through the gigantic vessel.

Another blast sounded from the ship’s horn, the massive leviathan awoke, and with a trembling, shudder we crept forward. Michael shouted at me, waving, plodding back down the berth, keeping pace, until, at last, he ran out of dock, stood motionless, one step short of plunging into the Hudson.

Amid the noise of the churning water, the loud blast of the ship’s horn, I made out his last call.

“I love you.”

Michael waved and waved, shouted his love to me until he alone remained on the dock.

For some extended time, I stood at the balusters. Michael became smaller and smaller until I viewed him no more. With determination, I fixed my eyes on Lady Liberty before she, all, too, soon, disappeared from sight. I held my position in the cold April sea air as Manhattan hid behind Long Island.

How long it took for the mainland to vanish, I cannot say. All the while, my hands clutched the handrailing, holding on to the thing, my knuckles turned white until I caught my final glimpse of America. A dread of the future, yet excitement about my imminent adventure, eager to learn all which is feasible in the hopes of advancing my fledgling career, caused me to shiver. Or perchance, the April air of the Atlantic caused my shudder.

In all too short a time, the surrounding islands, and yes, the grand American mainland, shrunk from view, swallowed by the sea’s vast horizon. Letting loose of the rail, I realized how cramped my hands were. For hours, I’d clenched the balustrade so tight, with a death grip, I couldn’t comprehend why. Even in my current state, I remember this all too well. My long sojourn commenced Monday, April 29th, 1901. I wonder as I write this, is the year of our Lord still 1901?

The trek took four days for the voyage to France. From the port, I traveled by train. Finally, making my way to an eastern European forest. Beyond the forest stood mountains, far more rugged than the mighty Rockies. To be frank, having seen the Rockies only in pictures, my imagination might have overtaken my perception. For I know the Rockies and Alps are taller. With that said, the peaks before me, jagged and imposing, appear nigh to impassable.

Never had I traveled so far from my home. I had no family save Michael. Nevertheless, I missed my tidy, modest house, my city, my country. I fought my qualms, clung to my hopes, forcing myself forward to my destiny.

The final leg of my expedition, completed in a window-lined horse-drawn coach, which to me was much like the hearse at my mother’s funeral, though this one was taller than her final conveyance. I entered through a small door at the back and sat on one of the two long benches running down the sides with thin, cushioned leather seats.

The humid May weather made the tight quarters quite uncomfortable. How I wished the windows, along the walls, opened to let fresh air into the coach, but alas, they served a single purpose, allowing light inside, and nothing more.

Nine of us shared this small carriage space, and often my knees knocked together with the occupant in front of me, a sizable, friendly-faced German with a prodigious girth about him. His genial appearance appeared to flee when he spoke.

His native language was harsh, guttural, sounding angry, and demanding. At the same time, his face held a friendly grin. The sound in my ears and the view of his face presented a stark opposition to each other.

The passageway we followed festooned through the woods, like a garland winding around a Christmas tree. The forests were thick with trees, a contrast unto themselves — old, gnarled trunks alive with lush, newly sprouted leaves upon them. Although humid, the air was fresh and clean, as though the world made new, with this morning’s break-of-day.

The grass had a sweet, musty odor, and wildflowers bloomed all around us, lending their own redolence to the pleasant, pastoral setting. The bright day gave an air of warmth and cordiality to the event. We ate a delightful picnic-style lunch around midday in a clearing of the forest, a most welcome find amid the winding sliver of a roadway.

A precocious, young girl spoke to me in some strange tongue, smiling and laughing at her own witticisms, of which I understood, not one jot. I laughed with her to avoid the appearance of rudeness. The girl’s mother, who spoke some English, thanked me for my kindness and asked my destination.

“The sanatorium at Castle Drago,” as I spoke, a cloud passed over the sun. A shadow crept over us, and the temperature became decidedly chillier.

The woman’s face grew ashen. Her eyes darkened within her pale features, and her lip trembled as she beheld me. At once, the peasant woman hustled her girl into the coach.

Turning to me, she crossed herself, “God protect you.”

She reached behind her neck, unclasped, and removed her necklace with a small crucifix. Bustling over to me, the middle-aged mother placed the silver cross around my neck.

“May this give you protection from all the dread, terrors of the night.”

I tried to refuse her offer. Nevertheless, she pressed the superstitious ornamentation to me, in the firm belief, the tiny idol would protect me.

The immense man took me by the shoulder and said something in German, the stern visage of his words, coupled with his visible grimness, imparted an absolute concern for my wellbeing.

The other passengers each chattered, each in their own languages, their prostrations filled with blatant negativity. Their clamoring appeared to be warnings about something dire for all the world to understand. But for me, I was unable to comprehend the babble of their foreign tongues.

“Don’t worry,” the coach driver told me, “they are all superstitious fools. They think monsters possess the Countess’s hospital. In these parts, they believe demons are hidden in the rugged Carpathia Mountains. Many of them think ogres reside beneath their own beds.” He laughed aloud at their foolishness. Be this as it may, I sensed the man put up a brave front for my benefit, noting how often he said a short, silent prayer and crossed himself.

“Good Doctor, I think things might be better if you ride with me in the box.” He pointed to the driver’s seat, “What is the term, in your American West? Shotgun, yes. Please, they will drive you as batty as your patients who live in the fearsome bastion.”

It was difficult, but with his help, I scaled the wheel, hoisted myself into the box, and took my place to the left of where the driver sat. At least, the air would be better in the open ridding with the driver.

He clambered up, landing in his seat with considerably less difficulty.

We resumed our journey, stopping every few hours to allow the horses to rest and the passengers to exercise their legs. Throughout the trip, I remained on the seat. At each stop, the other passengers assaulted me in broken English and strange tongues, begging me to reconsider my decision. Their barrage caused grumblings in my own mind. For the first time, I doubted my judgment in coming.

“Do not go to the dreadful place,” the mother of the kind child said. “Come with us to our home, and from Bacău, you can return to England.”

“I’m from America,” I said. “I have to work at the sanatorium to earn money to return to my home country. You mustn’t worry about me, please. Doctor Drago is a wonderful person.” I was unsure if I sought to convince the woman, or myself, at this juncture.

The woman crossed herself, spat on the ground, grasped her clothing where the crucifix formerly hung. She scaled the wheel, reached out to me, and placed her hand on mine, “May the Virgin protect you.”

May the Virgin protect you; her words hung in my mind, nattering against my logic. More foolish, superstitious ramblings of this, I was confident. I had never been religious. I had no idea how something so fanciful as their sainted Virgin, whom I doubted ever existed, possessed an ability to instill such faith or impart strength to these people. All I am cognizant of, my complete understanding, was science, the measurable, tangible, and proven.

Even psychiatry, the study of the quirks of the mind, was challenging for me to grasp completely. You need to recognize, within the mind, the inner workings of the human brain, reside the most guarded secrets of nature, protected better than any world leader. I selected my field for this reason, to comprehend the hidden, dark mystery of our existence. My desire is simple: discovering the science behind minas, phobias, depressions, and all those diseases of the human mind their causes and cures.

The goal, my aim, I wanted to open the veil, peer into eternity, and for all one knows, find the meaning to our lives. Some would say my goal is not a scientific endeavor, but what more noble cause in reason occurs than discovering the shroud’s logic?

The coach bobbed and weaved from side to side, bouncing to the front and back. In the course of this motion, the driver and I bumped against or away from one another. On occasion, he’d turn to me in sincerity, eyes set firmly on mine. The dear old chap started to speak, doubt or fear overtook courage, and he returned his attention to the rugged, winding highway.

For all the world, I had the impression, he wanted to say something to me. Having the general sense, he was a fine man, one who understood something and believed of which, I should be aware, of what he was, as well. I ruminated about what he wanted to say or if I wanted to learn his version of the truth. For, after all, he too was a superstitious fellow, fearful of the shadows cast by these mysterious mountains.

As the sun disappeared beneath the jagged horizon, the driver pulled the wagon to a halt at an intersection of several byways. Like a ribbon wound around a package, our highway wound through mountains, which rose around us, while other paths went in opposing directions through other mountain passes. As he gazed across the small space between us by his resigned expression, I surmised, this was my stop to change conveyances. No coach awaited me, however.

A disquietness pestered me, and I had a vague fear he might put me off the vehicle to wait for my ride alone. The mountains began to press in on me. How, in the openness of nature, can one suffer from claustrophobia? I felt hemmed in, at the exact moment, a weird sense of anticipation shivered in thin streams, tingling down my spine and legs.

“Perhaps,” the driver said, a slight tremble in his voice, “we should journey on, and you return tomorrow.” The night air grew chilly as a light breeze blew, spreading a chilliness across the landscape.

“I can’t, for my coach will be here soon, I am sure. Lady Drago has an exact schedule,” I said.

Feeling a chill, I pulled my light coat tighter around myself, for another brisk gust of frosty air blew down from the mountains. An abrupt change in the climate occurred as we passed into the Carpathians.

This climate was different from where we had traveled previously. As the hours passed, we traveled from forest to mountains, coupled with a significant decline in temperature once after sunset, and the atmosphere became … not the same. The week before, the moon was full and bright. Tonight, her pearly face was invisible in the night sky. Hence, darkness covered us like a blanket.

The driver sat in silence, worried and anxious to get away from this place. The man’s discomfort touched me, and I detected his anxiety from a dread inside him coupled with the unseen passengers destress below and behind where I sat. The fear was tangible, like a fog clinging all around me, invading me with unthinking dread, right into my bones. The horses discerned something. Their tack jingled in the night air as they stamped their feet and shook their enormous heads. The beasts, as well, were anxious to be away from this place.

“Umm, my lady, I have a schedule to keep also,” he said. “Might you travel on with me? On the morrow, I’ll bring you back … in the light of day. Everything is better when viewed in daylight.” He gazed about, his eyes darting as if afraid of what might emerge from the trees. He spoke in hushed tones, leaning toward me.

