Chapter 7
Dans de Moarte*
17
The gypsies danced in the moonlight on the outskirts of the village, in the shadows of the trees near the edges of the thick dark forest. Such groups of wandering nomads often passed through mountain villages in their travels, sometimes stopping to ply their wares and share their music and singing, like tonight. Villagers watched, gathered around a clearing bordered by a circle of stones and torches mounted on long poles. Two bonfires burned, providing plenty of light as well as making the resulting shadows cast even darker. And above it all shone the bright swollen disc of the moon, a harvest moon, tinged with gold and red.
Sarah danced with the gypsies. Laughing, twirling her skirts, led by a slender young olive-skinned Romani. A large number of her fellow villagers clapped their hands and stomped their feet, keeping time to the rhythm.
Wild child Sarah, stealing out to play unbeknownst to her parents who slumbered in their beds.
Von Krolock watched from the gloom underneath a stand of beech trees, just beyond the edges of the growing crowd. He had tracked Sarah's scent here upon finding her room empty. He kept the hood of his cloak up, to keep his face hidden. Drawing any closer would attract notice, given his stature and the fine material of his raiment.
He admired Sarah's spirit, her spark of rebellion, but not the venue she chose to exercise it in. He didn't like the way some of the swarthy men looked at her, the beautiful flaming flower in their midst. No, he didn't like that at all.
He could see well enough from where he stood, given his unnatural visual acuity. And oh, Sarah was a lovely vision tonight, with her glory of fiery hair and elegant limbs, sure-footed and light on her feet, all unconscious beauty and grace. He couldn't take his eyes off her.
He could almost feel her in his arms, matching him step for step, her hunger growing to mirror his own. He could almost feel his hand on her slender waist, guiding and leading her. She wouldn't resist, he would capture and hold her dark emerald gaze, and she would offer to him the fair pale curve of her neck, as graceful as a swan's...
Von Krolock splayed a long-fingered hand over his solar plexus. Right there, underneath the lean hard muscle of his upper abdomen, a curious sensation, similar to blood hunger yet not. The more he watched Sarah dancing with unbridled joy, the more it tugged at him. It was sister to the feeling he'd had when his wife told him she was with child, and on the day he first held Herbert in his arms.
The music swirled through the cool air, fast-paced and passionate. Above it all, the lone beguiling voice of a violin sang wild and untamed. Nothing like the stately minuets and waltzes von Krolock had to endure in his past human lifetime, and still endured during the annual midnight balls at his castle.
This was like the reels he had danced in his youth, when he managed to escape the stern and watchful presence of his father. During those rare times he had been free of the weight of his birthright and all the attendant responsibilities, able to hide the fact of his nobility and be accepted as one of the common populace, out to have a good time.
He smiled slightly at the remembrance, free of guilt and pain. It was several lifetimes ago, as distant and foreign as an old story read from a dusty memoir.
In any event, it was much more difficult to hide who and what he was now. The paleness of his skin, the coolness of his touch, the dangerous teeth, and the pitiless gaze of a predator, as mesmerizing as that of a cobra's…all these things gave him away. Not to mention the villagers knew full well who and what dwelled in the castle up the mountain. An uneasy unspoken truce lay between them. Don't bother us, we won't bother you. Or, more like: don't kill us and we won't kill you.
Truce or no truce, he wanted to hunt now. Besides, it didn't count if his victim was a transient, just passing through. The music, the scents around him, and the movement of prey aroused every hunting instinct of his vampire nature. People were pairing up, joining the dance, while more showed up by the minute to watch.
Such crowds could be dangerous. There was strength in numbers, and in that, he was far outnumbered. But risk provided opportunity. The bustling activity, noise and music provided an effective cover. No need for an elaborate stalk; in this embarrassment of riches a victim could be easily peeled from the herd and taken down without notice. He swallowed in reflex, his body tensing.
Restless, he shifted further back into the shadows. The paired dancing had ended and the group coalesced into a circle, the beginning of the traditional Romanian hora. Sarah stood linked into the round, flushed and smiling. Von Krolock scanned the crowd, threw out his enhanced senses like a net. No threat. He could hunt and feed and return to watch over her. With one last reluctant glance -he hated taking his eyes off her-he slunk into the woods.
