Chapter 7: Truth

"Ah, child and youth, if you knew the bliss which resides in the taste of knowledge, and the evil and ugliness that lies in ignorance, how well you are advised to not complain of the pain and labor of learning."

-Christine de Pizan

Sunlight streamed through the latticed window pane and Lisa raised her head from her pillow. She'd forgotten to draw the curtains before falling into bed. Her irritation at being awakened was short-lived, though. Once awake, memories of the previous evening returned. She lightly touched her fingertips to her lips; despite the tantalizing kisses and caresses they'd exchanged, Țepeș had not pressed her for more; instead, he accompanied her to her room at the end of the evening as always.

"Good night," he bid her, nuzzling her ear, sending shivers down her spine. She grasped his shoulder tighter, unwilling to see him go. When he kissed her neck, his breath hot, she sighed softly. When their eyes met, his expression was guarded.

"Sleep well, my Lisa," he uttered, kissing her forehead.

Even when disappointment struck her, as she watched him disappear down the long shadowy hallway, she couldn't help grinning. The restraint and the respect he afforded her were quaint, chivalrous. Had he sought to go further with her, she wouldn't have been able to deny him. She refused to engage in any of those tedious mores that tyrannized what she saw as a perfectly natural expression of desire between lovers.

If he persists on being so prim and proper with me, I might have to convince him to behave otherwise, she thought, amused, her spirits lifting, inundated with a happiness she hadn't experienced in a long time. Perhaps…

Ever.

He ruminated in the darkness of his quarters.

It had taken a monumental degree of self-control not to give in to the fierceness of his want. She hadn't made it any easier, either: he almost abandoned any resolve not to venture any further with her when she sighed at his touch. Any evidence of her arousal was a tantalizingly sweet invitation.

And possibly her undoing.

Lisa was too impulsive and brash. Although she was a woman of science, she did nothing without passion.

She was coursing down a risky path.

He could not—would not— return to his previous existence now that he had met her, earned her friendship, trust, and even affection. He'd never realized how truly alone he was until she filled his evenings with her musings, her questions, her laughter…Herself.

He could not let her go.

Ever.

The swarm of bats took wing at dusk, casting a shadow over the valley. Lisa noticed the rush, as she did every evening. She hurried down the stairs to the laboratory, the hour marking the end of her long wait. She'd anticipated that evening, working it into something precious in her thoughts. She'd been unable to focus on much throughout the day. Every corner of that castle breathed Țepeș' essence until his absence became a constant presence. She wondered what they would say to each other, what they would do when they met again. Her mind was adrift, lost in pleasant scenarios. As she rounded the turn down the last flight of stairs, a heavy thud reverberated through the gloomy hall.

Lisa froze, startled by the deep, dull sound.

When it struck for the second time, there was no doubt what the sound meant. The ground shook under her feet and shouts echoed outside.

We are under siege.

Before she could decide whether to retreat or move toward the door, a thick black cloak rustled past her and Țepeș emerged from the shadows.

"Stay back," he warned, blocking her path.

"Are we under attack?" Her heart tightened.

"Perhaps." His voice was ominously low, reminding her of the night they'd met, when he was still unsure of her intent.

He headed to the entrance.

"What are you doing? You cannot be thinking of opening that door!" she called after him.

He glanced back at her over his shoulder. "Your concern is misplaced." He faced forward again. "Go to the laboratory and wait there."

She didn't move.

"Don't open that door."

"Go to the laboratory," he ordered her tersely.

Another crash shook the door violently.

"Very well: I tried to warn you."

Țepeș disappeared from sight.

"Don't!" she pleaded, glancing about, dread overcoming her.

The doors creaked open and the hall was flooded with the last fading streaks of daylight. Lisa instinctively sought shelter from their assailants behind one of the large pillars lining the hall. She had no idea what she would do if Țepeș was attacked. Her hand rested over her dagger's hilt. It was a symbolic gesture, she knew. She was no fighter, not even a decent brawler. But she was not about to leave him alone to face such a fate.

Torchlights burned outside the door and she could make out the iron-tipped battering ram further ahead. As if under a spell, the soldiers holding it fell silent at the sight of the open doorway.

To her horror, Țepeș stepped into their path.

