I love how the atmosphere of this chapter perfectly suits the weather outside of my window right now. Stormy weather is my favorite. Time to make some tea!
Important Note: there's a line in here that may sound super reminiscent to one in Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Evidently Rian Johnson and I have had similar ideas, but the dude publicized it first, so... boo (whore) (JK). All jokes aside, I do acknowledge the similarity. Please don't come for my head.
No content warnings for this one. ENJOY!
Copyright © 2021 TSM. All rights reserved.
Chapter 23
Dark Passenger
The sky had darkened considerably in the last hour, the clouds above thick and ominous looking with the scent of rain on the wind, promising a storm. But Dracula hardly noticed the sudden turn of the weather, his attention instead fixed on the ground as he walked aimlessly through the narrow paths of the hedge maze, brows furrowed in a mix of concern and growing irritability.
He had half a mind to leave the de Chacier estate this instant and head back to Budapest to take his present grievances directly to the source. Nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than to beat Marcus Augustine within an inch of his life – even if the villain was technically incapable of meeting true death at his hand, the violence alone would have been enough to at least placate him temporarily.
His expression softened some as his mind then turned to Francesca.
He could still hear the echoes of her pleasure in his mind, could smell her on his skin, taste her in his mouth and his entire body ached anew at the deprivation. The man slowed to a halt as a soft wind moved through the air, carrying with it the faint scent of roses from the gardens just beyond the thirteen-foot walls of foliage that now surrounded him. The aroma reminded him of her, and all it did was deepen his agony while heightening his desire in a single swell of feeling.
Even now he was acutely aware of the distance between them, that harrowing space which extended beyond the purely physical. The recollection of how she had looked at him before banishing him from her room – the anguish, the distress. Those unshed tears that had welled at her lower lash line haunted him.
She may not have feared him personally – in fact, a part of him wondered now if she ever did – but it was clear that she feared what he made her feel, and what the consequences of those feelings could be.
He mulled the possibilities over in his mind.
He'd be lying if he said that some part of him didn't still long for her surrender, though that coveted capitulation had come to cover more than just the initial want of her mind and body. No. His desire extended far beyond that now. He wanted her to surrender her errors and flaws to him – this inner demon inside of her that she feared so much. He wanted her to choose to be fragile in his hands, to rely on him… to trust his strength along with her own. To let him help.
However, Francesca's will was just as strong as his – perhaps even greater. Her heart was a sturdy fortress, heavily guarded by lingering questions, unspoken suspicions, and the thick scar tissue of past trauma and losses. She was stubborn and spirited, but also deeply damaged, controlled by a fear of herself and what she was capable of. In a strange sort of way, he could appreciate her motive for caution; partly because he related so deeply to her hesitation, her fear of losing control of her freedom, her own independence, her autonomy.
But there were hints, moments where he could sense an unspoken longing in her, a wish to surrender to someone utterly and completely, to feel safe enough to do so. But was this truly the case, or was he merely projecting his own desires onto her? It was true, there was a growing part of him that inexplicably ached to let her in. Their conversations in the last twenty-four hours alone had only intensified such feelings. But he also wanted to be that person for her. Did she wish for the same?
"Ah! There you are," someone called from the other end of the foliage-lined path, interrupting his train of thought, and Vlad looked up to find the Spanish devil himself standing in the center of the trail. "Mr. Leinhart. Good afternoon."
Eduardo was dressed to perfection, of course, not a stitch out of place. He leaned against the cane in his hand – something that was clearly ornamental in nature – while smiling a little knowingly.
"Meirás."
"Eduardo, please," the Spaniard corrected before continuing. "I was hoping I'd find you. We've already been under the same roof for twenty-four hours and yet I've hardly seen you… or Francesca, for that matter."
"She's obviously not with me," Vlad pointed out. "You'll probably have better luck looking for her indoors. Excuse me," and he turned to depart, but Eduardo's next words made it rather difficult to get far.
"As I said before, your majesty, I am not here for Francesca. I came out in the hopes of speaking with you in private." Vlad turned slowly to look back at the man, face perfectly impassive. "Although, I must confess, I never dreamed our next encounter would be under such circumstances as these."