Behind the gypsy camp, by the side of an outlying wagon, he crept up on a dozing elderly man. How this human managed to sleep through all the noise von Krolock had no idea, but by pressing over the large nerve along the right side of the throat he sent the grizzled man into unconsciousness. As much as he preferred the neck, he wanted more to be discreet, so he bent over the tender crease of the right elbow. Salt against his tongue before the strike, using only one canine to nick open the vein that rested close to the surface of the skin. Hot blood filled his mouth, as potent and shocking as his first time at a kill. He moaned over the flow, struggling not to yield completely to bloodlust. No killing, just take enough to blunt the hunger, soothe the hollow ache-
With a jerk, von Krolock lifted his head. What was that? A faint cry, off in the distance, beyond the heat and light of the festive dancing. Fear prickled over his skin, escalating into terror. Sarah!
He was up and running, flying along the edges of the encampment, weaving through the thick trees and brush. Anger now with the fear, a twisted rope he tracked past one of the bonfires to where the light started to grow dim, through a thicket and into a small clearing.
In the moonlight, two figures struggling. Sarah, on her knees, a man over her, the collar of her dress ripped, the man's hands inside her bodice-
Without a sound von Krolock leapt forward, grabbed the man's shoulders and ripped him away. A startled curse and then the man whirled around with unexpected speed, bent and thrust upward with his left hand. A stabbing white hot pain bloomed along von Krolock's side, just below his right ribcage. He coughed, tasting sudden blood in his mouth, his own blood, and his breath hitched. With a snarl he struck the man across the jaw, feeling a crunch as the head snapped back. The man staggered then crumpled to the ground, a short handled knife falling from his loose grasp. Von Krolock followed, dropping to his knees. He ignored the wetness soaking through his shirt as he reached for the dagger that had wounded him. He flung it away into a tangle of brush.
He grimaced. Blood. Sprinkled on the grass and fallen leaves, trickling from where his nails had slashed the man's cheek, from his own wound and mouth, and from Sarah's scraped hands and knees. The metallic scent mixed with other smells permeating the air: acrid sweat and lust and the sharp tang of fear. From Sarah floated the sweet scent of roses, and a sense of overwhelming relief, like warm balm over raw flesh.
Von Krolock tugged the cowl of his mantle back over his head with a bloody hand.
"Go home," he told her, and menace, hunger and anger growled in his voice, dropping it a full octave below its normal range.
"But…" She stared at him as her hands gathered the edges of her torn clothing to cover the pale swell of her breasts. He knew she was trying to see into the shadows beneath the hood of his cloak.
He wanted to reach into her head and force her to do his bidding without question, but he shied from the act.
"You saved me." Her voice quavered. "Th-thank you." She got to her feet and stood swaying. She took a tentative step forward. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Though uncomfortable, the wound was closing, knitting together with inhuman speed.
"But you're… you're bleeding…" Von Krolock heard the man stirring, beginning to awaken from unconsciousness. He tamped down the involuntary snarl rising to his lips. His muscles seethed with barely restrained violence.
"Please leave," he said, trying to gentle his voice. "This man will trouble you no more." He would make sure of that. He would tear this găoază** apart, limb from limb-
Faintly, from the direction of the dance, in the pauses between strains of music, came the sound of frantic voices calling out Sarah's name. Her parents, searching for their errant daughter.
Her head turned and tilted as she listened. She looked back at him, eyes intent and unafraid. Puzzled, yes, but with a hint of realization, of wonder.
"You…" she whispered. "Who are y-"
"Go!" he roared, using the voice that demanded absolute obedience. He sprang to his feet, glaring down at her from his great height. She gasped, scrambling backwards, then turned tail and ran.
Damn the girl and her curiosity!
But at least this way he knew she would be safe.
A low groan at his feet drew his attention back to the matter at hand. This was not the young partner Sarah had danced with earlier but an older male, in poorer clothes, with a bulky and muscular build, someone who did hard labor for a living. Von Krolock vacillated between wanting to fall on the man like a ravening beast and wanting to draw out the death to make it as excruciating as possible.