He recognized them for what they were immediately: two conjurers leading the men who'd foolishly come to his door. He deeply despised the varied brotherhood of conjurers, sorcerers, and augurs. They were the sort of inconsequent adventurers who fancied themselves as scholars and tampered ignorantly with the occult with just sufficient competence to unleash calamities: such men neither understood nor were capable of mastering the discipline they claimed to be such great practitioners of.

Reckless, he thought contemptuously. A few occasionally managed to find their way to his castle.

How much blood did you spill to chart a course to this valley?

Less than you will have to shed to make it out.

"Voivode Vlad Dracula Țepeș: names have power, names are binding! I hereby bind you to do our biding—" The first conjurer was a squat, stocky man clad in a solemn black-hooded robe. His stubby hand was splayed flatly over what Țepeș quickly identified was a Liber Juratus Honorii- a weathered black-bound grimoire. The man declaimed loudly, theatrically.

Does this ridiculous man truly believe he can bend me to his will with a few seguloth, by evoking Raziel, or threatening me with the wrath of Moloch and Baal?

Here is yet another man making the case against humanity, Țepeș glared disdainfully at the arrogant, disrespectful mortals under the delusion that a few dried herbs, some hard-to-pronounce phrases from a molding tome, and determined hand waving would be enough to tame him.

"Rise and serve the people of Wallachia once more—"

"I serve no one but myself," he rasped, assessing the pathetic party that had dared to violate the peace of his fortress. The man paused, momentarily confused, before raising his left hand once again and aiming it squarely at him.

"The people of Wallachia—"

"—Are wasting my time." He glowered at the second conjurer, also dressed in a laughable costume, four soldiers whose arms were wrapped around a battering ram, and a half dozen warriors in full plate armor awaiting below. The fire burned brightly off the grease rags tied to their torches. Rivulets of black smoke spiraled into the air.

"Who dares disturb me?" He did not need to raise his voice; a confounded silence had fallen over the party.

The arrogant conjurer finally dropped heavily to his knees. It was a spectacle he'd witnessed far too many times. That same conjurer, just seconds before, had arrived at his castle with the intent of subduing him. Since that hadn't worked, he had chosen to grovel for his worthless life instead. At the end of the day, despite all their claims of greatness, mortals were bound to their basest instincts: eat or be eaten, conquer or be conquered.

He stared at the hunched over man.

"Voivode, we humbly—"

Țepeș scoffed loudly. Humbly!

"We beseech you! Lend us the power of your army, of your command, as you did in the past. Our land is once again in grave peril."

"By whose authority do you come here to negotiate with me?" he asked gravely.

"We come in the name of Lord Iancu de Hunedoara!"

He let out a mirthless laugh. The defender of Christendom himself? Madness. Those conjurers and their secret societies took care to hide their blasphemous activities from the Church. In truth, though, conjurers and priests differed little from each other. Lords and princes were not beneath consulting one party when the other had failed them.

"You do not."

"We come in his name in spirit! We make our plea on the behalf of our people, the good Olati!"

"You evoke the name of those you do not represent in a bargain you cannot make." He paced along the landing. A low-stirring wind rose over the dusty ground.

The second conjurer, who had remained quiet and observant for most of the exchange, finally stepped forward.

"Please, aid us! The boyar entered a border dispute and in exchange for military aid from the Ottomans, he is forcing us to pay tribute and offer our sons to the Janissaries. The people cannot pay the tax to both the boyar and the Ottomans. It will kill us!"

Who has struck the most dangerous deal?…

"I care nothing for your wars, for your disputes."

"Please!" the man beseeched him, falling down to his knees alongside his colleague.

"Listen well: even if I am to give you aid and defeat the Ottomans, your boyar, and his enemies: there will be no peace. It is impossible. You are incapable of it."

"We implore you! We will do anything, but please turn your gaze upon our enemies! Aid us!" the man continued.

Țepeș' expression was still, smooth as a mask and just as revealing.

This is how lives are forfeit, bondage established, an eternity of servitude, portals into hell. I was sure it happened because men were proud—because they possessed an unwavering faith in their capacities, in what they could sustain through willpower alone…But now I know it is stupidity: a stunning lack of imagination.

These men do not know their place: they have forgotten what I truly am.

And I can only blame myself for that. I've been absent from the world for far too long.

"Anything, you say?"

"Decree the terms, my Lord."