"What do you want, Satanas?" Vladislaus inquired, the man's nickname spoken with just the right amount of bite.
"To talk about my favorite fledgling, of course," he explained, making his way over to the man, twirling the cane about as he closed the distance. "From that scowl you were wearing just a moment ago and the," he paused, sniffing twice, "the whiffs of the lady herself that I'm now certain are coming from you, I'd say that the pair of you have reached an impasse. Let me guess." He leaned in a little as if he wished to divulge a secret. "You went from zero to a hundred in three seconds and it nearly sent her into blood-rage?"
The way Eduardo raised his eyebrows in blatant suggestion was wholly irritating, but Vladislaus never let on just how much. He took a single step forward to exchange places with the Spaniard on the path while maintaining his gaze, never uttering a word.
He didn't need to.
This wasn't exactly uncharted territory for Eduardo, and Vlad knew that. The man before him understood perfectly well the situation and when Dracula refused to answer his question, the Spanish devil sighed a little sympathetically.
"Loving that woman has never been for the faint of heart or weak of will, your majesty – but I'm sure you've already deduced that much."
Still, Vladislaus continued to opt for silence, fully cognizant of the way in which the man was subtly fishing for information. After several moments of tension, Meirás smiled as if pleased by the silence, deciding to change his tactic.
"She's resilient, isn't she?" he asked, motioning toward the path before them in invitation. As they started to walk slowly side by side along the trail, Dracula finally replied.
"I don't think I've ever met anyone with the kind of self-restraint that she possesses."
"I wish I could take credit for that, but alas, I cannot," and Eduardo lightly smacked a stray branch of the hedge out of his path with the end of his cane. "I remember Louis saying that she was even obstinate as a child, which is unsurprising. Francesca has always known her own mind – what she wants, what her limits are. Being in control of herself, her sense of autonomy – it's what makes her feel secure, even more so since the incident with Augustine. But I'm sure you already know this as well."
Dracula only nodded, resting his hands behind his back.
"And like any strong-willed woman," the Spaniard continued, "there is a part of her that yearns to feel safe enough to surrender that control, to be free and without restraint, but so much of her is still dominated by fear – of making the wrong choice, of getting hurt, and, more importantly, of hurting those that she cares about."
"Given the circumstances, I'd say her fear is perfectly justified," Vlad defended casually.
"Oh it is, but it also hinders her progression. I've always believed Francesca to be destined for so much more than what she once was, or even what she is now. The way she blossoms when properly challenged, uninhibited – it's unrivaled. But these last two hundred years… Let's just say it's been a slow, uphill slog."
Vlad's eyes, which had been fixed ahead of him, momentarily fell to the ground beneath his feet, his expression pensive. Eduardo didn't need to elaborate for him to follow his train of thought.
Augustine.
It all seemed to come back to that diabolical man.
But one of Meirás' previous comments distracted his thoughts from growing too dark.
"Francesca related the details of your initial meeting to me earlier this morning and I must confess that a part of her story has left me rather perplexed."
"And which detail might that be, your majesty?"
"She said that you had seen some thing in her – the night you turned her and again after she returned from her time in captivity; something akin to an entity rather than just an indefinable potential for greatness. I was hoping you could elaborate on what it was exactly you think you saw."
Eduardo paused mid-step after Dracula had spoken, his expression altering. He appeared almost haunted. It took the man several long moments to find his voice again.
"I fear in all my years of living, I've yet to find the words to adequately describe what it was I saw behind her eyes," the Spaniard explained with some deliberation, his tone quieter than it had been previously. "It was a flash, really – a burst of feeling, something primal, instinctual. Something in me recognized whatever it was in her and for centuries since, I've been incapable of letting her go. Even when we were apart for several decades, I couldn't bring myself to move on, to forget..."
His words struck a chord in Dracula.
Vladislaus could certainly relate to that.
"What did you see?"
The Spaniard's entire demeanor, however, changed on a dime as his smile returned and he became notably more guarded.
"I fear if you wish to know, you'll have to look yourself."
Before Dracula could press him further, they were interrupted by the sound of footfall rapidly approaching. Vlad turned around just in time to see Francesca round the corner, the woman stopping abruptly when she noticed the two gentlemen now in her path.
