Snow White

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It was the end.

God did not answer his prayers. The king was not in the castle. There was no falling star to wish upon. The only thing falling from the sky was snow, and he tried to catch the white nothings dancing around him, desperate for one last hope. A flake landed on his palm, indistinguishable from his skin, and it did not melt. He could just make out the perfect six-pointed crystal. It was all he got. His fingers closed on it, his lips moving soundlessly, forming words solely the wind brushing past him could hear.

"Young prince, your tea is ready."

It was not enough.

The child turned from his place on the balcony to face the inevitable. He opened his hand, letting the snowflake blow away to join the rest of its fellows. He had nothing now, nothing. He walked back into the room, his expression placid as he received his sentence.

"Come here, my dear. Have some tea with me," said the Queen.

He simply stared at her, his stepmother. His eyes shifted to the small table in front of her, upon which a teapot and a cup sat innocently.

"There is only one cup," he said.

"An error on my part, do not worry. The maid will bring another," said the Queen, but she did not order anything of the sort to the maid she had spoken of, a tremulous thing who was hovering by the door. "Do come and sit down. It is a special blend of mine. I made it especially for you."

He had been afraid of that. A ghost of a smile graced his lips. "How kind of you, mother."

"Good boy," the Queen cooed with false sweetness. She gestured to the maid. "Pour him a cup."

The maid was quaking madly. The teapot rattled in her grip. The Queen hastily gave the maid an admonitory slap on the arm, and she managed to pour the contents into the cup without slopping it over. He sat down before it. Boiled water and dried plant matter. Seemed like any other cup of tea.

It smelled like death.

"Now, whispered the Queen, "Drink up. Hurry, before it gets cold."

The child fingered the handle of the cup, picked it up. He raised it halfway to his mouth, and then paused. His eyes were very wide and very red. If his stepmother had cared the slightest, she might have noted the sadness and disappointment in them. She did not, of course. The Queen merely flinched when those eyes bore into hers.

"What is it?"

His voice was very quiet. "Why do you do this, mother? What have I done?"

"What are you saying, my boy?"

His crimson orbs wavered in their sockets as though threatening to spill blood.

"Is it my eyes, my hair, my skin? Or is it something else? There must be something I have done wrong, something I have done to make you all wish the worst for me. I can see it. You, father, my deceased mother, the nobles, the servants, the clergy—" even God "—all of you, when I have been naught but living—tell me, what did I do?"

The Queen let her composure slip. "I—well—that is—" She coughed and regained her doting mother sham. "Whatever are you talking about, my dear? I merely want to serve you tea."

That had been his final act of desperation. The child felt his breath leave him with a shudder. So this was it, then...

And something else filled his eyes...

"Now, stop with these odd questions, and enjoy your tea. Drink up. Drink it right now."

They were watching him. Urging, imploring him, to drink the tea.

It was not as if he had any other choice.

He raised the cup to his lips.

And slowly, drank the poison to the last drop.

The cup fell from his numb fingers and shattered on the floor. He doubled up, strangled gasps escaping him as the poison constricted his throat. He choked. His heartbeat slackened as the corrupted blood, burning hellishly, worked its way though his veins and seized his muscles. A series of spasms attacked him, each one more violent than the former, until his whole body stiffened, and he slumped over the table with a thud. He did not move.

There was total silence for several moments.

"Is he dead?" breathed the Queen.

She had to poke the maid to get her going. The terrified maid stumbled toward the prince and felt for his neck. It was cold. There was no pulse. "I t-think he is d-d-dead, Y-Your Highness—"

The Queen jumped up with a triumphant shriek and promptly kicked the body of her stepson from its chair with the sharp toe of her shoe. It landed lifelessly on the floor. "At last!" She dug a foot underneath his body and kicked it again over onto its back, so that he was staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. "The demon is dead!"

"W-w-what should we d-do with the b-b-body, Your Highness?" the maid stammered.

"You will bury it in the woods before the king returns. But stay here, I will send for a sack and shovel."

"I-I can—"

"Don't be ridiculous," the Queen snapped. "Don't you think people are going to be suspicious when they see you jittering all over the place?"

"B-b-but—"

"What, are you scared of being alone with it? It's the dead body of a child, dear. It can't hurt you." She nudged an arm for good measure, chafing it against the broken shards of the cup. It felt little more than a stump. "See? Stay here, lock the door, and do not let anyone in!" The Queen was gone before the maid could say another word.

The air was static.

The maid bolted the door and stayed there, shrinking away from the corpse. She was sure the chills down her spine had less to do with the winter wind passing through the balcony. She glanced at the dead prince. A part of her felt sorry for him. He had been so young, after all. Only seven years old. But it had to be done. The Queen had promised her a handsome sum. If she finished the job properly and held her tongue, she would receive enough money to live peacefully in the countryside for the rest of her days.

