DANCING WITH VAMPIRES
A Worst Witch/Tanz der Vampire Fanfiction
(The only one of its kind - so far as I know)
On her gap year, Constance Hardbroom travelled Europe. She had not in fact intended to have a gap year - it hardly suited her strong work ethic - but the teaching job she had acquired on leaving Witch Training College would not be ready until the start of the new academic year, and it suddenly seemed - goodness only knew why - a very good idea to go travelling.
She travelled alone: she had not made any close friends at Witch Training College; the circumstances hadn't really been conducive to it. She travelled alone, and she travelled fast, without much apparent enjoyment of all the things she saw; she spent more time reading the spell-books she'd brought with her than experiencing the local culture. She travelled almost as if she were on the run - perhaps she was: on the run from the past, on the run from herself.
She should perhaps have been happy: she had achieved excellent marks in her exams, and landed the job she'd wanted. She was a powerful witch (nature had made her that way), and she was a knowledgeable witch (that was thanks to her training). She had scored better than any of her fellows in the final exams. She was told that she was a genius. No one knew of the sacrifices she had made for success, or the regrets she had, or the scars she bore. Her good results meant little to her; she knew she still wasn't good enough, would never be good enough. It had been told to her so many times that she had come to believe it.
And so she travelled, fleeing blindly from the past, as if it could really be left behind.
She came in the winter to Romania - the Socialist Republic of Romania, as it was then known, for Constance's gap year took place some years before the Revolution. She found she rather liked it there, liked it a good deal more than all the flashy tourist-ridden beauty of France and Spain and Italy and the rest. It was an impoverished country, a country of strict rationing and outbreaks of riot; it was a wounded country, a broken country, bowed beneath a rule it hated - yet it was still a beautiful country, out in the rural places, bleakly and savagely beautiful even in its pain. Maybe it reminded her of herself.
She was flying by broomstick alone, late one night in the mountains of Transylvania, her hands almost frozen to the broomstick handle in the bitter wind. She had hoped to reach Braşov by nightfall - but then the snow had begun to fall, and the storm clouds had gathered, and wolves howled in the distance. To fly further would be impossible; she staggered through the drifts of snow with no very clear idea of where she was going, and it took all the magic she had just to avoid freezing to death.
It was with relief that she espied a little village amid the mountains, not too far away, along a path that was not yet entirely obliterated by the snow. High on the mountaintop stood one of the many-turreted, red-roofed castles such as Transylvania had in such abundance; the village lay somewhat below. And there, the largest of the buildings - it seemed to be some sort of inn, old and sturdy - was spilling out light and music; she heard the tread of dancing feet, and a catchy song with a refrain of the words (she did not know what they meant), "Usturoi, usturoi!"
She was welcomed into the establishment as if she were some long-lost and dearly beloved relation; the locals gawped at her as if she were the most exciting thing they'd seen in years. She had had the presence of mind to turn her broomstick into an umbrella before she approached the inn; she had heard that superstition was rife in these far-flung mountain villages, and wasn't sure what reception they would give to a witch. A swiftly and silently cast translation spell took care of linguistic differences, and she was able to request a room for the night; the innkeeper's wife showed her enthusiastically to a shabby little room - its only furniture a bed and a bench - which looked as if it had scarcely been touched, let alone redecorated, for at least a century. A door led to the en suite bathroom - a rather grand name for a room possessed of an old tin bathtub. They would heat some water and fill the tub for her if she wished for a bath, she was told; she assented gratefully, for she was travel-stained and muscle-weary.
She listened idly to the chatter of the innkeeper's wife and her companions (employees? Or just locals lending a hand?) as they brought the buckets up the stairs, keeping the translation spell running. They seemed oddly agitated; she caught the words, "Are you sure it will be safe?...a pretty young girl like that...you recall what happened to my Great-Great-Aunt Sarah..."
The voices faded away, and she shrugged. They were so full of superstitions up here in the mountains. She had never believed in all that nonsense. She was glad she hadn't let on she was a witch.
She went through to the bathroom and undressed quickly, plunging with relief into the warm water. She lay back and let her muscles be soothed by the heat, and her skin turn as red as a lobster. There was an aged bar of soap by the bath, and an even more aged sponge - aged, but serviceable. This wasn't at all a bad place, she thought; she was glad to have found it. It was almost thrilling to be so far from civilisation. She wondered briefly, idly, why there was so much garlic hung around the place. The innkeeper's wife had been wearing a string of it around her neck. Ah, well - they were funny people in these mountain villages.
It was at that moment that the skylight above her flew open (admitting a cold draught and a great deal of snow), and a vampire appeared.
Constance shrieked out of sheer instinct, and made to cover herself with the sponge - as much to protect herself from the cold air as to preserve her modesty.
It was quite definitely a vampire: tall, dark, cloaked and fanged - probably quite handsome, if you were into all that sort of thing.
Which Constance was not.
"Good evening," said the vampire, in polite and aristocratic tones, "Do not be afraid of me. I am the angel you have longed for!"