Her hair was open, a few errant locks blowing in front of her face as the wind gradually began to pick up, a rumble of thunder somewhere in the distance. Frankie glanced between the two with thinly veiled suspicion, eyes narrowing some as she approached with caution. She folded her arms in front of her.
"Eduardo."
Meirás smiled, nodding his head to her in acknowledgement.
"Mr. Leinhart."
Vlad said nothing, his mask of stoicism belying the swirl of emotions brewing in his chest.
She held his gaze for only a moment before turning her full attention to her maker. She seemed nervous.
"Have I interrupted something?"
"Not at all, cariño. We were just exchanging pleasantries," Satanas lied with ease. "Is everything all right? You look a bit piqued," and he lightly placed his finger under her chin to tilt her head upward as he studied her for a moment.
"I'm fine. Just a little hungry."
"Then why don't we head inside and get you a bite to eat," and he offered the woman his arm, but she never took it.
"Perhaps later. I'd like to speak with Mr. Leinhart in private, first, if you don't mind," and at last she returned her attention to Dracula. "There's a matter of some delicacy that he and I need to discuss."
"Of course, my dear. I'll leave you two alone," and he leaned in to place an affectionate kiss on her temple before whispering in French – "Play nice."
When he was gone and out of earshot, Frankie exhaled slowly, gaze falling to the ground.
"Vlad, I–"
"Francesca, I owe you an apology," Vladislaus immediately interjected, his voice low. "I should not have pushed…"
"No, it is I that should be apologizing," she insisted, still unable to meet his eyes. "I shouldn't have let it get that far. Indeed, I had no intention…"
"The blame is mine. It wouldn't have escalated so quickly had I not…"
"But I could have stopped you at any moment, and I didn't even make an attempt," she interrupted.
"It is my fault," he assured her, his words finally bring her attention upward. "You had warned me of the danger repeatedly and I was fully conscious of it, but I was arrogant and selfish and…"
"No," she said, the word coming out a little more emphatically than she had intended as she took a step closer to him. "No – please don't berate yourself. What happened was not your fault. It was just too much too quickly and instead of communicating that to you, I… I indulged and nearly lost control because of it. I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I can only imagine how frustrating and baffling it must be, me pushing you away one moment and encouraging you the next."
"It does have the tendency to give one a bit of whiplash, but I'm learning to adjust," he teased, gratified when she chuckled a little, though the smile never reached her eyes.
"You are very forbearing."
He smiled a little.
"With you, uncharacteristically so." In a move that was as bold as it was risky, Vladislaus then carefully reached for her hand. When she didn't pull it away, he squeezed it gently in reassurance. "I understand your hesitations, your fear. And after what happened earlier this afternoon, and given all that's happened in the last few weeks…"
Dracula paused for a moment, deliberating, searching for the right words and the courage to utter them.
"I want to help you," he said at last, his voice nearly a whisper as he studied her hand in his for an instant before seeking out her gaze. "I am beginning to wonder if your blood-rage is connected to something beyond your past traumas."
"What do you mean?"
"It was something you had mentioned earlier about Meirás – how he saw some thing in you. After the brief conversation I just had with him, I have reason to believe that it may be more than just untapped potential or whatever he led you to believe previously."
She watched him with baited breath as he spoke, eyes sharp like a hawk's as she took in his every inflection and subtle shift of expression.
"When you suffered from blood-rage," she said at last after several long seconds in that pregnant silence, "when the Signore worked with you to mend the broken bond between you and the hunger…"
He could guess her question before she even uttered it.
"Yes – it was connected to something else. The monster that had been reborn in me, my own demon… it was feeding off of my fear."
"Fear of what? I always assumed you to be utterly fearless."
He chuckled.
While on the surface, her words were teasing, there was an earnestness in her eyes that never wavered and it eased some of the tension between them.