“Wicked things happen in this part of the mountains, especially at night.”

This stimulated my inquisitiveness, and I wanted to question him on what bad things he referred to; I made up my mind to discover the gist of his comment. But as I turned to speak, wafting on the breeze, the pounding of hoofbeats echoed over the mountains, accompanied by the rattle of wheels. I realized my ride approached. The clamor grew louder as my destiny approached me from the darkness.

The coachman crossed himself, raised his reins, gazed at me, his eyes beseeching.

“We should leave.”

“No,” I said. A black coach pulled into view. On the door, a dragon in gold paint seemed to fly, his wings unfurled, feet outstretched as though landing on something, below the claws a single word, “Drago.”

The carriage pulled in adjacent to our coach. All eyes focused on the woman, sitting atop the sleek conveyance, holding the horses to a halt. With her face, all but hidden, covered by a dark scarf wrapped around her features. With only a narrow opening, I spotted no facial features save her eyes. No doubt, this wrapping kept her face warm.

Shining in the night’s light, her eyes filled with fiery fury, and her irises appearing red. Still, indeed this must’ve been my imagination, nothing more, fueled by superstitious tales I’d listened to on my journey. In all sincerity, she was magnificent. In command of the beast, she held her anxious horses with a tight restraint, and with one eyebrow cocked high, she glared at the man.

The driver’s remaining courage took flight under the intensity of her glower. He lowered his reins, casting his eyes in her direction. Gooseflesh rose on his face and neck, no doubt, I reasoned, from the crispness of the night’s air. On the other hand, with the luxury of hindsight, I now know fear was the source of his raised flesh. He turned to me again. His eyes, once bright, went dull, filled with dread, so thick, no light may shine in them.

“Allow me, and I’ll help you down, move your baggage,” he said, his intonation deep, soft, and even. With a slow, cautious maneuver, he scrambled down the coach, gazed up at his counterpart. “We weren’t leaving.”

With blinding speed, she lashed her whip across his face, the tip snapped on his flesh. “Liar. You tried to talk her into traveling on with you.”

The man grabbed his face as the gash on his cheek bled, a crimson line of the precious fluid seeping between his fingers. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, the coachman pressed the cloth to the wound for a moment.

The coachwoman’s eyes locked on the blood-stained cloth.

The bleeding stopped in a matter of seconds. Returning the fabric to his pocket, the driver mumbled a one-word apology, or perhaps a profanity in his native tongue. I gleaned not of which he spoke.

The driver moved to my side of the coach, gallantly assisted me in my descent. Stiff and unyielding, my limbs were a complication after sitting in the cold air for so long, and my cheeks flushed from the coolness of the night’s frosty breeze. Leading me to the door of the woman’s carriage, he opened the entrance, helped me as I ascended the single step up into the sizeable, luxurious coach. I found the change refreshing.

While the air was no warmer inside, the coach’s walls about me cut the bite of the biting wind. An expansive, white blanket made of goat or sheepskin lay on the seat beside me. When I wrapped this skin around me, the sensation was, oh, so, warm. My luggage now loaded, the first driver, once again, took his place on his own conveyance. In an afterthought, I leaned out the window and thanked him.

“Be safe,” he said.

The woman turned to him, with her eyes holding the flames of hell, “Old friend, you best say your prayers, Dacians trash. You offended my mistress.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, curled her long, thin fingers into a fist.

“Amintiți-vă, că morții sunt rapizi,” she said. I thought the language was Romanian, but I had not the faintest idea what the words were. I later discovered the woman had spoken the words, “Remember, the dead are swift.” The assertion held every earmark of a threat.

The coachwoman turned back to the beasties, whipped the air above them, and the horses sprang to life. The ornate carriage pulled away from the drab conveyance in which I had previously journeyed. With a twist of my head, I glanced back through the coach window. The man slumped on the bench seat, clutching his chest.

Superstitious twaddle, I thought. The mere suggestion of some curse frightened the man, becoming the sum of his fears. Considering I’m a modern woman, a medical doctor, and a scientist. Therefore, I have no room for irrational belief in my world. This held no mystery, only an example of the mind succumbing to suggestion.

A creepy fear slithered over me, for I saw little of the outside world, with my line of sight limited to only things close to the carriage’s lanterns, which blazed at the front and sides.

With a hurtling speed, we moved in an upward ascent, and I found myself leaning further back in the comfortable seat. The beasts ran hard, snorting, pulling against their harness as the coach made our way on the tricky road. Though I think the perception of speed might have been exaggerated because of the circumstances of the flight. My limited view, the darkness, and trees seeming to race by all contributed to my unease.

The trail, for this roadway, was but a whisker, broader than the coach, wound round the mountainside, twisting along ridges between peaks, dipping back down only to return to the rising grade. The trees thinned, and the wild countryside grew harsher as the sure-footed beasts hauled us toward our destination.

The road ran along the edge of a precipitous cliff, while the mountain rose as steep as the other side’s incline. The carriage threaded the tight space between the two. Casting my gaze out of the coach, I gawked at the wheels, inches from the sheer plunge.

My head spun at the dizzying sight, darting back inside, snapping my gaze away from the window. I had not realized how tight the roadway was. A little disoriented, I moved to the center of the seat and refused to examine the outside further.

At some point, I dozed off, despite my trepidation at our elevation. The rhythm of pounding hooves, the clatter of wheels on the rocky path, and the weaving and bobbing of the coach lulled me into slumber. Sometime later, the clattering stopped, and the carriage stilled. The absence of a clamor roused me awake from my catnap. Sticking my head out of the brougham’s window, I turned my eyes to the driver.

“We are here,” she said. Leaning down, she peered back at me, pointed her hand to a massive door at the top of a stupendous run of stone stairs. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed off the blanket, missing the warmth at once.

With my gloved hand, I gathered my dress and reached for the door, but the coach door swung open before I touched the thing. Descending to the pavement, I turned to thank the footman. No one was at the carriage door. The woman still sat on her bench atop the coach. I stood by myself next to the carriage.

The courtyard was empty.

The coachwoman regarded me with a silent stare. Impossible for me to tell much about the servant — the woman’s voice, deep, lyrical, and accent was undefined. I neither judged her height nor build as she never moved from her seat. She sat on the bench seat with a pure perfection of posture, which lent elegance to her appearance.

Her eyes glowed red in the soft light of the carriage’s lamps. Some trick of the flickering, flames of the lanterns, I supposed. Her clothing was loose and black, covering her from head to toe with only her eyes and forehead visible. With a slight nod of her head, she veered forward in her seat, cracked the whip again above the livestock, urging the equines into motion once more. They carried her and the carriage away, under an arch, where she was soon lost from my sight.

Had I not fallen asleep, inevitably, I would have spotted the structure where I found myself. The edifice was massive — a u-shaped courtyard, with the sizeable arch opening at the far end leading elsewhere. I turned to view my location. The building gave me an impression of being small and insignificant. A profound silence engulfed me until a multitude of crickets started chirping. A high wall covered the front of the courtyard. In the wall, I caught sight of another arch.

This other archway must have been our entry point. The building behind me was tall, at least five stories. The stronghold was old and, somewhat, in need of repair. Spires rose into turrets, standing guard, high above the rest of this citadel. In retrospect, I had done this building an injustice. Saying the castle was enormous had the same effect as calling Lyndhurst Manor a charming, country cottage.

With quick steps, taking two stairs at a time, I ascended the stone staircase to the enormous double doors.

“How shall anyone inside ever hear me?” I deliberated, for no means of announcement, on or around the door did I find. No knocker or doorknob on the face. Finding no bell handle to twist, nor rope to pull, no means of wrapping with a stick, for no rod presented itself. I wrapped my knuckles on the wood, aware the sound my efforts created would not penetrate the castle’s walls. Stepping back, I considered the entryway again, searching for some other means to signal my arrival.

A dragon, carved in the stone, above the arched doorway, the wings spread, not unlike the dragon adorning the carriage door. This winged beast towered over a knight, dwarfing him, standing firm as the dragon appeared ready to devour the poor adventurer. Inscribed in Latin above the dragon was the phrase, “Dracones praecedentes in domum suam.” Translating the words in my head, I perceived they meant ‘home of the dragon’ or perhaps ‘the dragon’s home.’ A sinking engulfed me as I stood at the unyielding entrance. How might I gain ingress into the house?

In a moment, a symphony erupted. In the distance, somewhere, in the night, beyond the castle walls, the baying of wolves joined the chirping crickets. In the darkness, a terrifying scream of some animal came from another direction.

High above me, the hooting of owls, sitting atop the room, combined with a screeching-squeaking and a leathery flapping, like a frenzied beating of a multitude of featherless wings, reverberated in the night’s air. The effect of everything taken together caused me to shiver an involuntary tremor, not wholly from the fridge conditions.

A gnawing rankled inside my consciousness. Dark perceptions of the world around me invaded my awareness, heightened by the strange, feral music of the night. Thoughts of wild beasts running into the courtyard to devour me, much as the dragon carved in stone above me, poised to destroy the hapless character below him, filled my being with dread.

The coolish air of the night sent shivers over my body. I searched my mind, for any reason, for being unable to get inside, to the warmth and safety the castle afforded.

Said precious safety was feet from me, and yet I discovered no means of procuring entry. I’d pay every dollar I had on me to open the door. Seldom had things so unnerved me, for I had never been so positive of my own helplessness in all my life. In those precious moments, I was thankful Michael was not here to witness, yet I would not be as worried if he were here.

“Silly woman,” I berated myself. “What foolishness. You don’t need protection.” Disheartened, my soft voice held a foreign and unwelcome tone, which was not me at all. Turmoil heightened my emotions, panic … fear … dread … all those darker, animal reactions tried to rear their ugly heads in me. Yet having now established some grip on my senses, I refused to abdicate my reason to blind terror.