"I haven't longed for an angel, and I'm not afraid," interjected Constance. It was quite true: Constance was scared of many things - failure, her old tutor - but aristocratic Transylvanians with long teeth were quite frankly not among them.
The vampire had evidently not expected such an interruption; he regarded her in surprise. That moment was all she needed. She summoned her magic and pointed her spell-casting fingers at him; there was a sudden rush of wind, a shout, and the unmistakable sound of a vampire hitting the ground at speed. Constance magicked the skylight close again, and allowed herself something of a smile as she sat back in her bath.
But the water had now gone cold, and she was forced to remove herself, to dry on a towel that was like cardboard, and pile on as many clothes as possible.
"Angel I have longed for, indeed," she said, as she rummaged in her suitcase for a spell-book to read. Perhaps, indeed, she had once longed for an angel - if by that was meant someone who would rescue her. But what good had that ever done her? She had realised the truth long ago: there was no angel for Constance Hardbroom, and never would be.
xxxx
There was a letter beside the narrow little bed when Constance awoke the following morning. It was such an odd thing to be there that at first she simply didn't register it; instead she mused over the previous day's events, recollected where she was and why she was there, wondered if she would be able to continue her journey today, looked out of the window at the whirling snow and realised she wouldn't. Oh, well, it couldn't be helped, and the inn was hardly fully booked. She'd hole up here and read until the storm passed and it was clear enough to fly onto Braşov.
Only then did her eye fall again upon the letter, and she noticed it properly, then reached out and picked it up.
The envelope bore no name or address, and was slightly damp, as if with snow. She wondered who it was meant for. Its only marking was a seal upon the back, a vast red wax seal such as aristocrats used in days of old, bearing a coat of arms, and below it, the words - a name? - in capital letters: "VON KROLOCK".
Constance recollected the unexpected intruder of the previous night, and suddenly had a bad feeling about this.
She opened the envelope hastily, before she could change her mind, and brought forth a piece of parchment, on which was inscribed, in a magnificent blood-red cursive, what gave every sign of being a poem.
It was in German, but that presented no difficulty to Constance; for German, she did not even need a translation spell.
"Good evening, [it began] do not be afraid of me.
I am the angel you have longed for.
The time of waiting is now past;
For I have come to invite you
To the ball of the year.
We'll dance through the night,
Until your longing makes a woman out of you."
"Impertinent," murmured Constance, and found the sound of her own disapproving voice comforting enough to be able to read on.
"Or would you rather,
That everything stayed as it is?
Do you think it will ever be enough for you?
I don't think it will ever be enough.
Would you rather say your prayers,
Until you are old and grey and bitter?
Do you think it will ever be enough for you?
You know very well that it will never be enough.
'They warned you of sin and danger,
But you have always known
That what they called safety
Was nothing but a sham.
Everything that they taught you,
Was nothing but lies;
Everyone has cheated you!
Everything that they brought you,
Was nothing but bribes.
I'll give you what you're missing:
'A ride on the wings of the night,
A taste of the true reality,
In the ecstasy of the darkness!
Prepare your heart:
I invite you to the Midnight Ball!
I'll give you what you're missing:
A ride on the wings of the night,
An escape from the monotony,
In the ecstasy of fantasy!
The time has come:
I invite you to the Midnight Ball!"
"Ridiculous," said Constance, aloud, and yet, strange to say, her voice lacked its usual steely conviction.
Do you think it will ever be enough for you?...Everything that they taught you, was nothing but lies...I'll give you what you're missing...An escape from the monotony...
How those words played on her mind as she washed and dressed! I am the angel you have longed for. Well, and perhaps she had longed for an angel, all these years. Was it possible that he had seen, in those few moments when he had looked into her eyes, all the pain that lay coiled and poisonous there? Had he somehow, in those fleeting moments, read her heart where others had always failed? It was said that vampires had a peculiar magic of their own...
Of course, he was a vampire; she must not forget that he was a vampire. Not an angel, a vampire. Not an evil creature, necessarily, but a creature who drank blood. A creature who probably wanted to drink her blood.
He certainly wanted her for some sort of exchange of bodily fluids, she thought, ruefully, as she looked over the letter again. The idea was thoroughly distasteful to her.
And yet...and yet...
To escape! To escape, even if just for a little while, was all she had ever wanted! To do something out of character, something foolish and dangerous; to run away to some place where even her memories could not find her; to hide away somewhere where none of it mattered, a place where judgement and criticism meant nothing, a place where perfection was no longer demanded.
I'll give you what you're missing...
If only he could! If only anyone could!
Prepare your heart!
She doubted she had one any more. But...perhaps...for one night...
The decision was made, in a flash of fury, by a mind usually so rational.
Constance Hardbroom was going to go to the Midnight Ball.
xxxx
"I love her," proclaimed Count von Krolock, with great definiteness.
"You always say that, Father," answered his son, not without a certain degree of weariness.
"But this time I mean it!"
"You only saw her for a minute or two. Less than that. You're lusting after her, Father, that's all."