"We are all afraid of something," and he brought her arm to curl around his so they could continue walking. "In my earlier years, the chief among them was a fear of what I had become, and of what I could be. I was afraid to feel, afraid of how those emotions could control me if I gave them leave to do so. And to make matters more complex, there was my anger towards a higher power, which persisted for decades – centuries, even – and in spite of that rage, there remained a part of me that held anxiety for my immortal soul. If I'm wholly honest with myself, it lingers still to this day. Not even the promise of an eternity free of final judgment has been able to silence the dread that was instilled in me at a young age. But at the time, I found myself torn between these two separate natures…"
"Your humanity and the vampire," and she nodded in understanding. "But I always assumed that most of our kind experienced similar existential crises at some point in varying degrees? That's not the same as what happens with blood-rage."
"True. Most, if not all of our kind do learn to find that needed balance between the two in those early years as a newborn fledgling. It's necessary for our own survival. But any severance between our natures – that inner conflict is dangerous. Without that balance, we lose control, and without control…"
"People get hurt."
"More than that – when the hunger holds dominion, we become erratic, baseless beasts possessed by our own gluttony and lust for blood instead of a more rational sense of self-preservation. That night in the blood factory when you gave way to your inner demon…"
"My own sense of survival was non-existent. That's true," she finished, following his train of thought.
"And not to discredit your skills as a fighter, but that singular mindset, while it made you a little unpredictable to some degree, also made it easier to manipulate you so I could – eventually – find a way to acquire the upper hand."
"I never thought of it that way before," Frankie replied, clearly considering his observations and all they implied. "So what is to be done?"
"When you first returned to your aunt and uncle, after you escaped from captivity, what was done to help you at least regain control over your faculties – even if it was only in part?"
"Staying ahead of the hunger, mostly – which often required me to feed more frequently than most of our kind… and suppressing any emotions that would make me more volatile and likely to lose control – anger, despair…"
"Lust?" he offered knowingly and her expression grew a little sheepish as they emerged from the hedge maze, still arm in arm and absently heading for the nearby seclusion of the woods.
"Even more so with lust because sexual gratification and feeding tend to go hand-in-hand for our kind," and she nervously raked her fingers through her hair before slipping her arm from his as they entered into the shade of the trees. Her pace quickened so she was in front of him, arms now wrapped around her person.
"Suppression is rarely ever a healthy or effective way of coping," he called out. "Those impulses and desires always manage to find a way out, one way or another – and in the case of blood-rage, you don't always get to pick how that purge happens or when it will strike."
She paused to look back at him as he took his time catching up with her, the sky darkening a bit more dramatically overhead as another roll of thunder boomed.
"You don't strike me as the sort of person inclined toward self-deprivation – you never have," she pointed out. "If this afternoon proved anything, it's that when you want something, you find a way to get it, no matter the obstacle." Her tone lacked any of the resentment her chosen words could have otherwise possessed. If anything, she almost sounded appreciative of his persistence. "How did you do it? How did you reinstate the balance between yourself and the hunger?"
"The hunger and I are one," he explained, "and when the beast requires satiating, I find a way to appease it while maintaining a certain degree of control. When I crave blood, I feed. When I'm angry, I allow myself feel thus, but I also make an effort to leash it or at least find some other outlet – when feasible anyway. I am not perfect. We are violent creatures by nature, after all."
"So in that vein, I take it then that when you're horny, you fuck?" she asked a little incredulously.
It was the first time in recent memory that he had heard her use such profanity, but much to his surprise, he found he liked the sound of it on her tongue. If anything, it made his smile a little devious.
"Or I find some other means of temporarily appeasing that desire, yes," he answered truthfully, that little shoulder devil in the back of his mind laughing riotously at the fact that he hadn't been laid in nearly forty years and the one person who could change that was the one person he couldn't enjoy without risking utter destruction.
It was borderline poetic, in some sick and twisted sort of way.
His smile grew a little ironic at the thought but she seemed ignorant of his private amusement, her brows furrowed, expression pensive as if she were considering something.
"It sounds to me that you didn't find a cure for blood-rage at all; just another way to live with it."
"I suppose one could argue that case."