“Emotions are the enemy of reason,” I said, my voice strengthening. Taking a deep breath, I rapped my knuckles upon the door. The wooden barricade remained steadfast as I closed my hands and pounded both my fists against the massive, timbered, closed obstacle to entry.

“Let me in!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. This was most unladylike, and after a few humiliating moments, I stopped my pounding, collected myself, and walked a few paces back a few paces on the platform.

As apprehension shook me, I gazed at the door, my hands smarting, and turned my mind to the conundrum, as though by force of will, I summoned the accursed thing to open for me.

“Open, sesame.”

After my outburst, I resisted the urge to break out in a sudden burst of hysterical laughter. Nothing happened, and I considered the possibility I may never gain entry.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Jane?” I said as I stood alone before the mammoth obstruction. The warnings of the coach driver and the passengers wound their way to the foreground of my thoughts, where I squashed them down with some degree of difficulty.

Fighting panic, I resisted the insane urge to grip the cross around my neck. The sounds of the night echoed in the courtyard. The wolves’ yapping swelled louder in a hunger, driven rage. Those awful beasts, I feared, were mere feet outside the walls of the castle.

 

Chapter 2

 

For what seemed an eternity, I gazed at the door, unable to fathom how I might make anyone inside understand I was here. All the while, I believed the carriage woman informed them of my arrival. Despite nothing to indicate I was correct.

“This is a fine kettle,” I said, despite the fact no one might hear the words. Frightening cries of wild animals outside the walls rose in unison, sending a new prickling deep into my bones, and I struggled to preserve my composure once more. Would they come into the castle’s courtyard? Would they devour me? All the while, safety was only a few feet and an immense, heavy door away from me.

“This talking to yourself must stop, Jane,” I scolded. “They shall think you a lunatic.” A thought dawned in my mind, how I referred to myself in the third person. “This does not bode well for you, old girl.”

Attempting to quell the fear in my heart, I allowed my thoughts to slip back to when this all initiated and the fateful letter in April the previous year, arriving out of the blue.

The envelope contained Countess Valarie Drago’s invitation to come and study under her and assist her in the new field of psychotherapy. Together we would probe the mysteries of the psyche, peel back the enigma of the human mind, layer by layer.

I had phoned Doctor Cantor, we discussed this job opportunity at length. Doctor Cornelius Cantor stopped short of wholehearted approval, stating how difficult the journey was. He believed her home and sanitarium would be far too primitive for me to be comfortable. I had resented his condescending attitude. Coupled with anger, despite his enlightenment, Doctor Cantor still did not view me as an equal. Realizing hurt my feelings, he fell silent, excused himself, and hung up the phone.

The Countess and I exchanged letters at regular intervals. After each exchange, I called Cornelius, and each time his enthusiasm for my traveling to the sanatorium increased. And yet, inexplicably, he would retreat from his support toward the end of our conversation, recommending I not go to Castle Drago.

The odd behavior of my mentor cast doubts in my mind, and I suspected something darker in his reservations. Something sinister and ugly might have reared its head, and I had grown concerned. After all, chauvinism and jealousy might be at the heart of the matter. Was he worried his student’s light might shine brighter than his own? I mused if the idea of a female student, reaping more praise than him, might not be more than his brittle male ego might bear.

Those guarded fears found relief as the 20th century dawned. For early this year, Cornelius’s attitude turned 180 degrees. He reassured me the move was the correct one. Though, to speak with exactitude, I had determined to take the position without either his blessing or encouragement.

The old man’s blessings aside, to refuse this opportunity was imprudent. I would learn much, garner respect and admiration among my peers. Few men in the field were willing to admire a woman doctor lest she proves herself with some measure of frequency. For my own self-esteem, I required a degree of respect to advance my career beyond the mundane and ordinary. The fact was, I realized I was extraordinary, and I would allow nothing to stand between me and my goals. This is not vanity; it was, and is, a fact, for I possess a superior intellect.

In March of this year, I contacted the Countess again and agreed to become her research assistant. The money exceeded my expectations for any position available in my own country by an immense sum. An adventure deep into this far-flung land appeared as a fairy tale, where perhaps some handsome prince would sweep off my feet.

But no, this would not happen, for I have a beloved fiancé, and I’ll not allow a dalliance, be a pebble which bruises my heel. A whole year away from Michael, from the man whom I hold so dear in my heart. This is, indeed, a burden to bear but not an intolerable one. Truth be told, I worry more for Micheal in my absence than for myself being detached from him. Michael needs me fare more than I require him.

The Countess’s offered a proposal I could not resist. Being a doctor specializing in the fledgling field of psychiatry, learning under the tutelage of a pioneer in the discipline, how would any woman, of ambition, turn down such a proposition?

This woman regard held as high as Sigmund Freud’s himself, or so Cornelius insinuated. I would not miss such an opportunity. A woman’s chances in this male-dominated world are scarce. Sadly, we do not have the luxury of being the chosen sex.

Men, those precious darlings, are always so eager to protect us. This is why they call us the fairer sex, the weaker sex, as though these words are flattering’s to our nature. Words designed to hold women fast in our place, barefoot and pregnant, as they say. All the while, stirring a pot of gruel for our man. Whereas, the man is out and about, attending to critical things in the world.

We, women, must earn our respect, which is much harder for us than men. For women have this stereotype, which we must break free of, and precious few of us appear to have the desire or strength to do so. An independent woman is a rarefied creature. If for no other reason, a man garners respect for carrying the equipment, which makes him a man.

A woman must grab hold of opportunities, clutch them with a tight fist, preventing some man from snatching her future from her. After she has earned respect, she must still demand appreciation and refuse to allow men to deny them their due.

Understand me, I am not a man-hating female. Despite this, the truth is ugly — women’s oppression by men stretched back centuries, indeed, millennia. This, too, shall pass; I must believe, else, all is in vain.

Poor Michael stood no a chance against my will in this matter. This took convincing, however, but in the end, I forced Michael to understand. While he acquiesced to my wishes with some anxiety, he did, in the end, yielded. Michael always let me have my way.

I’m not saying he is weak, far from helpless. He understands which of our intellects is more logical, whose will is stronger. He, possessing his own type of wisdom, yields to my position as superior to his own emotion-based aspirations. Michael’s most significant weaknesses are a need to be accepted, a willingness to surrender to others for acceptance, and a desire to be well-liked.

After the battle was over, a struggle we had, make no mistake, we agreed to exchange letters daily. Once approved, this condition, his final one, set my journey in stone, and I had no difficulty acceding to daily communications. For my part, I would write detailed accounts to him. Michael, being no less committed to our relationship, would do the same. The deal brokered between us; I had concluded my arrangements down to the last detail. Had we not made the bargain, he still would’ve yielded to my desire.

However, none of this mattered a hoot if I didn’t gain admittance to this castle to begin my studies. My thoughts returned to the present. As if on cue, a clanking beyond the door made me jump. The door moaned, creaked and groaned, as the massive structure pulled free of the stout jam and swung.

With somewhat shaky feet, I took a hesitant step back from the looming opening, my heart pounded, and shock turned to fearful trepidation. A shaft of yellow light fell from the doorway, piercing a bright ray of hope through the black of the courtyard. As though the radiance reached out to me. Casting my eyes upward into the beam of light, the figure of a woman standing a few feet inside the door demanded my attention.

As my eyes adjusted, I scrutinized her more closely. Tall and shapely, she held a steady gaze in my direction, gazing upon me contemplatively. She wore a long black dress, which clung to her every curve. Not a spot of color about her attire, save a blood-red rose pinned on her left breast, above her heart.

Her eyes caught my attention, for they were a brilliant, pale blue, captivating me, drawing my consideration to her face. Her long, silken, black hair held copious streaks of silvery-gray. Possessing an elegant nose, with a slight break at the top, lent a beak-like appearance, adding to her regal presence. Surrounding the woman’s eyes were a multitude of fine wrinkles.

My first impression, semi-blinded by the light shining into the darkness of the black night, had been what a magnificent creature. With her standing before me, my eyes now accustomed to the illumination, I perceived my observation was quite correct. She was beautiful.

Transforming her serene features, a friendly smile spread across her face, deepening the deep crinkles of laugh lines around her mouth. Placing her hands together, on her chest, as though she prayed, she spoke to me, a warm and hearty invention.

“This is my humble home,” she said. “Freely enter here, for your presence shall brighten this place. And when you depart from us — oh, my dear, you must leave something of your happiness behind to remind us of you. Welcome, I am Countess Drago, and Doctor Jane Hanson, make yourself at home in my ancestral abode.”

Her speech had a lyrical cadence, while her accent was distinctive, but placing where she came from would be impossible by listening to her voice alone. Her teeth were pearl white, her incisors long and pointed, and her lips were a full, deep red, with a luscious sheen.

I stood, rooted to my spot, lost in her loveliness. I attempted to move, but my feet refused the order. An excitement gnawed amid a rush of conflicting emotions, which inundated me. I was enthusiastic about entering the dwelling, yet, unable to do so, my disquiet lingered. My agitation held me fixed to the spot where I stood. Was her beauty, or my fear, the reason for steadfastness. For whatever reason, my eyes widened, my heart ran wild whilst my mouth filled with a thick layer of cottony slickness.

The woman held out a hand and motioned for me to join her. Everything changed with this straightforward, friendly gesture. My legs relaxed, the muscles let go of their obstinate refusal, and I moved forward. With ease, I swept inside, gliding to my hostess, my symptoms of fear and anxiety eradicated at the wave of her hand. I enjoyed this lightness to my steps. As if drawn inside by an unseen hand, a force pulled me to her; I did not fear this woman.

The Countess still held her hand to me. Pressing my hand to her, I took her hand, we shook, the Countess dropped my hand, put her arms around me, and drew me to her, holding me against her for the briefest of moments.