Their unctuousness did little to fan his vanity—he saw it for what it was—shallow strategizing, desperation: a means to an end. Such men who surrendered so easily, that gave themselves up eagerly and unknowingly, nurturing the delusion they were on equal footing to bargain with him, deserved to lose everything.

Even themselves.

"I shall," he announced shrewdly, his hatred for men, for their machinations and bids for mundane power at the expense of their brethren a powerful justification for what he was about to do.

He turned his eyes upon the soldiers, staring at him, mouths agape, their torches firmly ensconced in their firsts. His cape wrapped his menacing frame. From the distance it resembled large black wings folded against a somber omen, an avatar of death. His teeth glistened, sharp against his full lips.

No…They will not leave this valley alive.

The doors dragged behind him heavily, scraping the ground. Just as they were about to shut, sealing the men's fate, Țepeș caught movement out of the corner of his eyes—a slender silhouette weaving a path between the stone.

Lisa.

She stood behind him, wary of those emissaries.

He did not want her there, as a witness to what he was about to do.

It was one thing to know.

Another to see.

A lifetime of being caught between shifting alliances among the boyars had taught Lisa that those who paid the highest price for warlords' claims to land and demands of fealty and tribute were the Olati, the people. She had seen the aftermath of bloody battles: she had cared for too many soldiers. Often freshly emerged from boyhood, they were lads like Andrei: more skilled at wielding farming implements than hefting up swords and polearms. She was haunted by the milky, vacant stare of corpses piled on the ground. She had coursed down ditches in fields with the sisters in search of survivors, listening intently for signs of life: groans and cries, any movement, while chasing off ghoulish scavengers who profited from the dead, armed with small paring knives to sever tendons and bone for the sake of a ring.

The unclaimed bodies of men and boys rotted under the sun, bloated and putrid, blood coagulating over the land, the poison of men's ambition festering and seeking to claim more dead. Barricaded roads and plundered treasuries all presaged long, ill-fated winters.

The wind rose and the torches flickered. In the air, a rash of sparks flew. An incendiary redness agonized in the horizon.

Țepeș had told Lisa to stay inside. He was her master, her teacher.

And yet, what good was all she had learned if she couldn't put it into practice? Didn't it add up to vanity if she merely accrued knowledge she did not employ?

He had given her a direct order. And she had blatantly disobeyed him, chasing threads of a conversation she had not been invited to participate in.

She was willing to incur his displeasure, his anger.

"How far away are the Ottomans?" She stood beside him.

One of the conjurers peered up, eyeing her curiously.

"A two-day march away, headed our direction from Dragoslavele."

Lisa crossed her arms. Two days was plenty.

"And what are you doing here?"she wondered in a tone of deep annoyance.

The conjurers exchanged wary glances. Țepeș observed the scene inscrutably, his face cast in shadow.

"Stop wasting time and move your people," Lisa stated.

"The boyar has ordered us to stay under penalty of death."

"Penalty of death! Your boyar is waiting to be deposed if he has to rally a foreign army to fight his skirmishes!" she cried. "But you prefer to stay and pay off a bad lord's debts?"

One of the soldiers shifted his stance, his gaze resting inquisitively on the conjurers.

"Listen to me: flee! Gather your people, load your carts: women and children first, boys at the age of tribute should follow, militia and men cover the rear if the boyar's men come in pursuit!" she insisted.

"What good will that do us?" one of the conjurers wondered, his eyes never leaving Țepeș' shrouded figure. "The only thing that can ensure our safety is protection given by the Dragon." He bowed his head at him.

In the background, Lisa's eyes briefly ventured across the field of pikes and bones.

"The only thing that will ensure your safety is using your heads! Don't you think your boyar's foes will take advantage of the situation? Especially if the Ottomans are at their doorsteps? There is nothing to be gained by remaining now! If it's not war with the Ottomans, it'll be war with the boyars."

"Where will we go?"

"Away!" she interjected impatiently. "You'll have a fighting chance if you leave! Ask for temporary sanctuary elsewhere!"

"And leave our lands, our homes? This is tantamount to a death sentence!"

"No! If you stay, then it'll be a death sentence! Think! Whoever secures power will find your lands useless without vassals to work it, without trade! You can negotiate better terms! Use this to your advantage!"

The soldier watched her intently.

"I must relay this to my lord," he announced to the conjurers. "We will depart."