Anyway, everyone knew that something had been off with the prince. Rumors were abounding about him. How the former queen had been overcome with grief at having produced such an abomination that she developed a fever, and expired within three days. How the king had resented his son, and had reluctantly named him his heir. How he had had to wait until a cloudy day for the event because the baby kept howling whenever he was let out in the sun. And there were many other inauspicious stories. It was for the good of the kingdom that they got rid of him. There was a reason they called him—

The maid blinked. Had she just seen a hand twitch?

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It couldn't be. Surely not.

Surely it had been a trick of the light...

The maid gulped. A dead child, she told herself. He is a dead child. She inched forward. The body lay stiff and cold as it should. She moved closer. It remained unmoving. The maid was reassured by this. It had indeed been a trick of the light. She leaned over the face. Yes, nothing was out of place with the corpse whose skin was as white as snow, hair was as black as ebony, and eyes were as red as blood. He was dead.

Except, dead people's eyes aren't supposed to gleam with hatred, are they?

There is a reason they call him—

She barely had time to scream before a broken shard stabbed her throat.

The "corpse" sprang to his feet. The small white hand clutching the shard swiped ruthlessly at the maid's throat with inhuman strength, tearing apart her trachea. Blood gushed out, spilled down her torso and stained her clothes and his hand red. Her shocked eyes eternally reflected the image of her undertaker, who had come for her under the guise of a murdered child, who had a wide grin of maniacal fury splashed across his visage.

Dracula.

"The end of you," he rasped.

Her head hanging from her neck like a mangled marionette, the wretched woman sank into the pool of her own blood. She writhed for a moment, then stilled.

The shard had been sharp enough to be lethal. Too bad. A bit duller and he would have relished her prolonged death throes. He let it drop.

He breathed. He flexed his fingers. He shook his head.

He was alive. How was he alive?

The bitter residue of the poison lingered in his mouth. His voice did not come out right and his motor control was unsteady. He ached all over, particularly where his stepmother had kicked him. But he was alive. The Queen had failed.

Madness consumed his features again, yet he forced himself to calm. That foolish, foolish woman would receive her due tenfold, just not today. He would play with her a while longer. And when Judgment Day came, she would snivel at his feet begging for mercy.

He looked at the dead maid. What a mess. It would take forever to clean up. He contemplated on how he should dispose of her. Maybe he should take a leaf out of his stepmother's book and bury her in the woods. Or...

He kept looking at the dead maid. Or more correctly, the blood around her.

It was...enticing. The vivid color, the pungent smell...he looked at his hand. Soaked red.

He wondered how it would taste.

He lowered his head, tongue sliding out to...taste...the...

The child jerked back in horror. What was he thinking? How could he have thought—how could he have wanted to—to—

The enormity of his situation hit him hard. Here he stood, in this bloody chamber, half-splattered with gore, regarding a ghastly crime scene without one speck of panic. He realized he had just survived a poisoning, killed a person, and had been about to drink blood, all in quick procession, as if they were most natural things to do, as if he were not a child seven years old.

As if he was a monster.

Quite suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed.

It hurt. His chest hurt so much but he kept laughing and laughing, and it was not pleasant. He laughed until he thought he would collapse again, until he thought he would drop back dead. He was so consumed with mirth that he did not notice the single snowflake that had wafted into the room and rested on his sable locks.

No wonder they hated him. All of them—his stepmother, father, deceased mother, the nobles, the servants, the clergy, even God, even Death—no wonder they were repulsed by him! It was for that reason, wasn't? Because he was a demon, a freak! A monster!

Because he was, as they called him, Dracula. Son of the dragon, son of the Devil.

Ah, he understood now. He understood perfectly. Dracula fell to his knees in laughter and pain. Yes, that was how they had seen him all this time...very well! A monster they wanted, a monster he would be.

And as his laughter continued to ring out, with only the dead to hear, he did not realize that perhaps, just perhaps, it sounded like a child's sob.

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One death in exchange for one life.

One life in exchange for one death.

The Devil grants his wishes.

He is, after all, Dracula. Son of the dragon, son of the Devil.

Dracula is both child and monster.

But someday he will cease to be the former.

And tell me, reader…what do you think will happen then?

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I had meant for this to be longer and updated quicker, but things happen. Well! I hope you have enjoyed the chapter! I have tons of things I want to write; it's just the matter of me being patient and diligent. Which I am not, but I do try. Please stay tuned for the chapters to come.

This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful reviewers. Thank you all, thank you so much! I hope not to disappoint.

Please review! I would love to hear your thoughts.

Minor edits March 12, 2016.