"For God's sake, you can't do this, Jakov! It's against the law!"
"BE QUIET!" The red-faced man in his bulky uniform spun about, spittle flying from his lips and madness in his eyes. In one arm he held a sputtering torch that lit this dirt lane snaking through the forest. His other meaty fist was clamped firmly around the arm of a small, thin girl in a peasant skirt with a Gypsy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. "I know what I am doing! Don't think otherwise! How many times have we held our tongues, but… not this time! Not MY DAUGHTER!"
"When it was my Milica," a woman in back murmured reproachfully, "you never spoke up for her sake, eh, Constable?"
"The Graff will be furious!" another voice in the crowd wailed in fearful tones. "The lottery was done! We've never tried anything like this before!"
Unmoved, Constable Jakov Reinmarch turned his back upon the huddled collection of villagers and marched on. He dragged the girl along beside him, who made not a sound.
"It won't come to that," the village official spoke after a while with a confidence that he could not really feel. "The law says we give up a girl; fine, then! One is as good as another, Gypsy or no! It's their fault for coming here and offending the Graff's servants, not ours! He won't be displeased, just you see!"
Their party continued to follow the winding path. Far behind them the lights of Birkenstrad were growing ever fainter. Night enclosed all around, kept at bay by the puny flicker of their torches which seemed ready to go out at the smallest breeze through the trees. Their courage would be snuffed just as fast. Many pairs of fearful eyes watched the stygian blackness beyond the range of torchlight, alert for any telltale movement which might presage danger.
At last they reached a point in the road where a stone marker loomed. Ten feet tall, its top was carved in the shape of a snarling wolf's head, made all the more fearsome by being weathered almost past recognition. Its hollow black eyes appeared to fix upon the approaching humans all the same.
In the distance, a wolf howled.
The constable drew up short. He swallowed, face sticky with sweat and head darting from side to side. With a curse he then flung the Gypsy waif forward. She stumbled on bare feet and came to a halt. The unwilling sacrifice then slowly turned around to look at them. Many of the villagers drew back or made a sign of the cross at what they saw in those deep black eyes.
Breathing heavily, the red-faced Constable indicated with his torch. "Go!" he ordered. "Go up to the castle! Do not try to flee! If you do, the rest of your family will die. Understand, tsigan?"
For a time the girl did not move.
Then she turned and walked away, towards the pass which would lead further up into the hills. Mountains beckoned against the deep black sky. In just a few seconds she was lost to view.
There was nothing more to be done. And so the residents of town went back to their beds to await the verdict. Many would find no sleep that night, alert to the sounds of the wolf pack's howls and the wind through the trees which might presage their deaths. The same words were whispered in every house.
"God protect us."
Rania made her way up the track. Cold stone bit into feet toughened by snow and a thousand miles of wandering. She wrapped her shawl around thin shoulders and shivered.
What is going on?
It had been three days since her small Gypsy caravan entered these accursed woods. Aschen the leader of their family cheerfully insisted they would find a suitable town to ply their craft in short order. Instead the road had gone ever onward beneath trees that grew no less threatening from daylight to darkness. There was a menace in this place they all could sense. No birds sang here, and game did not abound by any stretch of the imagination. Aschen's twin daughters huddled together in the wagon playing games to pass the time, while his eldest son Ingelbert rode ahead alert to any danger. Another wagon pulled by donkeys carried the remaining members of this small tribe, numbering no more than ten in all.
At fifteen, Rania was no beauty like the older woman Kukaku, who despite missing an arm could still enchant villagers into parting with their money and their inhibitions with only one sashay of her voluptuous form. For her part Rania sometimes found herself mistaken for a boy, a fact that they had put to their advantage on several occasions. Small, thin and by no means shapely, her body was still strong and her mind as quick as her feet. Black hair reached down to her shoulders with one strand almost permanently hanging before her nose, while large black eyes studied the world, always alert to see what it would try to take from her next. Rania knew well that life could be harsh, and so she cherished the comfort that came from having people who cared about her. She had long resolved to contribute whatever she could so that her adopted family need never regret having taken her in.
One evening they set up camp, huddled around a small fire. Some brought out tambourine and balalaika in an effort to beat back the night with song. The people clapped and danced as though performing a magic spell to ward off evil.