When the woman’s cheek grazed mine, I realized her touch was as cold as the night’s frostiness I had left moments before; despite this, a thrilling sensation from her flesh rushed to my own.

I dare not abandon her welcome, first, for fear of offending her. My heart raced as my breathing threatened to become ragged. An unexpected flash of excitement rushed through every nerve. I wanted, desperately, to withdraw from her embrace. With this said, in truth, I did not wish to break our hug at all.

We broke apart. Quick as our caress was, my stomach tied in knots, cheeks flushed, embarrassed at the Countess’s attention.

A warmth of longing I had not thought possible for another woman stunned me. I was aware the imaginings, which careened through my brain, regarding the Countess, were abnormal. I forced myself to concentrate on the image of my needy, sweet, loving Michael. He had yielded to my wishes to study here, and I shan’t betray his trust.

The thought of Michael was all I required to quell the unnatural fancy, which pulsed hard and fast through my veins. Torrid and at odds with my nature, the sentiments fled in a single beat of my heart as I beheld Michael in my mind’s eye.

Once, the Countess broke our embrace, backed from me one or two steps, still bearing her amicable smile. If she sensed my rakish yearnings, the woman showed no sign. Had she any idea what her touch inspired inside me? The heat on my cheeks told me I had become flush from embarrassment. I constrained my thoughts, still thinking of my beloved Michael, and stifled my blushing childishness. Though they were not childish thoughts, which overtook me at her embrace. My breathing slowed as I regained my composure.

At this point, I realized the outer door had shut. Who had shut the thing? Where were they? In a moment, I shook the questions from my mind and returned my attention to her.

What little light occupied the room danced in her crystal, blue eyes. For the briefest moment, through a trick of candlelight, her eyes shone red. As red as the rose pinned to her dress. The same red eyes I had seen twice before this same evening.

“You must be tired,” the Countess said, “My coachwoman tells me you have had a long, tiring journey.”

“Coachwoman?” I asked, confused. For a moment, I had thought them the same person. For in truth, other than a higher pitch, the Countess spoke like the coachwoman. The exact woman who had picked me up in the carriage. For a moment, I was uncertain, swimming in a loss of clarity and unsure why.

“Oh, yes, I am fatigued,” I said. The weariness, which I had held at bay, now overcame me.

“I will have one of the boys take you to your rooms. Another will bring you some dinner, and I will join you in a short while.”

“The boys?” I asked.

“Yes, three young brothers,” the doctor said. “They are adults, mind you. But when you have reached my advanced age, 19, 22, and 25-year-olds are still mere children.” She snapped her fingers. “Cristian,” she called.

A young man appeared at the top of a long, curved, stone staircase. He seemed sheepish, shy, or mayhap frightened. He came down the stairs with swift but silent steps, his gaze lowered as he responded to her call. Standing inches from the Countess, the young man gazed at the granite floor in front of her feet, his head bowed, I would say, in awe. I studied him as he stood near me, taking in the shy, pale, close-to frail, young man.

“Yes, mistress,” he said. His voice was soft, not quite feminine, in pitch. All this lent an impression of some weakness, which lay inside. The lad’s meek style offered an insight to me, and I surmised this young man, damaged as he was, broken by some past traumatic event. A patient, I wondered. I tactfully studied him further while the doctor addressed him.

“This young woman is Doctor Hanson,” she said. “In all things, you will obey her as you do me, except if her wishes conflict with my will.”

“Yes, mistress,” he said.

“Accompany, Doctor Hanson, to her rooms,” she told him. “Have Alexandru bring her food, and I’ll have Boian prepare her a bath.”

“They are your servants?” I asked.

“No, they are my, I mean our, patients,” Countess Drago said.

“Oh, how many other patients do we have?” I asked.

“Only three,” she said. Leaning to me, she whispered in my ear, “Believe me, these murderous young fellows are all the criminally insane you want around for a while. Oh, we will have more, but these are the first.” She righted herself and stepped away from me.

“Cristian, you will do all Mistress Hanson asks. You will not touch her. Not one, single, solitary hair on her head, understand?” Her tone changed, growing, harsh, demanding, and much the attitude one expected from a person of a royal bloodline.

“Yes, Mistress Drago,” he said.

The Countess strolled toward a door, and I thought my eyes deceived me as the door appeared to open of its own volition. She pivoted toward me, standing framed in the doorway. “I will be along in a few minutes. I must check on something first. If your meal arrives before I return, you’re free to sup. I have already dined. If you wish to bathe first, I shall inform Boian. I am sure a warm soak will relax you after your arduous journey.” Her voice returned to inviting and kind, with an expressive lilt.

“I’d love a bath,” I said.

She turned, walked away, and such was her grace she appeared to glide, her movements fluid, without effort. The door closed behind her, sealing her from my view. Once more, no one shut the thing. Odd thing, her presence remained despite her absence in the room.

I perceived an air of superiority about her. No doubt, she was arrogant, leaving one with a somewhat inferior perception of themselves when in her presence, yet something else confounded me about the Countess. For a sensuality in her movements held a headedness, for something most seductive in her mannerisms drew me to the woman. The memory of her embrace lingered on my flesh, in my mind. I fought down a deep sense of yearning, which threatened to overpower me.

Those longings disturbed me. Never have I held any such sensitivity toward a fellow member of my own sex. For a moment, another emotion assailed me, dirtiness. A nastiness inhabited, for an instant, and a deep sense of anguish, of lurid wanting, stunned me. As though I had cheated on my dearest, Michael, guilt chided me.

How had Countess Drago forced those intense, impassioned cravings into me, igniting something unholy in me with her mere touch? I shook the irrational thoughts from my consciousness, for nothing is holy or unholy. Only science and facts exist, and they are morally ambivalent.

“Twaddle,” I said, scolding myself.

“Mistress?” the boy asked.

I had forgotten he was in the room, so drawn into my own thoughts as I had been.

The young man stepped back one pace, raising his arms as if to protect himself. Head downcast, he lifted his eyes to me, with short darting glances, as though afraid to gaze at me. A terrible expression covered his countenance.

His reaction indicated he feared me, worried I directed my disappointment toward him. He appeared to be a delicate boy. Dressed in white, wearing loose-fitting clothing, he seemed borderline malnourished. His complexion was the palest white, as if the blood in his veins was insufficient to give him color.

“Nothing,” I said, “I am upset with myself.”

“I have not displeased you?”

“No, Cristian, not at all.”

“Good, I should never wish to displease you,” he told me, raising his face at last. “I will show you to your rooms. This way.” He moved to the first step and started up the massive staircase. “Please watch your step and be most careful. This abode is old, and some of the stones are loose. I’d be broken-hearted, should you fall and harm yourself, and my Mistress would be most dissatisfied with me.”

At the moment, as I kept my eyes on him, I realized he was barefoot. He moved to the door at the top of the stairs, holding the door for me. As I passed him, I saw how thin and boney his fingers and hands were. While he was handsome, he was also soft, approaching effeminate in a childish, sort of manner. I had a hard time visualizing him as a crazed killer, as the Countess had told me.

We made our way upward, three flights of stairs. After several corridors, with more turns than is possible to keep track of, finally, he opened a door. Extending his hand inside the room, he bowed. I walked inside the enormous bedroom, taking sight of my lodgings for the first time.

On the outer wall, an oversized window gave a view of the forest. A fireplace stood next to the window, complete with a small table and chairs, arranged in a cozy setting for warmth and conversation. A fire blazed in the hearth. The side to the left had a massive four-poster bed. In the middle of the room were several chairs with small tables and lamps next to them, arranged toward each other to ease the exchange of thoughts and ideas.

In the right wall, another door, I made out, a sizeable claw-footed tub, inside this other room. Standing next to the tub was a man, who I took for one of the brothers. What had she called him? Boian, yes, Boian was the lad’s name. He poured water from a galvanized bucket into the bath. Steam rose from the grand tub, and my tired body longed for the relaxation the hot tub offered. Turning from his duty, the young man glanced in my direction, smiling. His high cheekbones caused his thin face to appear gaunt.

This man-child appeared as unhealthy as Cristian. While as thin as his brother, he was a touch taller and only a shade fuller than his younger sibling. His flame-red hair set him apart from his brother. The lad, still smiling at me, moved to the outer room. Bowing in a graceful sweep, he righted himself.

“I am Boian, Mistress,” he said, pressing his right hand to his chest.

The clothing hung from his fame as lose as his brothers, though in truth, you would be hard-pressed to find any family resemblance betwixt the two. But in one area, they were the same. His complexion appeared as bloodless as Cristian’s. The whiteness of the lad’s flesh seemed as bleached out as his clothing.

“Your bath is ready, Mistress Hanson.”

He wasn’t as androgynous as his brother. All the same, his appearance was closer to fetchingly feminine than handsome. With stoic acceptance, he stood immobile, like a thin, charming marble statute.

I bobbed my head to him and approached the room, speculated where my luggage was, so I might change after my bath.

“Um, where,” I said.

“In the dresser drawers, armoire, and hanging in the water closet,” Boian answered, knowing what I asked. “The suitcase is on the top shelf of the armoire.

“Thank you, dear boys. You can leave now.”

Instead, they did not leave, rather remained riveted in place, occupying positions on either side of my water closet door. I pointed to the exit, emphasizing my order. The boys refused to comply. Impatient now, I again pointed my finger to the door.

“GO.”

“Ma’am, to do so would be a direct violation of the Countess’ orders. She commanded we stay until she arrives,” Boian said.

Unnerved, I did not wish to undress and take my bath with the two of them gawking. Entering the bathroom, I turned to the door, closed it, and moved to lock the bolt. Finding no latch, I pulled a chair over, taking care to not make noise, and tucked the back under the knob to secure the door.

More satisfied with my privacy, I turned to the room and eyed the tub, still steaming. This water closet had only one tap, a cold one. Hence, water had to be heated on a potbellied stove standing on the room’s outer wall. Testing the water with my hand, I found the temperature a tad warmer than I would wish. Nevertheless, I longed to soak in the water’s warm embrace. I undress, placing my clothing upon a second chair in the room.