One of the conjurers protested and they began a heated back and forth which Lisa did not wish to follow any further. She had made up her mind.

She would have to take her leave.

It was time to use her knowledge to help others.

Disobedience was rebellion. He never allowed anyone to question his orders, in the battlefield or anywhere else, in that plane or any other. The men departed his valley in silence, hurriedly, under the cover of dark night, headed back to their miserable villages and towns, laden with bad news.

But with their lives.

And those worthless creatures had no idea that the only reason they were allowed to continue to draw their feeble breaths, tread the earth like the plague they were, had been thanks to Lisa. She might as well have stilled his hand herself.

He was irritable—who was she to thwart his plans, the just meting of punishment for transgressions? Those conjurers and their half-digested knowledge of the arcane deserved no mercy. One did not venture into the hermetic arts without the prerequisite caution and reverence. They should have allowed him to end their existences right there. At least he wouldn't have made them linger. They now risked opening unknown passageways, ushering in unintended guests, being fooled and tricked into great misfortune and suffering. For men could not disguise their unworthy intentions in the face of great power: they needed to circle it, bask in its proximity, and like the scavengers they were, wait for the opportunity to possess it.

Lisa remained beside him, watching the men's flags undulate in the wind.

"Would you have aided them if I hadn't said anything?" She raised her eyes questioningly at him.

"Their worldly affairs don't concern me," he uttered coldly. "And they should not concern you."

She furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Have you forgotten what I came here for?"

He turned around, entering the castle. She hurried to follow him.

"And have you forgotten why I allowed you to stay?"

"I have seen the results of these conflicts. There are never enough healers: people die needlessly, usually of sickness, infection. I cannot simply remain hidden away here. I am needed."

It was as if she had issued a threat. Anger surged through him.

"Are you so vain that you believe yourself capable of preventing the inevitable misery of hundreds, perhaps thousands? You? Only one small human?" His tone was uncharacteristically harsh. "You leave this place before finalizing your apprenticeship, the terms of our agreement broken. You propose to abandon your training, in defiance of my wishes. Your word is not to be trusted. You dishonor yourself. You dishonor me, Lisa from Lupu."

That formidable temper of hers was bound to surface in response to his imperious rebuke. He remained stoically poised to engage in a fight, prepared to shatter her arguments. Instead, however, she walked up to him, perching both her hands on the arms he'd crossed before his chest.

"Come with me," she asked gently, standing on her toes and brushing her lips across his cheek. "We can go together." He betrayed no emotion. "I know I cannot stop the war, I cannot end illnesses, I do not know how to thwart death—that was never my intent. But," she continued, raising her hand to caress his face as she nuzzled it tenderly, her breath warm against his cold skin. "If I can alleviate even one person's suffering, then I will have made all the difference for that one person. I harbor no delusions of my own worth or greatness, Vlad."

He closed his eyes at the sound of his name from her lips.

Names have power, names are binding, the conjurer fool had recited earlier.

Without intending to, this woman has ensorcelled me: I am at her feet, he thought, finding his heart breaking, his fury weakening at her touch.

"I know I can learn much: I am dedicated, I am good at what I put my heart and efforts into. With your guidance I know I will be a great doctor someday—but I seek no greater glory than to serve others."

"Why?" he asked. Why bother with lowly beings whose lives were brief, whose understanding was so limited? Why did she care so deeply? What did she see in those wretches that was so precious? Humans roamed the earth wreaking destruction, defiling and plundering, murdering and cheating. All for the sake of a short-lived, miserable life. If God had created man in His image, Țepeș had reinvented himself in response to man's vile nature, in defiance to the silence of that same absent God.

She smiled sadly.

"Because I can…And because I can, I must. It is as simple as that." She kissed his lips. "Will you come with me?"

The force of his yearning cracked his cold facade. He kissed her back, savoring the feel of her body against his. "No," he lamented.

"Please come with me." She squeezed his arm. "I have every intent to fulfill my end of our bargain."

"Are you that eager to conclude our agreement? To be rid so completely of me?" he accused, even as he wrapped his arms around her.

"No." She smiled again, shaking her head. "I've never experienced so much, lived as fully or felt so deeply since I entered this castle. I think you and I know that I could never repay you for what you have given me."

"Then stay," he uttered. She faced him helplessly before burying her face in his chest. "Stay with me."