"Since when did you get so knowledgeable about my emotional state, boy?"
"Since I've seen you "fall in love" with a different girl every five minutes for the last several hundred years."
"But this is different, Herbert! She's different!"
"She's just another girl, Father."
"No, she isn't." The Count's dark eyes took on a decidedly dreamy expression. "No other girl has ever made me fall off a roof before."
Herbert rolled his eyes. "And that makes you love her?"
"It was...different. Original. Oh, how her eyes blazed when she told me she wasn't afraid of me!"
"Original," said Herbert, sardonically, "Unlike you, then, Father. I bet you just trotted out all the old lines, about escape and freedom and the ecstasy of the darkness, riding on the wings of the night, burning doubts and forgetting time..."
"You don't understand, boy. You've never loved a woman."
"Neither have you, not really. You'll make her a vampire, and then you'll wonder why." Herbert smiled a little ruefully. "Eternity's a long time, and I expect you'll soon get bored with being pushed off roofs."
"Oh, you don't understand, boy. I'm going down to the graveyard for a while; I want to be alone."
"As if I'd come and interrupt you while you're storming up and down whinging about preacher's daughters you've known and nibbled!" Herbert retorted, remarking to no one in particular, "And he calls me a drama queen!"
xxxx
"Yoine! Wake up!" The innkeeper's wife shook her husband impatiently; he peeled his eyes open to see that her face was unusually pinched and pale in the candlelight. She looked like a woman who had just been the recipient of very bad news.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I just went to check on the guest - and she's gone, Yoine, gone. She's gone you-know-where, Yoine, I know it - gone to him! Did you notice she hardly touched any garlic at supper - hardly touched anything? Oh, she's done for, Yoine, I know it, done for just like my Great-Great-Aunt Sarah..."
Yoine sighed and tried to calm his wife; she knew as well as he did that there was nothing they could do.
Outside, the wind howled and the snow fell steadily; and a small, determined little figure on a broomstick made her way to Castle von Krolock.
xxxx
Whatever the fears of the innkeeper's wife, it had to be confessed that it would have taken a great deal more than a vampire Count to "do for" Constance Hardbroom. Within a week she had made it to Braşov as she had originally planned, and she was out of Romania altogether by the end of the month, the time she had spent at Castle von Krolock no more than a lingering pleasant dream.
And it had been a very pleasant dream. It had been her rebellion and her escape, just as he had promised. She had worn a red dress - the first time in years that she had worn anything other than black - and let her long hair loose, and danced all night, danced as if she were someone else entirely, someone far more wild, far more free, than sensible Constance Hardbroom. It had seemed, for a time, in that great hall with the vast rose-patterned window, with the candles burning and the undead swirling about her, as if the outside world no longer matter, as if all she had suffered had never been anything but a passing dream. Perhaps this was "the true reality", just as he had said; perhaps all the rest had never been anything but lies. Perhaps - for a fleeting candlelit moment she nearly believed it - every cruel word and criticism that had ever been spoken to her was nothing but falsehood. The Count had treated her as if she were beautiful and fascinating, and, for a time, lost in the intoxication of the darkness and the ecstasy of fantasy, she had let herself believe him.
"We will burn doubts and forget time," he had murmured to her as they danced, and she had almost believed that they could, almost believed that she really could see every doubt she'd ever had - and there had been many - turning to ash before her.
Of course he had eventually endeavoured to bite her. She didn't blame him for it; it was only his nature, after all. He had said pretty things about being together for eternity; his teeth had gently grazed her neck.
But Constance Hardbroom was no meek and mild vampire's bride, and she had not been so lost in the darkness as not to know what to do. She'd jerked a knee beneath the skirt of her red ball-gown, and caught him where it hurt; as he doubled up and exclaimed in pain and surprise, she let loose her magic, exclaimed a spell - and lo, the handsome Count fell before her in the form of a singularly disgruntled-looking frog.
The vampires who had tried to catch her she had turned into beetles. That had seemed to put the others off. A rather effeminate blonde vampire who bore some resemblance to the Count had stood on the sidelines and seemed to find it all very funny. He had eventually approached her and handed over her broomstick; she had taken it quickly, spell-casting fingers at the ready, fearing a trick.
"You do realise Father will love you forever now, don't you?" he said, conversationally, "No girl's ever turned him into a frog before."
"It wears off," she said.
"What a shame," he said, "Father's much less trouble like that. Well, good speed to you, Madam..." He swept into an old-fashioned bow. "You've given us a ball to remember. They get so monotonous after the first century or so."
Constance hardly knew how to answer that, and so she had left, a witch in a ball-gown and cloak on a broomstick flying high above the Transylvanian mountains. The snow had ceased and the moon was bright; she paused to collect her things from the inn - she got in at the window and back out without disturbing anyone - and then bent her way at last to Braşov. It had, on reflection, been the highlight of her entire gap year.
She was not the sort to confide in people, or otherwise engage in idle or anecdotal chatter - and so no one ever knew, and certainly never suspected, that Constance Hardbroom had once danced with vampires.