Proceeding into the inviting bath, lowering my body a little, deep, as I grew accustomed to the heat, sank deeper. Soaking my tension and fears away into a watery grave. A warm soak works wonders on one’s disposition. Indeed, my immersion into the warm water melted all the strangeness of the journey and arrival away from me. I weighed the mysteries of the day without distress or nervousness.

Reviewing all the events, which happened during the day, I realized a mild dread had invaded my mind. This is how things are with irrational fears, which pester one’s mentality. They creep inside and begin to pile up until, without realizing why imagination runs wild.

Things went awry at lunch, with the curious reaction of the passengers upon discovery of my destination. Talking with the coachman had further eroded my excitement, replacing my enthusiasm with mild yet, distinct distress. The final leg along the twisting mountain road heaped up the trepidation in my psyche. The last tenuous thread, in this unfathomable buildup of anxiety, came with the Drago Castle itself. The formidable structure, ancient and decaying both outside and in, scared me, and an unreasoning fear took the place of reason and logic.

All would be better now; my mind relaxed at the cordial welcome of my lovely hostess. Her strange patients weren’t a concern. They were meek, mild lunatics with some malady, which made them unable to fit into society. This doubtlessly coupled with an eating disorder was either a symptom of said mental malady or, more than likely, a particular affliction of their mind.

Having slain my fears, I set out to enjoy my soak. Contemplating why some women, who are as thin as a rail, agonize about being overweight, gorging themselves with food, only to forcibly regurgitate the cuisine, in the aspirations of losing weight they can ill afford to drop.

My meditation shattered when such a clamor erupted, my heart raced, my head spun. The uproar drew my attention to the door. A loud thump accompanied the bowing of the door. As the door bent, a fuming shouting resounded from the outer room.

“Why is this door locked?” an angry voice demanded. The door returned to the customary shape. Again, the door bowed and returned. A loud shout, like a man running into battle, while a thumping, cracking, and creaking invaded the space, followed instantly by the door being splintered into a dozen smaller pieces of wood, and the chair exploded into kindling.

An enormous dark-haired, wild-eyed young man crashed through the door. His hands clenched into fists, his eyes lit up with his anger, the menacing, hulking giant turned his glowering eyes in my direction. My heart nigh upon stopped from the fright. I was helpless, naked, lying in a bath of warm water, faced with an ominous, angry giant ready to destroy me.

 

Chapter 3

 

“Are you unhurt, Mistress?” the giant of a man asked, shutting his eyes tight to ensure he did not see me naked. “Has one of the ghosts bothered you?” the man asked. He stood there, looking in my direction. Still, he held his eyes shut. I covered myself as best I may, in case he cheated, spied me through nearly closed eyes.

“I put the chair on the door to ensure my privacy,” I said, my voice rising in indignation.

“You do not trust us?” he questioned me. His voice held a hurt, which touched my heart.

“No,” I said, “this isn’t a lack of trust at all. Please leave the room while I finish my bath.”

“I’ll guard your bathing,” he said. Alexandru (I assumed) turned away, with his eyes still closed, stood stationary, and folded his enormous, muscled arms over his massive chest.

“No,” I said, “You can wait in the other room.”

“I shall guard your bath here,” Alexandru said. “When you have completed your toiletry, I shall close my eyes, assist you from the tub and cover you with a towel. After which, I shall leave. My Mistress, Countess Drago, would insist. I promise I shall not glance at you until you are again clothed.”

The thought dawned on me, further argument would be fruitless. Part of the boy’s problems, or mayhaps, their cure, lay in unswerving devotion to the Countess. Racking my brain, I evaluated the possibility where the Countess bent these men to her will through the sheer force of her personality. Possibly, left to their own devices, they were a trio of dangerous men.

In a moment of deep contemplation, I thought the younger brothers were perhaps frail by design? They reminded me of those wealthy, anorectic patients I had previously tried to help. Well, the younger fellows did. Alexandru was a fine specimen of manhood. Enormous, well-built, and faithful as a beagle.

In truth, they did not appear like siblings at all. Their noses, eyes, hair color, and physical builds, differed, right down to their height. Their accents varied from one to another, as if they were from the same country but different regions. I began to imagine they all committed separate crimes. Perhaps one or another had been with the Countess longer than the others.

True to his word, Alexandru assisted me without casting his eyes on me. Once I was fully clothed, he opened his eyes, giving me a small smile. I thought he appreciated my form, remembering himself, cast his eyes to the floor, and escorted me to my meal. The stew was a roasted goat’s leg and vegetable brew. I realized this only because Alexandru told me with pride how he prepared the meal for me from an old family recipe.

Unaware, how famished I was, until the moment I sampled the cookery, I consumed the meal with a passion. The food was a delectable feast, and the meat’s flavoring, so different than any other I had eaten. The potatoes and other vegetables were tender and moist.

I’m tempted to use the old, trite saying, “Melts in your mouth,” though the cuisine doesn’t literally dissolve in my mouth. All in all, the meal was marvelous. The boys, true to form, stood in a line, eyes studying the stones of the floor. Perhaps, they contemplated how the stones held in place and didn’t crash to the room beneath them.

I remained amazed at how any of this ancient structure held together at all. Its immense age showed everywhere. All the same, the beauty of its former opulence bore evidence in the precision of its stonework, every dust-coated painting, in each worn yet elegant piece of furniture. This palace must have been a grand old home forty years before, perhaps further into the past. Many signs of neglect were visible, and the castle was a mere shadow of its former glory.

“Why is the commode door in shambles?” Countess Drago asked as she walked into the room.

“Alexandru believed a ghost might be attacking me. He broke the door to save my honor,” I told her, flushing at the sight of her.

“Boy’s go now. You will find a small snack, something superb and scrumptious, for you in the library,” she said. As she spoke, the most wicked grins broke over their faces. “Go and enjoy. Oh, and Alexandru, I would appreciate you resisting the urge to destroy any more doors tonight.”

The boys hurried out of the room. Alexandru closed the door behind him, leaving Valerie Drago and me alone in my bedroom. Several candles and a lamp provided a flickering light. The Countess had changed, explaining, she too had bathed and dressed for bed. The nightdress was brilliant red silk and clung to her every curve. Pinned, a little above her breast, a new, pale, yellow rose.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“The boys?”

“Yes, the boys,” I said.

“They all suffer from a delusion driven by the superstitious fervor in this land. Their idea is fed by the superstitious fears of the people of this backward country. They imagine they are, as do the people from their own towns and villages believe of them, the Children of the Night.”

“What? They think they are wolves and owls?”

“No, no,” she said. “They believe they are the kith and ken of Lilith’s race.”

“Lilith’s race …?”

“Yes, but the specifics of their obsession are unimportant. All which concerns me is I break these young men of said mania. I have given the boys a new fixation, taking them to a new destination. Once they are safe from the first delusion, I will wing them away from their new one. Their treatment is a long, arduous process but requires the use of only one intoxicant rather than the myriad of mind-numbing drugs used by others in our field. Neither do we lock them away from sight, gnashing their teeth and ripping their flesh from themselves as other, so-called experts in our profession. We treat them with dignity, counseling, some hypnotherapy, and some measure of freedom. Take your freedom from you, and let us see how long your sanity lasts.”

“I’m eager to learn all,” I told her as I stood, wandering about the room. A dozen red roses were in a vase, atop a small table, by the door of my room. I hadn’t beheld them before now. As they caught my eye, I moved to the flowers.

Lifting one, I sniffed the sweet aroma. Returning the rose to the vase, I drug my knuckle over another rose stem, at which point, one of the thorns cut me at the fold of my finger. I let out a small, pained utterance, flinching my finger away.

When I turned away from the table, the Countess moved to stand beside me. Somewhat startled, I stepped back, bumping the table, the stand threatening to spill its contents on the floor.

“It was not my intent to frighten you,” she said, smiling. Holding her hand out, she steadied the table. She moved closer, took my hand in hers, lifted my finger to her bent head. Her lips pressed against my bloody knuckle, causing a sense of euryopia to sweep through me.

She held my hand, her lips pressed to the bleeding wound, sucking the blood away. I quivered as she licked the wound, afterward, broke her kiss. On checking my finger, the cut seemed to have scabbed already. I gazed at her, light-headed as though I drank a healthy shot of bourbon. I was weary and supposed the reason was my long, arduous day catching up with me, at last.

“You have unusually, sweet blood. Cornelius did say you were a woman of style,” the Countess said, her voice light and lyrical. I laughed with her at the witticism. Though blood being described as sweet struck me as, to some extent, creepy.

“Still, you should be careful not to cut yourself. In particular, avoid this around the boys,” the Countess said.

“They’re not brothers, are they?”

“They are not,” she said. “And yet, they are of the same blood. They share the same affliction and the same cure. Hence, they are brothers of sorts. But enough of, what do you Americans say? Shoptalk?”

“Well, I did come here to work and learn,” I said.

“But not tonight,” she said. “Tell me, what do you think of my home?” Holding her arms upward, she walked about the room.

“It’s a grand old place,” I told her.

“Only a shadow remains.” The Countess picked up the fireplace poker and stabbed the logs, sending the flames roaring in the hearth. The impression of a tremendous sadness overcame the woman as she spoke.

“This wondrous place constructed by a warrior princess. Who grew war-weary over 600 hundred years ago. She led her armies into battle, beating back the Turkish hordes. As an impartial judge, you, a successful, modern woman, must appreciate her accomplishments in those days. Having, yourself, suffered the slings and arrows of men whose delicate pride and self-worth battered simply because she was a strong woman.

“Have they not likewise lashed out, trying to elevate themselves by gashing every single triumph you have achieved? You have overheard the whispers, ‘She’s only a woman.’ I sensed envy in your old mentor, the envy of your youth, and fear, with the years ahead of you, he’d become, but a footnote in your biography, as your achievements surpass his.