"I cannot live forever violated in this way, Vlad," she insisted, her words sobering his expression. "I'm so tired of living imprisoned like this, confined by my fear, driven solely by this… this thing inside of me. I just…" She paused, looking around rather absently at their surroundings as if in search of something that extended far beyond what was physically about them. "I want to be as I once was. I want to belong to myself again without worrying about being overrun by this old rage that won't sleep, this insatiable, ravenous hunger for blood, for the pain of others as if it'll somehow ease my own suffering. I'm tired of feeling so… so broken."
"You're not broken, Francesca," he assured her with surprising tenderness.
"But I don't feel myself. I haven't in so long."
"I can help you make peace with what's inside you, but I cannot make it vanish altogether. If we do this, you'll need to let go of your preconceived notions of who you think you are supposed to be. Who you truly are may be quite different from what you expect once we get to the end of this."
"Logically, I understand that." She paused, looking out over the estate from their vantage point on the hill, her expression contemplative. "It's strange. In spite of my lingering reservations, if I'm truly honest with myself there's a growing part of me that really just doesn't give a damn anymore," she replied candidly, returning her gaze to his. "I want this, Vlad. More than I currently have words for. And I don't know how or why, but there's something about you…" Her voice trailed off for a moment as she looked directly into his eyes, her previous agitation quieting. "There's something in your eyes when you look at me…"
She paused once again, but this time it was because she couldn't find the courage to finish her thought. She had already confessed too much.
How could she tell him that a single look from him stilled nearly every fear and anxiety she possessed and how powerless that made her feel? How could she disclose her true feelings when she wasn't even certain what they were? This man, his very existence, his inexplicable presence in her life – even when they had been at each other's throats – something about him had always left her feeling reassured, safe to exist unmuzzled and unrestrained, even if old habits had her inhibiting herself more than usual, as if doing so would help her maintain the control that was rapidly slipping from between her fingers.
She couldn't explain how or why, but when he looked at her as he was in that moment, all she felt was peace. Peace and clarity. It wasn't the blood-rage that was keeping her bound – it was her. It wasn't the hunger that frightened her – the hunger had just become an easy-to-use excuse.
No.
There was something else, something long buried deep within her psyche. It had always been there, but with every day spent in his presence, she could feel it waking up and she wasn't sure what it even was, let alone what she was supposed to do with it when it did finally gain full consciousness. It was that uncertainty that terrified her most.
What would she become once it finished rousing from its slumber?
What would she become if she chose to walk this path with him?
Deep down she knew that things would never and could never go back to the way they had once been. She had come so far on her own merit and strength, but now… right now, in this moment, she was forced to acknowledge that she could no longer do it alone.
"Help me," was all she could bring herself to say, the words whispered as the storm continued to move in, ready to settle over the estate. "I can't do this by myself anymore."
Frankie released a slow, calming breath to steady her nerves as Vlad finished locking the cold cuffs to her wrists, the clanking of chains against the basement floor familiar, but deafening. When he had asked her for a quiet and secluded place where they could do this free from interruptions, she had taken him to the old house on the other side of the property, down to the familiar tunnels beneath the weathered building as the storm broke loose over their heads.
It had been decades since she had stepped foot in this house, the memories almost overwhelming as she led him down the familiar corridors to the small room that had been her home for well over a year after she had returned from Augustine's clutches. These chains were awful, but in a strange way they were like old friends – the one thing she knew with certainty that could hold her back should things grow violent.
The rain that was busy pummeling the outside of the old mansion could be heard even from where they now stood, thunder rattling walls and windows as if Mother Nature herself knew the significance of what was about to transpire.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Vladislaus asked once more, taking a step back after he finished binding her wrists and ankles. She nodded bravely.
"If things get out of hand, that door behind you will hold me in for at least a few minutes – long enough for you to get Armand. He'll know what to do if I get loose."
"I'm certain it won't come to that," he assured her.
"But if it does…"
"You'll be fine."
"It's not me I'm worried about."
He smiled a little, a bit unaccustomed to being the center of anyone's concern.
The man tugged the chains once or twice to ensure they were secure and when they were both satisfied, he took a step behind the faded line in the floor she had pointed out earlier.
"Remember – stay behind the line, no matter what happens," she instructed. Content with his nod of acknowledgement, she then closed her eyes and lowered her head.