"It would be my heart's desire to remain here, like this, with you," she told him after a moment. "But I can't stay and still be true to myself, to everything I believe is right."

He stroked her hair as she held him tightly, struck by the gamut of emotions coursing through her. In the midst of it all, what impressed him the most was her compassion—a constant— the true north of her moral compass, steering her forth, even through waters unknown. Her faith in the inherent, universal goodness of humanity was something he'd long thought of as untenable.

She is stronger than I ever imagined. Unlike me, she does not succumb to hate. She rises above the morass.

He touched his forehead to the top of her head.

Where were you when no hope remained?

Before I damned myself to this existence?

"I promise to return." She peered up at him, her eyes bright. "It will be a brief leave."

He took in her words, weighing the unspoken threat contained in them against the certainty of holding her right then. She offered him a promise beyond her control. Did he even trust that backwards world with her?

His expression darkened.

"I will agree to this under one condition."

She eyed him with cautious relief.

"You say I have given you much." He waited until she nodded in agreement. "Now, I ask you to grant me something in exchange."

She searched his face.

"What is it?"

"Since you step back into the world with something of mine, then I must remain here…with something of yours."

He would not resent her for leaving.

She could not describe what peace that gave her. The thought of offending him, hurting him, of appearing ungrateful, unappreciative of all his efforts upset her deeply.

And she intended to return, to resume her studies with him. And she also wished to return for her own sake: to be at his side again. Despite all her early denial, her imperatives to remain focused, she could not stem the fledgling love that was taking root within her.

"What of mine could you possibly want?" she asked. "What could I ever give you that would be commensurate with all your knowledge, all your wisdom?"

"Do not question your worth," he whispered into her hair. "What I desire from you cannot be measured." They walked toward the laboratory together. "And it must be granted freely."

She tilted her head, eyeing him curiously as they entered the room. Was it a roundabout way to get an invitation to her bed?

He walked about the laboratory distractedly.

"What if I told you there was a way I could learn whether you were well, whether you were in peril even when we were apart?"

Her eyes widened.

"I would want to know all about the ingenious invention you have devised!"

"What would you be willing to do to attain such knowledge?" He observed her closely for her reaction.

"It depends on the benefit such knowledge would bring."

"A benefit…That is a subjective thing. Knowledge is merely a tool. Its value, thus, rests on the mastery and intent of those who wield it."

"I can't deny I am curious." Her eyes searched the laboratory for any signs of a new contraption or anything new she may have missed in her many nightly visits.

"Very well." He walked toward her, his eyes fixed on hers. "In exchange for revealing my secret to you, I will need some of your blood."

She stiffened visibly at his words.

"Are you frightened now?" he asked in a half whisper.

Lisa squinted at him.

"No. But I am intrigued."

He stepped back exhaling loudly, clearly frustrated.

"Why do you trust me so? You truly fear very little—you have burdened me with the task, instead!"

"Should I be frightened?" She examined him, how imposingly he stood before her.

"Yes," he uttered.

Her expression grew serious.

"But I know, regardless of your past deeds, that you do not seek to hurt me," she challenged him.

"No," he agreed, dropping his gaze. "But I will."

More than fear, she was assailed by a sense of concern, of worry. That odd exchange clarified nothing.

"I don't understand what you are trying to tell me, Vlad."

He took her hand, holding it between his. For a brief moment he appeared unbearably tired.

"I do not like change, Lisa. It is in part why I am how I am: I seek constancy, the solace of immutability." The smile he offered her was wan, almost sad. "I have a formidable foe in Time." He caressed her hand, stroking her skin delicately.

"What is it that you want from me?" She needed to end that strange conversation between them.

"More than anything?" He encircled her waist, pulling her up close to him. At the gesture, it was as if all her misgivings crumbled.

He is hurting: he does not want me to leave.

"I seek your understanding," he completed. "So that when you return to me, you will do so fully aware…and freely."

"Ah, but it is now you who are too trusting," she joked, trying to ease the tension between them. "How do you know I'll be returning to you and not to your marvelous laboratory, instead?"

"Alas—you cannot have one without the other," he spoke softly.

She grinned.

"As far as conundrums go, this is a pleasant one!"