“Imagine how they reacted to a woman warrior, who fought better than they, strategized more effectively, and conquered every man who opposed her. Blood became her life, for life is in the blood. Fighting and killing fulfilled a need inside her until war consumed the princess. In the end, all she desired was peace, but all she achieved was more bloodshed, and only carnage gave her life meaning.

“She built this castle, her only desire to live out her remaining years, occupying her time with the joy of raising her children in the solitude of this citadel. I think the deceptions brought about by her husband, a weak, deceitful rouge, who married her to steal her property. His precious pride, wounded by her refusal to take his name, the rascal turned on her and their children.

“Drago’s be they, men or women, never abandon their name and never give a name to their offspring other than their own revered family name, Domini Draconum, Masters of Dragons is the ancient name of my family.

“So, it was for two millennia but reduced to simply Drago in recent years, though not so recent, for precious little in this family is recent. My name is her name – Draconus Valeriana. Changed over the years to the more mundane, Valerie Drago.

“Seeing her, old Georgiana would’ve died of shock,” Valerie Drago said, “were it not for Valeriana’s sword, which cut through his guts, held in the hand of his dead wife. I should say, presumed dead, wife.”

She went on with her tale, pacing around the room. Speaking of this one woman as if she lived for centuries. Her wild eyes reflected the red of the fire as she voiced the princess’s exploits. Her words rang with such passion you’d have thought she spoke of herself.

Then, without warning, her words stopped. She smoothed her gown, faced me where I sat next to the roses, and extended her hand.

“Come,” she said. “Let us talk about you, for I have dominated the conversation, and I do so desire to know all I might learn about you.”

I took her hand, she led me to bed, and we sat next to each other. I must explain, this held no intimate erotic overture, or at least, none I perceived. This was purely two women sitting close to one another and talking.

The Countess stared into my eyes. Her pale, blue eyes were brilliant, captivating, holding my attention. I spoke, telling her about my life. My grandparents’ death, my school days, the passing of my father. My graduation from Yale medical school seven years before, and my studies as a doctor. My awkwardness in relationships as a child, a teen, and a young adult. My fitful starts at romances, followed in short order by the rapid decline into disastrous breakups. I ended up talking about the loss of my mother, finding Michael, and our two years of courtship.

“You, poor sweet, child,” she said, embracing me, pulling me to her, “you are all alone now.”

“I have Michael,” I said.

“Yes, Michael, dear sweet Michael,” Valerie Drago said. “Albeit, I don’t sense any real passion in you for Michael.” She added, I believe as an afterthought, “Perhaps I’m wrong, though.”

I should have taken offense at her words. I should have shown righteous indignation at the implication. Yet, I offered neither words of praise nor my undying loyalty to my betrothed; instead, I turned my face from her, considering her words.

God forgive me. I let those words creep into my mind. The seed of doubt, once planted, is hard to weed out if watered, for uncertainty takes root and blooms. We continued our embrace of one another, my mind pondered this express matter, feeding my always present doubts, for I have never been confident or competent in affairs of the heart.

All the while, wild thoughts, unbridled passions, and sensual emotions crept into me. A yearning deep inside took hold of me. I tried to fight these desires but failed. After a minute or more, my hands dropped, and Countess Drago pulled back. I held fast to my sentiments for Michael and the stronghold my betrothed held on my heart, refusing to yield to this woman’s inviting temptations. Though, I wasn’t sure she tried to tempt me, not intentionally at least. But the nickering of my commitment to Michael took hold while desires considered unnatural were ready to bloom.

“You should sleep now,” the Countess said. A strand of my auburn hair fell over my eyes, and she moved the strand, placing my hair behind my ear. Her sadness lifted, replaced by a smile spread, which spread over her beautiful face, and her head shifted toward me. Our lips touched; a light charge tingled over my lips as we kissed. Two emotions fought inside me, shame and an overwhelming desire for the Countess and the satisfaction our cuddling gave me. We broke apart, she moved to the door.

“I hope my goodnight kiss did not upset you. The customs of my land are not the same as those of your homeland. Now, come, Hanson Jane … I meant to say … Jane Hanson, lock the door, and in so doing, keep out bad dreams,” she told me. “Sleep well, Doctor. We shall talk in the morning.”

I missed her presence in the room immediately. Alone, I removed my writing kit, placed the gear on a table near the fire, moved a tall candelabra near, and set down the day’s events to Michael.

 

****

 

My Sweet, Dearest Michael,

I have come to the end of my journey and settled into this ancient castle. My room is warm and cozy but not at all small. My own living room would only occupy half the space I have to call my own.

I cannot say this old, worn bastion is cheery, though my private room is made far more bright by the three pictures of you, which I have added to the décor.

My first impression of the Countess, this woman is venerable, imposing, and quite severe, natheless, a happy person, her face creased with deep laugh lines. She smiles easily and has sparkling, bright eyes. I place her age somewhere older than Cornelius. Perhaps 65 or 70 years, even so, for her achievements, this is not enough. However, she appears much younger than she is.

A natural intelligence shined through her eyes, and they carried the wrinkles of wisdom, in fine weblike lines, about them. Still, she has lovely hair, streaked with much gray, beautiful, and quite thick. Her nose is aquiline, like the beak of a grand bird, and she has a noble bearing about her.

The last leg of the journey was the only tricky part of the trip. I traveled with seven or eight other passengers, though I spent the last half of today in the box. I must say, a more superstitious lot of people I have never encountered …

In short, I thought I might never gain entry, then, as if by magic, the doors swung open, giving me access.

The hour grows late, my love, with reluctance, I close now. But I will write more soon. Before I retire for the night, I shall read all your letters which awaited my arrival. I also desire those opuses I sent you, with all those words of love I penned, found you, and brightened up your days.

With all my heart,

Jane

 

****

 

The first night passed in a slow, seemingly sleepless procession. Wolves howled in the night. Some wild cat creature yowled outside my window, and a roar, the likes of which I never heard in my life, bellowed in my ears.

Getting out of bed, I checked the locked door, ambled to the window, and closed the glass to shut out the sounds. Beyond the colored panes of glass, a bat fluttered leathery wings, hovering outside the closed window.

The little critter’s eyes were red as fire. No doubt, they reflected some spark of light from inside or perhaps the moonlight. Only no moon shown, I belatedly realized. He’s watching me from outside, I supposed, pushing the wild thought from my mind. He lunged toward the window.

I backed away, startled. Inches from the glass, the critter avoided the collision, turning downward, plunging from view. I fought a fright, which crept into my intellect, letting out a small gasp of tension.

Wandering back to my bed, returning to the safety it offered, I crawled under the covers, swaddling myself in their warmth and protection. The firelight from the hearth in the room danced on the floor. I was unable to tell how much of this was a dream and how much was reality.

Fear overtook me again, and I shut my eyes, telling myself to seek escape in slumber. Tossing and turning, I slept fitfully. In my dreams, a motorized coach plunged over a mountainside. In the wreckage, Michael’s body lay, twisted in an unnatural contortion, fear, and pain, vivid on his face, his broken remains trapped in the carriage debris. His eyes flung open, and he hissed at me like a snake. In my nocturnal nightmare, I thrust a sword through his heart.

“Betrayer,” I said, angry he survived the crash.

In sleep, an incomprehensible strangeness invades dreams or nightmares. They spring forth in our faculties, thrusting us into the middle of something, which cannot be real. Yet, still, we struggle to figure out what happens next, vexed as to what brought us to this place. And of this dream, I shrank from. For the lurid vision, put a thought in my head I found impossible to shake. I grasped, with all clarity, I wanted my cherished, loving fiancé, Michael, dead!

Awake, I lay panting, a sheen of sweat upon my skin. It was some time after two in the morning, and I turned in bed, attempting to get more comfortable. Gazing at the entry, what appeared to be vapor puffed between the door and floor. Creeping across the floor, the mist gathered into a thick fog in an open spot. The smoke plumed upward in the middle of the room, solidifying.

The Countess, in a red, translucent nightgown, moved from the mist. I glanced at the door lock, the key hanging from the hole. In addition, the bolt still closed on the locked door. How had she? The haze boiled red and swirled around her as she sauntered toward me. She sat on the bed. She lifted the sheet from my body, dropping yellow rose petals from her fingers. They fluttered against my skin.

Her cold hand touched me, gently toying with the petals upon my belly. A fire erupted inside me, and I gasped, fully awake as the flames of craving her consumed me. I am not drawn to women. Her touch sent wicked-wild thoughts through my inner self while a hot passion passed from her, erupting into my body.

I strove to concentrate on Michael, but Countess Valarie Drago pushed the thoughts of him from my consciousness. As she invaded my subconscious, Michael fled from me in fear of his existence. Without Michael to hold in my mind, the Countess took my affections. All the while, a white, hot lustful fire of desire spread throughout my body, my mind. Arching my back, I let out a long hiss as my loins ached for her attention.

Her mouth brushed my lips. She pressed her hot, wet mouth to mine, kissing me deeper and deeper. Her hands caressed me, and fires of lust ran over my flesh, consuming me. The Countess touched me in ways no woman or man ever had. The need for her welled a goatish, ruttishness no one ever instilled in me. My body throbbed, aching for more.

As if she read my inner thoughts, we entwined, and our bodies twisting into one. I pulled her closer, and her face dropped to my neck, where I felt a sharp pricking. An extraordinary ecstasy washed over my soul. Something flowed out of me while white-hot desire overwhelmed me. She kissed me, and the exquisite feel of her firm, moist lips filled me with bliss and contentment. I never wanted to wake. Any thought of Michael nauseated me.