Just the thought of those hands, those dirty hands with their unkept nails touching Sarah in such an intimate way…a curtain of red dropped down over his vision, staining the world scarlet. His fingers curled, his lips lifted from his teeth. A low rumble started in his chest. The things he wanted to do would make the man bleed out too fast. What would make this scum, this filth, suffer the most? He felt his twisted mouth slide into a wide grin. Yes, there was a much better way.
But first...
The man's eyes fluttered open, the cloudiness fading from his unfocused gaze, replaced by sober clarity.
"I wasn't going to hurt her," he croaked, sitting up and scooting backwards, trying to get some purchase beneath his feet.
"Of course you weren't," von Krolock replied in a soft even voice, the voice that his flock knew to fear, that was far more dangerous than any strident yell or roar, the voice that meant death. "Really, it's not polite to force yourself on an innocent young woman." He pulled down his cowl. "How unfortunate you chose someone under my protection." He bared his teeth in a toothy smile.
The man's eyes widened in shock; his body trembled.
"Strigoi***!" He whispered hoarsely, crossing himself. "Stay away or I'll kill you!" Suddenly another dagger appeared in his right hand, slid from inside his left boot. He managed to stand but his legs shook. Von Krolock idly wondered how many other weapons this man had secreted about his person. Not that it mattered either way.
He laughed. "How can the living kill the undead?" Fast as a striking viper he seized the human's right hand, disarming him with a flick of a wrist. He bent the man's thumb back until the tendons tore and the joint popped. The man screamed.
"Quiet," von Krolock growled. Methodically he fractured every finger on the hand as the human cried, whimpered and groveled before him. Tears coursed down the lined face, mixing with snot running from the man's nose. "Stop, please stop! I'll do anything you want, anything-"
"How dare you touch her," von Krolock hissed. The begging disgusted him. He started in on the other hand. The man twisted and flailed his free arm in a useless attempt to block the assault. Von Krolock didn't stop until every finger that had touched Sarah's skin was broken.
He slid his grasp up the man's forearm. One sharp yank and twist dislocated the shoulder with a gratifying moist popping sound.
Shrieking, the man jerked and tried to pull away. Another wrench and von Krolock pulled the human into the air with a great leap, clearing the trees as he sailed swiftly up the mountain to his castle.
Herbert was waiting in the courtyard when he arrived, most likely drawn by the screams. Behind him, at a respectful distance, stood the others, slavering, mouths filled with daggers of bone.
"Make him suffer," von Krolock said, dropping his burden.
"Looks like he's already suffering," Herbert replied, the pupils of his eyes dilating as he looked down at the writhing human. Von Krolock could hear bloodlust creeping into his son's voice.
"Not enough. Make him suffer more."
"Why?"
Von Krolock struggled to find words through the guttural growl clawing up his throat. "He tried to violate Sarah," he managed, though his voice rasped in an entirely inhuman way. "Hurt him. Keep him conscious. Take your time."
"With pleasure," his son said, and the elegance that usually laced every word, every gesture, disappeared completely as the monster came forth.
The shrieking became frantic, desperate. Von Krolock savored every snap of bone, every howl of pain, every scream, even the smell as the man wet and soiled himself in terror, and later, the almost inaudible tearing of flesh and the sounds of sucking and drinking. A thick satisfaction settled in his chest like a coiled snake. The light slowly faded from the man's eyes, wide in a face distorted with agony. Bloody froth dripped from his mouth, gaped open in a rictus of death.
xxx
*Dans de Moarte: Romanian for Dance of Death
hora: circle dance
**găoază: Romanian for asshole
***strigoi: Romanian mythology, immortal vampires, believed to be the spirits of deceased people who had led troubled lives.
A/N: I drew a lot of inspiration from music for this story.
Gypsy Rhapsody, Bond
Dalalai, Bond-I think of this as Sarah's theme.
No. 24 Caprice in A Minor, Paganini, performed by Alexander Markov- I consider this to be von Krolock's theme, probably because of its extreme melodic range as well as its technical complexity.
"The way you move Is meant to haunt me;The way you move To tempt and taunt me; I know you knew on the day you were born; I know somehow I should've been warned; I know I walk every midnight to dawn In Chains" In Chains, Depeche Mode