He leaned in to kiss her with an ardor she had not sensed in him before. The temperateness from the previous evening had all but disappeared. As his kisses grew more urgent, his touch bolder, she reciprocated, flushing with the arousal he'd awakened in her.

"Will you accept the risk?" he asked.

It was exasperating how he questioned her, doubted her.

"There is always a risk—it's part of the price one must pay when setting out to learn, isn't it? Your understanding of the world, perhaps even of reality, might shift and change," she argued.

"Then…you agree?" He peered intently at her.

She nodded.

"Yes."

To her surprise, he wordlessly lifted her up into his arms and carried her out of the laboratory, up the stairwell, toward her bedroom.

She held on to him tightly, in anticipation. He deposited her carefully over the bed once they entered her room.

"Do you trust me?" he asked her, slowly undoing the clasp holding his cloak over his shoulder. He tossed it over a chair and approached the bed slowly. Lisa realized she had never seen him without his cloak. Țepeș was a large, vigorous man, and even in all his finery—a dark tunic with red and silver accents tied around his waist with a crimson sash—she could see the fierce warrior.

"You have never given me reason not to," she replied earnestly.

"And I never will. That is a promise, Lisa."

He sat beside her on the bed and she fell eagerly into his arms. His hand sought the buttons on the front of her work dress, plucking the top ones open. Her breath hitched when he yanked the dress down past her shoulders. Her skin glowed warmly in the firelight. She pulled at his sash and he grinned against her lips when her ineffective attempt at undressing him became more urgent.

"Such level of complexity is not necessary. I do not know what to make of the fact you didn't simply presume we'd end up like this after last night," she teased him tenderly, releasing the tight knot and allowing him to work it loose. She took over when it came undone, unwrapping it from around his waist. She contemplated his tunic with a troubled expression. "Honestly, it is a wonder you nobles haven't died out already—by the time you finish removing your cumbersome clothes, I'd imagine all your lands would be good and conquered," she protested gamely. He chuckled, enamored with her and her guileless seduction. He helped her again, pulling the long, heavy tunic over his head.

"Then consider me conquered—vanquished," he whispered in her ear, guiding her over the bed, against the pillows.

He breathed in sharply when her arms embraced him, their bare skin finally touching. His hands coursed over her body reverently, fighting the awareness of how she responded to his touch, how intimately she wanted him. His lips coursed a trail of kisses from her ear to her cheek, across her jawline, down to her smooth neck. She closed her eyes and he kissed it slowly, savoring her scent. She let a faint moan escape and he gripped her tighter, kissing her neck again, sucking the flesh lightly, gauging her reaction. She stirred under him encouragingly, trying to wrest the top of her dress down further. He assisted her, growing distracted by what a lovely vision she was, lying over the bed, her simple dress unbuttoned down to her waist revealing her small breasts, her nipples taut and flushed a deep pink. She smiled almost shyly, her eyes limpid as she beheld him, her tousled braid draped over her shoulder.

He contemplated her with hooded eyes, unwilling to wait any further. She was inebriating.

"This will hurt at first, but then, I promise, you will only feel pleasure," he murmured, his fingertips stroking her delicate neck.

He was startled by faint laughter.

"Vlad, my timing might be disastrous, but you should know that you do not need to proceed with such prudence. Consider that I am much older in years than most apprentices…and no longer a maiden."

His fingers halted their caress and he was dumbstruck by her words, especially since he had not been alluding to taking her virginity. Her expression clouded.

"I hope this isn't too great a disappointment to you," she proceeded, unsure of his reaction.

He raised an eyebrow.

"No." He kissed her lips as one of his hands palmed one of her breasts. "But I do wonder what on earth was happening at that odd convent of yours," he provoked.

He chuckled again as he caught the adorably appalled expression on her face. Before she could argue in her defense, he placed his lips on her breast, sucking on the warm, yielding skin, teasing her nipple bud, his tongue savoring her sweetness. His restraint was fraying rapidly at her undisguised pleasure —he needed her to be his right then. When she let another moan escape, he raised his head, relieved her eyes were shut so she would not witness the raw, unchecked look in his blood-red eyes. He positioned himself over her better, burying his nose in the crook of her neck, allowing the intensity between them to build. He turned her head to the side gingerly, away from him, letting the tips of his teeth slightly graze her skin. The sensation caused a gasp to escape her lips. Her pulse throbbed promisingly against his tongue. His hand slipped over her open palm, and they laced their fingers together lovingly, tightly, moments before he clamped his mouth over her neck, the sharp tips of his canines piercing her flesh.