 

Chapter 4

 

Bolting upright in my bed, sunlight streamed through the window. I tried to clear my mind, weakened from my restless night. Thinking took effort. And with a swift torrent, the dream came back to me, burning vivid in my thoughts. A clammy, fine mist clung to my body, my sheets soaked, and my nightgown lay on the floor in a heap. The vision stuck in my mind. The night’s sensual congress, after all, only a tepid dream, though, I theorized, was it? Nastiness crawled across my skin.

Shaking, controlling my breathing, and pushing all emotions away, I struggled to suppress the lust lingering into my waking state. I reached up to where she had been. I touched my neck, touched two fresh scratches upon my throat, which hurt a bit. I must have scratched myself with my fingernails in my fitful sleep.

Guilt overwhelmed me over Michael. I had betrayed him. Despite only dreaming this, I deceived my love. Thoughts annoyed me, risqué emotions troubled me, unable to ignore the vision in my mind, these unwanted longings the night cultivated. I sat in bed, thinking, brooding over the possible meanings of my sleeping fantasies. Part of me wished I had never learned of Countess Valerie Drago. What had I come to?

What wild place had I journeyed to? And what was debauchery, which tempted my soul? Soul, yes, I had a soul. The other part of me, the scientific side, brushed the irrational thoughts from my head. I reminded myself I am a scientist. Each of us has subconscious thoughts, which appear in our dreams, but this does not mean we act upon them. I calmed my fears, slaying my ‘personal’ boogeyman with the same nonexistent sword I had killed Michael within my dream. For those are the only demons, which exist, the ones our own minds manufacture.

A soft knock intruded the solitude of my sanctum. Jumping from my bed, I pulled the gown from the floor, and flung it over my head, worked the fabric down my body, smoothing out the wrinkles. I took a few shaky steps to the door. The wicked, wild dream appeared to have sapped me of my potency. Stopping, I put my hand on my chest, willing my heart to slow, my breath to calm.

“Yes?” I asked.

“It’s me,” Countess Drago said. “Breakfast awaits you in the room across the hall. I hope the repast is to your liking.”

Unlocking the door, I opened the door and smiled at my hostess. She entered the room, covered in a virginal, white dress with a plunging U-shaped neckline, revealing much of her upper breasts and gathered tight around her waist. A new rose adorned her outfit, pinned next to her heart, and the flower’s color — black, as black as midnight. I didn’t know black roses existed. Perhaps this color, no doubt, was accomplished from some type of dye.

“You have slept late,” she said. “I’m afraid the boys are in treatment today and won’t be around to serve you. They will return shortly after sunset.”

“Oh, what is the treatment?” I asked.

“Deprivation.”

“I haven’t heard of this. What do you withhold from the lads?”

“The treatment was all the rage ten years ago, but now, fallen from grace, replaced by medications which pollute the blood. I believe one can accomplish more without narcotics than with them. The blood must always be pure. After all, life is in the blood. As to my sweet boys, I’m withholding everything from them. Light, warmth, the experience of touching something or being touched, sound, and human companionship.”

Her smile grew broader, and she laughed.

“At this moment, they are as the dead,” she said.

“My word, this sounds quite radical.”

“Unconventional, yes, and the treatment works wonders on them — for them. I think the air is stuffy in here.” Brushing past me, she entered my room, hurled the window open, and let in the fresh air. “Isn’t this better? The house is yours today. I’m afraid I have some business to attend to many miles from here. You’re free to explore my home today. You may freely enter any unlocked room. Of course, you won’t desire to go to any room, which is locked. The locks are secured for a reason. The house is old, and many of the places in which danger lives. Those locked rooms are unsafe.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Find my library. I think you will enjoy the many books. See if you can find the room. Many of the novels are in English, though my books on psychiatry are not. Do you read French?”

“Yes, I do. French is the only language, other than English, in which I’m fluent,” I said.

“Alors façon de ne pas chercher les livres scientifiques en Français,” she said.

I understood her meaning. She wanted me to find her scientific books in the library printed in French.

While she talked, I moved to the dresser and removed my mirror from the drawer. As I held the glass, brushed my hair, gazing into the mirror, I couldn’t find the Countess. Thinking she was near me and out of view, I continued brushing my hair. Again, I scanned the room in the mirror, searching for her.

“Vanity,” Valerie Drago said. She tore the mirror from my hand. The Countess tossed the glass against the wall, near the head of my bed. The looking glass shattered, falling in a pile of shards on the floor.

I was speechless.

“Vanity,” the Countess said again, “thy name is woman.” She pointed her index finger at me, accusing me. “You are far too beautiful a woman to primp yourself and admire yourself in such a manner. Beware of your conceit, for a shall come when you despise your reflection, should you live long enough.”

The Countess regained her composure, walked to the broken water closet door. “I will have the boys repair this.”

She turned to me, softening. “I apologize for my outburst, but I cannot stand vanity. This wickedness infects your mind.” She walked toward the door to exit the room. “I must go. I shall not return home until late. When you get hungry, return to the room across the hall. The boys have placed food on the table for you. They have a break scheduled in which to perform household tasks, and afterward, back to their little deaths.”

As she stepped into the hall, she paused, glancing back at me. “I caution you, do not fall asleep without locking the door of your room. And under no circumstance fall asleep in any other room than here. Bad dreams await you outside the walls of this room, for many ghosts dwell here.”

I stared at her. What she stated had the ominous whiff of a threat. Nodding mutely to her, I gazed at her as she departed. I shut the door, threw the lock in the bolt, and quickly dressed. While making my bed, I discovered pale yellow rose petals. Flattened, wilting now, strewn over my sheets. Knots tied inside me. My heart raced wildly in my chest. My head wanted to explode, and my blood pulsed in my temples. I wasn’t dreaming. Last night wasn’t a …

This was wrong; I shook my head. No, wait, we had hugged on my bed before I went to bed when we had shared our platonic kiss. She had a yellow rose pinned to her gown. The petals happened to fall at the time. I sighed, sinking to the bed, sanity teetering on breaking. Oh, how one’s imagination can run wild. Exhaling slowly, I laughed at my foolish thoughts.

My reason restored, I put the stupid notions of my erotic dream from my brain. I could not fathom why someone so wealthy lived, in isolated seclusion, with no servant save a coach driver and the three patients doing menial tasks. I doubted the coachwoman existed. The driver must have been her. I had not seen the face of the driver, only her dark, angry eyes, yet, somehow, those eyes matched Valarie Drago’s own.

I shall not bore you with the details of my cold breakfast. The repast was tasty and pleasant, which is the only thing which matters of food, at least, this type of food. Once I consumed my meal, I set about exploring the maze of rooms in the ancient dwelling.

To my frustration, stifling my exploration, I discovered most of the doors locked. Those open rooms were bedrooms or trophy rooms. I don’t know how else to explain them. Rooms filled with armor, swords, primitive firearms, and shields. Trophies of other kinds, rotted heads, hands, or other body parts one doesn’t mention in polite society, all under glass domes. I didn’t try to count how many, making my exit from those rooms as soon as possible.

Disturbingly, some were trophies from females. The most shocking trinket visible, a nun’s habit nailed above a fireplace in one room, accompanied by a priest cassock. Both bore reddish-brown stains. The stains were bloodstains — these trophies appeared to be more recent acquisitions than most others.

A dreadful trepidation returned, creeping along my spine as I explored the vast castle. The rooms were dark, dank, and a slight stench of decay permeated much of the home. Morning turned to mid-afternoon, I should’ve been hungry, but I wasn’t. Gazing outside of the house, all I saw were the mountains. The opposite view only held varying aspects of the courtyard.

Once, before finding the library, I stared down into the courtyard, where a Lynx gorged himself on a rabbit. The creature gawped at me, hissed and yowled, grabbed up his prize, and ran from my sight. Finally, I found the end of the wing and turned into the structure, which formed the bottom of the U-shape. On one floor, a massive room took up more than half the width and half the length of the wing.

In fact, this one-room took up most of the third floor. An enormous bay window, which at one time must’ve been covered with smallish pains of stained-glass, covered nearly the whole outer wall. A broken window, only a few of the brightly colored shards of stained glass, still allowed light and air into the room.

I strolled to the broken window, stood in the casement of the opening, stared down at the water. Below me, perhaps forty or fifty feet beneath my feet flowed a mountain river. The tributary was thirty or forty feet wide, the water flowed across in a slow drift, or the water appeared lifeless. For this was a deception, those deep waters rushed to a waterfall only a short distance past the end of the fortress.

My head swam, dizziness swept over me. I had never experienced vertigo before. The view discombobulated me, for a strange urge overwhelmed me. Jump, jump, the words echoed in my head. Nausea and faintness forced me to flee. I stepped back inside the room to safety. Still, the thought persisted, Jump, jump from here, and end it all. My head spun, and I stumbled a step or two. As I plodded from the window, my head and stomach whirled in opposite directions. The notion of killing myself vanished.

Spying an armchair, I plopped on its sizeable, comfortable cushion. Holding my head with one hand, I rested my face against the padding of its high back. My nausea pestered me for several moments. The welcome release soon set me free of my momentary distress. I longed for the anguish to vanish. Oh, if only one might rub an eraser over a blackboard, wipe away the tortures haunting this appalling home. With this said, I have rushed ahead of myself.

I deliberated how long the letter I gave the Countess would require to arrive in New York. I considered how Michael would respond. I longed to hear from him to read his words.

As if a breeze blew a chill over my flesh, I grew cold thinking of dear, sweet, insipid Michael. Thinking of his tedious, tasteless kisses, I pressed him from my heart. What had this woman’s touch, her influence, done to me? I am not religious. Still, such a thing as sin exists, and these thoughts are sinful. These desires, she instills, are contrary to the natural order between men and women.

Valarie’s cold, blistering touch was all I thought of, as though she cast a spell on me. Thoughts of the boys quickly followed, especially Alexandru. His powerful, broad chest, his sensuous, light, greenish-brown eyes, his strong jaw, all these visions of the boy, dominated my thoughts for a minute before the Countess pushed her way back into my emotions.