There was only one working source of light in the room – a covered bulb fixed above the door at his back that would flicker whenever thunder rumbled outside. He would have taken the time to fix it, but he stayed rooted to the spot, motionless, every ounce of his attention settled on the woman before him. He could sense her dark passenger in its cage, hungry, eager to be unleashed, and as soon as Frankie handed over the reins, the air in the room shifted.
Her eyes snapped open, irises blood red, the whites of her eyes black as pitch. Her face had taken on a more demonic appearance, harsh lines and furrowed brows, her fangs extended and glistening. A low rumble vibrated in her chest, the dark network of veins and arteries now visible from beneath her skin and with inhuman speed, she leapt toward him until the chains grew taut, hindering her progress. She let out a frustrated roar as she pulled against her restraints, leaning toward him, starved and possessed by an incomprehensible rage.
Dracula remained the picture of stoicism, though his calm exterior belied the small well of anxiety settled rationally in the back of his brain, urging him to take things slow. He moved carefully, inching a little closer to that line, lifting his hands gradually. She snapped like some kind of wild beast, the click of teeth hard and echoing in the air. He reached for her with his mind as his hands continued to rise toward her face, eyes glowing blue as he struggled with her willful demon, trying to get it to keep eye contact with him.
It took a minute or two, but at last, she held his gaze, and though she made no attempt to bite the hands now on either side of her face, he could still sense the anger in her, the fear.
Slipping into her mind was easy as he looked deeper and deeper still into her eyes until the physical world around him melted away, his vision soon overrun with a more incorporeal plane of reality.
His mind's eye beheld a vast plain of gray mist, thick and impenetrable, a swirl of thoughts, memories, and emotions all echoing around him, but muffled as if far away. It was difficult to decipher one from the other at first, but the deeper he ventured into her mind, the more coherent – and overwhelming – it all became.
The field of gray soon became an endless hallway of doors – some ajar, many sealed shut, though the memories that dwelled behind them were loud. He approached one in particular, resting his hand on the surface and at the contact felt a surge of pain shoot through his palm and up his arm to the center of his chest. He pressed against the barrier and it gave way to flashes of her suffering – under not only Augustine's hand, but also Alphonse's.
Unspeakable physical suffering, mental and emotional torment, countless violations of her mind and body, the humiliation, the horror. He tried to push deeper into that section of her subconscious, longing to better understand the details of all she had endured, but before he could get his foot in the door, it slammed violently shut and he was forced along further down the path.
He had suspected that Francesca had downplayed what abuse she had borne in her unnaturally long life, how it had shaped her, but to witness just a taste of it – it rekindled in him that rage from earlier when he had considered returning to Budapest to tear Marcus to pieces with his bare hands. The thought must have gratified her inner demon, for he could suddenly sense its joy circling around him at the mere suggestion of such retribution and that swell of emotion was what guided him deeper into the labyrinth of halls and doors.
He wandered for some indiscernible amount of time, searching – though for what specifically, he wasn't entirely sure – but the shadow in the distance, what he assumed was the corporeal manifestation of her dark passenger, was guiding him, and so he continued.
At long last, Vladislaus emerged from the fog and the winding corridors into a storm – a blizzard of blinding white snow. With some difficulty, he braved the terrain before him, following the billowing black mist several yards ahead, watching as it slowly began to take on a more recognizable form as they approached something in the distance – a figure lying in the snow.
As he drew nearer, he realized the figure was Francesca, swathed in some indistinguishable gray cloth, her dark hair spilled out over the ground as if she had fallen from some great height. He quickened his pace to reach her, dropping to his knees and calling her name. She appeared lifeless before him, still and unresponsive, even as he turned her over, cradling her in his arms, attempting to rouse her. The shadow that had guided him finished taking form and what he beheld was a second manifestation of the woman, this one draped in black, eyes blood red.
Her dark passenger.
The hunger.
Something in him recognized this being before him, the rage in its eyes, the possessiveness, the singularity of mind.
She crouched down, the shadowy mist from earlier still shrouding her like a thin veil, spreading gently as she situated herself on the other side of Francesca's lifeless form. Her red eyes studied the unconscious woman with recognition, a look of understanding that made no sense to him.