She cried out in alarm, her eyes opening wide, and he squeezed her hand, trying to convey reassurance as his mouth filled with blood. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying, and he drew her blood slowly, measuredly, despite his feral thirst. Her emotions soon flooded his mind and her terror rushed through both of them. Her heartbeat galloped in her chest so violently, it caused him to gasp momentarily for breath. He took her hand and rested it over his bare chest, splaying it over his heart, holding it securely in place. It was all he could do to soothe her.

Feel it, Lisa: our hearts beat as one.

Her shock gave way to a strange, contradictory calm. The sharp pain that had torn into her so unexpectedly subsided into a dizzying, intoxicating haze. She found it was even…pleasant. Any will to resist, any impulse to push him away, even to strike at him or defend herself, faded after the initial burst of pain. She drifted off, her mind muddled from the surge of emotions. She was jolted out of that hypnotic reverie only when the cold air stung her skin. She drowsily opened her eyes, meeting his deep red gaze.

His tongue flicked over his lips, sated, unwilling to squander even one drop of her blood. Even as she blinked at him, disoriented, he leaned over again, running his tongue between slow kisses over the two small puncture wounds he'd created until he was satisfied that they'd been cleansed and practically healed over. He watched her uneasily, though. He was acutely aware of her emotions, feeling them stir as if they'd been born of his own heart.

"Lisa," he whispered, stroking her hair, lying alongside her. "Do you understand now?"

She looked at him silently. After a moment, she tried to sit up, her hand flying to her neck, searching for the wound he'd inflicted.

"Do not try to get up," he warned, stopping her. "Not yet."

She let herself drop back over the pillow, lightheaded, faint.

Her eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion overcoming her. He lay behind her, his arm protectively wrapped around her. It was how she fell asleep, preferring a brief reprieve into oblivion to the confusion and turmoil rising within her.

He would remain by her side until dawn, until the last possible second by her side. Nothing he could say at that point would mend things between them. He had asked her to take a leap of faith—and she had consented. But she never could have imagined leaping into that abyss…

He had stared into her soul that evening, pried open all her secrets. He had violently claimed her innocence.

He had also been moved by and reassured of the strength of her love— so pure and unwavering; it coursed through his own veins, lush with her essence.

But he had seen more: he had learned that she would flee in the morning. She would try to escape his grasp, go beyond his reach. He was well aware of the harm he had inflicted, of how he had demolished the pillars of her reality.

An all-consuming ache enveloped him. Right then, he realized, she could not answer him truthfully whether or not she would ever return to him.

He stared at the shadows flickering on the wall, the pain of his imminent loss crushing.

At least when I was mortal, I knew my suffering to be finite.

He clasped her against him, letting only the awareness of the singular pulsing of their hearts, steady and strong, chase away his sorrow.

I will let her go: but she will never be far, as long as her blood courses through me.

A/N: This is a beast of a chapter that kicked my butt a few times. It's extra long because I haven't updated in a while, thanks to a crazy work schedule that will calm down soon...

Some nerdy notes:

"The Janissary corps was originally staffed by Christian youths from the Balkan provinces who were converted to Islām on being drafted into the Ottoman service." (From ). The Ottomans often required that Christian territories they had conquered send youths to serve. The Janissaries were an elite force, greatly admired.

Olati was another term (like Vlachs) for the Latin and Romance language speaking folks in the Balkans.

Seguloth are Hebrew magical sigils found in medieval grimoires and other occult texts.

The Liber Juratus Honorii has a grand history- known as The Sworn Book of Honorius, it is a 13-century grimoire in Latin that is considered a foundational work in the field of esoterism and magic in medieval Europe. There are pdfs of it online- has a decent one. I mean, the illustrations get a bit wonky, but, hey, it's free...and contains a contemporary transcription of the old English (side by side, for you linguists).

Iancu de Hunedoara-AKA John Hunyadi, was a Hungarian noble of Romanian ancestry (he was born in Transylvania and was its prince- the voivode) who defended Romania's frontiers from Ottoman incursions. He was named "Christ's Champion" by Pope Pius II for defending Hungary and parts of Romania from the Turks for about 60 years. He died in 1457.