These emotions were unnatural, at least to me. I had to remain loyal to my precious, loving Michael. And yet, the ground slipped from underneath my feet as I plunged into some strange, new, state being. I changed into a new version of myself. The transformation blossomed at the first, icy touch of Countess Drago’s cheek. Wild new emotions charred yearnings deep into the core of my being.

“No,” I said as I rose to my feet. I grasped this was the library. I should have jumped for joy. Nonetheless, having found the library, no happiness found me in my victory, not one whit of pleasure. All I wished was to abscond to the safety of my comfortable room. I squelched the anxiety, shook the unscientific thoughts and emotions off, and began my exploration of the library.

I searched, with a renewed enthusiasm, for the books in French. I combed through all the shelves, looking for my French prize. Try as I might, I couldn’t find any books in French, no romance, no history, and indeed no science, none one jot of the language among all the titles. I saw my treasure, only to have my hopes dashed, the loan manuscript pinned in French, a book on alchemy.

“Alchemy,” I said. “Alchemy is not science, my dear Countess.”

I returned to the window, stepping into the broken, battered opening. I placed my feet at the edge, with my toes dangling past the stones. I took care not to stare into the swirling waters. Dark storm clouds boiled over the mountains.

They rushed across the sun, darkening the vista. An opening in this fermentation let the light through only for new patches to cover it again, blotting out its light and darkening the landside. A flash of lightning struck a tree across the river, and the thunder’s clap hurt my ears. The heavens let loose, the wind-driven rain sprayed over my body, wetting my hair in moments.

I stood, fascinated, as the storm exploded feet from me. The rain fell in sheets over my body, and yet, I remained unmoving, taking in nature’s majesty as a wild, unbound splendor inundated me. A bolt of light struck, a yard from where I stood, the water boiled at the point of contact. The pungent odor of ozone spread over me, breaking the trance. I fled the deluge of rain, pounding my body, before escaping the downpour, my clothing soaked. I looked around the room and found matches.

Lighting all the candles in the room, they threw an eerie glow about the room. I discovered wood stacked next to the hearth, a pile of kindling, along with crumped-up papers atop the mound. I placed some kindling and newspaper in the fireplace, a few logs a top of the rest. I struck a match, bent down to the pile, and ignited the paper. Soon, the fire blazed and warmed me.

I stood before the fire. I tried to warm and dry myself. Try as might, I couldn’t glean why my body didn’t warm, but my clothing dried. I can’t explain this to you. Why I didn’t find my way back to my room is a mystery to me.

But I didn’t, perhaps staying here, represented my own will, my refusal to yield to a blind, baseless fear. By staying put, proved in my mind, I was free to come and go as I pleased. However, when I explored the Great Entry Hall, I found no means of opening the door to the outer world. The appalling sense I was a prisoner in this old mansion slithered into my mind.

At last, the rain stopped. I turned from watching the terrific, wild storm through the broken window, returning to exploring the bookshelves. Pulling a century-old novel from its place, I plopped to a comfortable position on the dusty chaise longue. While reading the book, my eyelids fluttered, the words blurred. I shook myself, opened my eyes wide, and continued reading.

A dullness crept into my brain. I put my feet on the divan, rested my head on its arm, and did my best to concentrate. Rereading the first paragraph of the page several times, contentment snuggled my heart. The fire snapped and popped; the roar of the fire died from my hearing. The words blurred, darkness covered me, and I twisted my back to the back of the settee.

Not exactly asleep, I reconnoitered the room through my eyelashes. The chamber, illuminated, somewhat, by the flickering flames of numerous candles. The library took on the coloring of the yellowish glow from the fireplace. The fire’s glow danced on the polished stones of the ancient floor like ballerinas pirouetting in a production of Swan Lake.

The fire flared up as embers burst forth. Finding the center of the room, they spun and whirled into pillars. The image took my breath away. I struggled to lay, still and quiet, as the sparks formed into three spinning columns of light. No alarm, fear, nor apprehensiveness screamed in my mind, for I dismissed this as another dream.

For like the Countess stepping from fog, this wasn’t possible in the waking world. The whirling lights took on forms, one tall, one short, one of medium height, and no mental effort need be expended to know the figures were the three young men. I made out the two thin frames and the larger muscular one, who inhabited the pillars of light and flame.

The bright blue of the short one’s eyes gleamed inside the tornadic column of flames. His shaggy blonde hair hung to his eyes and hung about the edge of his face like a young girl’s hair might appear. Cristian’s soft facial features took shape, and the embers faded. Licking his pale, bloodless lips, he moved toward me, hunching as he approached. His long, pearlescent eyeteeth looked like fangs, and drool dripped from their sharp tips as his mouth watered.

Alexandru took form. The taller boy took his brother by the shoulder, tugged the younger patient to him. They appeared annoyed with one another. Alexandru twisted the more youthful man toward him, and his angry face glowered at his brother.

Holding Cristian in place, Alexandru’s eyes reflected the dancing light of the room, turned to dark brown, went, once again, red as blood. He twisted the young boy’s arm, arching his eyebrows as he dominated the child with his sheer, unimaginable, physical strength.

The other brother, the one somewhere between effeminate and masculine, Boian, stepped out of the swirling blaze. The embers dissolved into him, Boian moved to the other side of the youngest, joining the fracas, he entered on the side of his older brother.

“She is forbidden,” Alexandru said.

“I want her,” Cristian said.

“You are prohibited from doing this,” Alexandru said. “Mistress brings us our supper soon.”

“I want her,” the young Cristian said.

Flinging his arm upward, Cristian sent his taller older brother tumbled backward. Alexandru sprawled across the stone floor.

Turning to Boian, he hit him in the chest. Boian soared, landing the floor, sliding, not wholly, into the fireplace fifteen feet away from Cristian. Unquestionably, I dreamed he was like a teenage girl, not a man, for this frail, passive coward of a child couldn’t do such things.

Licking his long incisors, he appeared to lubricate them to bite into something. Cristian inched toward me. His face twitched. His eyes sparkled he glowered at me.

My heart raced in my chest.

Cristian smiled. His eyes glowed, changed from blue to red as he advanced. The closer he came to me, the slower he moved, savoring each moment. Again, his long, pink tongue glided over his teeth, and he wetted his lips, his face sank toward me.

I desired his sweet kiss. I ached to feel his lips pressed to mine. I longed to experience those long daggers rake across the sensitive flesh of my neck. The cold blast of his breath puffed across my flesh, his eyes closed as he edged closer, and I wished for nothing more than his passion-filled kisses.

 

Chapter 5

 

The event unfolded as a type of slow-motion torture. My longing and fear blended inside me. I had this craving for, and all the while, I dreaded what would come. Cristian jerked from view as he flew across the room, struck the wall next to the broken window. The young man slid down the wall, Cristian crumpled into a heap on the floor.

In a flash, he sprung to hands and knees. He looked like a wild animal ready to pounce for a kill, his eyes locked on her eyes. All the resolve inside him melted away at the sight of his Mistress. He cast his gaze down to his own hands. He rose to his feet in a slow, graceful, fluid movement, eyes still not looking at her; he uttered two words.

“Sorry, Mistress.”

The Countess stood next to me, her face hard, angry, cold as the ice of December. Her lips were bright red, a trickle of a thick, red fluid leaked from her mouth in a slow-moving ooze to her chin. Her tongue darted out, lapping the blood from her face. In her other hand, she held the wrist of a young woman. The girl gave the impression of enchantment. As if existence was this ecstatic stupor. Her eyes were dull and dilated as if a drug raced through her veins. Releasing the girl’s arm, the Countess’s appearance softened.

“She has been fun,” she said. “Life is in her veins. Sweet, tasty blood she longs to give you, and if you use her wisely, she may last many nights. Use her for pleasure and food. Take from her what she freely gives, her blood, strength, life, and every scrumptious drop, if you can. If you cannot find strength in you to do so, I will, or I will return her to her husband and her worthless life with him.”

“I can finish her, Mistress,” Alexandru said, moving toward her.

“No,” she said. “You will use her up, and nothing will remain for the lads. Go to the hall now, for I have other plans for you.”

Alexandru’s shoulders dropped, his head looked to the floor, he said, “Yes, Mistress.” He moved from my view.

The Countess bent to the woman, whispered in her ear. The young woman shed her clothing in a rapid, eager show for the brothers. The nameless wench swayed toward the first of them, her hips rolling, in a provocative manner, as she swept to his side. She kissed him, leaned back, and offered the open wounds on her neck to him.

Cristian lowered his head to her red, bleeding neck. With his tongue, he lapped up the blood, pressing his lips to the open wounds, sucked the blood from her. Boian moved behind her, bent his head to her, pushed his long incisors into her soft fleshy shoulder, biting deep into her willing body. The brothers stood on opposing sides of the young woman, feeding on her blood.

At this point, Countess Drago hoisted me into her arms, ambled away from the two remaining grooms, carrying me into the hall. Alexandru walked in front of us. I wanted so to speak, but could not, I could not move, not one finger, I hung in her arms in a languorous state, lacking either the will or strength to stir from this strange dream.

“Go to her room,” she told him. “We shall share her. But you can have only a mouth full. I do not want you to grow ill from the richness of her life nor the lavishness of her wholesome blood.” A clamor filled the air as someone pounded and screamed like some wild man at the door downstairs. “I must attend to this matter first. I’ll bring her to you when I have dealt with this.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“The woman’s husband,” she answered. We wound our way down hallways, descended stairs, made our way back the way we had come, down other stairs, and finally to the corridor outside my room. Countess Valerie Drago moved past the door to my room. The Countess walked through the next hall. The halls and rooms merged, and as if by some magic, we were in the Great Entry room. Countess Drago carried me down the massive, curved staircase. My weight seemed to have no effect on her, as though I held no more mass than a feather to weigh down on her.