This manifestation of Frankie's inner-demon must have sensed his confusion, for she looked up at him then and in his mind he could hear her speak. The voice was Francesca's, and yet it was not. But it was familiar… strangely familiar.
"Free us," the voice pleaded. "Free us."
"How?"
The dark passenger reached forward like a flash of lightning and grabbed hold to Frankie's wrist, lifting it up as if in offering to him.
"Free us," it demanded that time, emphatic, desperate even.
When he made no movement to follow through with the bewildering request, the demon snarled impatiently and with its other hand, grabbed hold of his throat and squeezed.
"FREE US!"
A blinding white light flooded the vision of his mind's eye and when it parted, he was no longer on that snow-laden peak, but now in some eternally dark space. He could see perfectly, yet everything else surrounding him was black, the ground beneath his feet reflective and fluid, adaptable – like water.
He turned around several times as panic set in, but when he caught something out of the corner of his eye, he whirled around, finding himself soon standing face to face with Francesca. He almost sighed in relief when he noticed the color of her eyes were their natural blue, but something about her wasn't right.
Vlad opened his mouth to speak her name, but what left his lips were not words of his choosing. It was as though he were merely a vessel for something else, something unknown, unseen.
"Beloved," he called out, his arms rising of their own volition, as if someone had fastened strings to his wrists, controlling him like a living marionette doll.
Her lips curved into a delighted smile as her face came to life and she closed the distance between them as they embraced furiously.
"Dearest beloved," she said, holding tightly to him. "You found me… At last, you found me." This other version of Francesca buried her face into his shoulder for a moment before pulling back a little to look into his eyes, holding his face. "I've waited so long for you… infinite lifetimes imprisoned by my mortal coil, centuries without you by my side. My king… my heart…"
Overwhelmed by an inexplicable feeling of relief and adoration, Vlad found himself kissing her, the touch of their lips simultaneously setting fire to his soul and drowning him in emotions so profound, it nearly moved him to tears. He felt breathless. Overpowered.
But why?
"Dearest beloved… you must free us," she said in between kisses.
"How?" he heard himself saying. "Tell me what I must do, and I will see it done."
"You must bind us. Bind us in blood. Then the rest I must do alone."
"The sacrifice."
She nodded in confirmation of his words, but Dracula couldn't even begin to comprehend what any of this even meant.
"What if I lose you?" he asked. She smiled, caressing his lips with her thumb as she continued to hold his cheek in her hand.
"You will never lose me. Once we are bound, we will be everlasting. There is life in these veins," and she traced her finger over the veins in his arm and then in hers. "Life and power over death," and she placed her hand over his heart. "A perfect balance, a unity of the light and the dark. I can restore that balance, dearest beloved. I can restore all that we have lost… but we need to be freed."
Their conversation was interrupted then by a thunderous boom somewhere in the darkness and Vlad was suddenly thrust backward, skidding across the flooded floor. The images in his mind flashed between that snow-covered mountain and the black, the unconscious Francesca in his arms again as the other two manifestations slowly approached, her dark passenger garbed in black, and this new version draped in crimson, both approaching slowly, speaking as one.
"Free us. Free us. FREE US!"
The two Frankie's briefly merged as one, a flash of an all-powerful queen, robed in purple with a great black dragon standing behind her, framed by the full moon. The vision then changed abruptly to a similar queen, but this one was wreathed in flame and drenched from shoulder to toe in blood with mountains of corpses in her wake, the screams of Hell harrowing as an endless void of black threatened to consume him.
Before this red queen of fire and blood could reach him, the scene reverted back to the woman in violet, and in her eyes he beheld a series of images that rushed before him in turn, scenes that made little to no sense to him initially – Lucifer's fall from heaven, Lilith's own willful abandonment of Paradise and descent into Hell. But she wasn't alone. There was another with her, another fallen angel, a sister. And with her death came the birth of darkness – of demons and beasts: the succubus, the siren, the vampire.
"Lamian Strigoi," some unknown voice echoed in his mind, and with its utterance, he saw generations of women, connected by a vast and complicated network of what looked like tree roots that spread and then slowly began to wither and die until only a single line remained and at its end was Francesca.
Lamian Strigoi.
Where had he heard those words before? They meant something – it was a name. But of what?
"There's something inside of me," Frankie's voice echoed into the void as the images continued to flash before his eyes. "It's always been there. But now it's awakening and I don't know what to do with it. I'm afraid…"
The images rushed faster and faster before his mind's eye – as if he were witnessing every single moment in time, every decision that had led both he and Francesca to this instant, their choices and the choices of those that had come before – everything a nauseating blur.
And then like the crack of a whip, everything stopped and it all went black. The last thing he was aware of was the sound of her voice, somewhere behind him.
"I can't face the darkness alone. Help me, Vladislaus... Free us."
And with that, he lost consciousness.
"Vlad! Vlad! Wake up!"
Frankie pulled against the chains that still secured to her wrists and ankles, but received no give. The man was out cold on the floor. She had come to some ten minutes ago to find him thus and completely unresponsive and a full-fledged panic had been quick to settle in. What had happened? What had she done? Why wasn't he waking up?
She wrapped the chains around her hands to better her hold before she started tugging again, shouting the man's name in some hope that if she made enough noise, he'd wake up.
Frustrated with her inability to free herself, she loosened her grip on her confines and fell to her knees in a moment of desperation, trying once more to see if she could reach him. The soles of his shoes were just out of her grasp and with an exasperated sigh she slammed her fist into the ground and gave in to the purity of her anger.
"VLADISLAUS!"
The sound of his true name seemed to be the thing to successfully rouse him.
Dracula awoke with a start, eyes snapping open as he shot straight up into a seated position. His face worked furiously in those first few moments, emotions flickering too fast for her to recognize, let alone name. But when his eyes finally met hers, it all melted away as quickly as it had appeared, and she was greeted with that familiar mask of stoicism – though not even he and all of his self-mastery could hide the lingering remnants of concern in his eyes.
"Are you all right?" was the first thing he said, rising to his feet, but she ignored his question, answering instead with one of her own.
"What happened?"
He shuffled about in his pockets for the key to her cuffs and proceeded to free her, but he never answered her. He was quiet, pensive.
"Vlad, talk to me. What happened?"
"There's a break in the storm coming. If we leave now we can make it back to the house before the rain sets in again."
But she refused to accept his attempts at deflection, not when an inexplicable trepidation marred his features, try as he might to hide it from her. Frankie grabbed his arm as soon as she was free, moving her head so she could get into his line of sight.
"What did you see?"
It took him a moment, but Vladislaus slowly met her gaze with a hesitance that wounded her more than she had anticipated. He seemed suddenly uncertain of her, maybe even afraid and it was that fear that sent her gut to drop. Whatever it was he had witnessed in her mind, it had shaken him.
If history was any indicator, right about now would be the time any normal man in her life would turn the other way and run, for that had been the way of things for centuries now. Frankie did what she could to brace herself for the inevitable rejection, struggling not to wholly give way to that swelling sense of insecurity that tightened in her chest. Closing her eyes, she allowed her head to fall as she fought back the tears now pricking in her eyes.
How she wished she could just turn to stone, to feel nothing – but she was incapable of denying her feelings. She was vulnerable because she cared what he thought of her and it had never been so clear as it was to her in that moment. There was a genuine fear that she could lose him now, and if he turned from her what would she do? What would become of her?
But then she felt him cradle the back of her head in his hand as he brought her closer, his brow resting against her own and that single act of reassurance was enough to send a silent tear trailing down her cheek as a tangible relief washed over her in an unexpected wave.
They lingered thus for several long seconds, Vlad never moving from his place until he could feel her relax in his hold. Then he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. It was the kiss that brought her eyes to open again.
She studied his expression, struggling to understand him. While his features had softened, there was still something behind his eyes that left her anxious. She could almost see the wheels in his head turning, his eyes momentarily glassing over as if he were looking beyond her, lost in his own thoughts. Before Frankie could open her mouth to repeat her earlier question, he seemed to return to the present rather abruptly, offering his hand to her.
"Come," he commanded, his tone deep, soothing.
"Where are we going?"
"To your uncle's library. There's something I need to show you."