The attack came without warning. Janko the juggler was entertaining them with some of his tricks, when a huge black shape rocketed past the trees and cannoned into him. Before he could even scream the wolf had already laid open his throat.
Cries went up as more of these beasts emerged into the light of the campfire. The Gypsy band had a lifetime's worth of experience facing threats be it from man or nature, and so they moved to defend themselves without hesitation. Flaming brands were snatched from the fire while whatever weapons handy came out of hiding.
Rania pressed her own dagger into the hands of Karen, Aschen's eldest daughter, before snatching up a torch. In its light she found herself faced with a huge red-furred wolf that sprang for her throat without hesitation. She swung her blazing club with all the strength of adrenaline-soaked frenzy, and was rewarded by a pained yelp as it smashed directly into the brute's eye, sending it pitching off course with its face aflame.
Elsewhere her other clansmen were putting up more of a fight than the pack had expected. Exploding powders used in their performances created loud bangs and lights that frightened and scattered the wolves. Rania saw the one she had struck lift its burning muzzle and utter an ululating howl. At this the remaining predators turned tail and bolted into the trees. For a second the pack leader seemed to look straight at her, its yellow eyes frighteningly intelligent, before vanishing after its followers.
All agreed it would be best to press on in hopes of reaching a settlement or getting out of this forest. To their great relief after only an hour or so of travel they found themselves in a well-to-do hamlet. The windows were dark, as to be expected for this time of night. However in the center of town they spied lamps burning in the largest building and could hear the sound of many voices. Aschen told his exhausted troupe to wait while he went to investigate. When he knocked upon the door, it was opened by the one she would come to know as Constable Reinmarch. He listened to the Gypsy leader's explanation of what happened to them. In that time, Rania noticed the town-dweller's gaze often drift down to fixate on her peering out from the front of the wagon. He offered Aschen the hospitality of their town and invited him to enter the building to discuss the matter further, which the Gypsy accepted.
Instead just a few minutes later the caravan found themselves surrounded by over a hundred villagers armed with pitchforks, clubs and torches. Outnumbered and weary from their previous battle, they were soon taken captive. Though she fought tooth and nail, Rania found herself singled out by the ones in charge of this mob. The rest of her kin were led away somewhere. The frantic Constable loudly declared her people were trespassers, and moreover that she personally had attacked an officer of their local lord, though Rania hotly denied any such thing. For this she was to be offered up as some kind of tribute, and should she not agree to do so, the rest of the clan would be put to death.
What choice had there been?
At last she reached her destination, passing through a wrought iron gate in a wall so thick and tall it seemed a building unto itself. Upon exiting the tunnel Rania now stood in the courtyard of an enormous castle whose heights soared mind-bogglingly high, almost one with the mountains all around. In the dark she could pick out nothing specific about it. There were no lights in any windows she could see, only many turrets and edifices grouped together in ways that made no sense to her.
A growl from one side caused her heart to labor hard. Looking around she found wolves closing in from either side. She recognized the one that had attacked her, its face still burnt and twisted. As the animal drew closer, snarling in recognition, the terrified girl lunged forward and sprinted towards the castle's main entrance. Rania heard the wolves give chase. She sped up a flight of steps and noted with joy that the great doors were slightly open. The sound of claws on stone spurred her flight, and with a final burst of speed she made it through and hurled herself against the wood to send it slamming shut behind her.
Gulping in air, the trembling teen looked wildly all about. She was alone in a huge rotunda. Enormous bay windows on either side allowed moonlight to come spilling through, illuminating the veined marble floor. There were no other lights to be seen. A tremendous red-carpeted staircase led up to a veranda that traveled the circumference of the room. Thick curtains hung from walls and ceiling like leaves in a forest. To the left of the curved balustrade on the ground floor, a looming grandfather clock ticked away. There was no other sound to be heard.
Eventually Rania found the courage to move forward. She didn't fully understand what she was meant to do, but someone living here must be in charge of the townsfolk. Whoever it was would tell them that she had held up her end and they must now let her family go.
Barefoot she walked the length of the cold stone hall, glancing from side to side in search of any life. There was nothing. Her throat felt hoarse, preventing her from shouting for help. What now? There didn't seem to be anyone here. Should I go in search of them?
Rania looked ahead, and saw a man at the foot of the stairs watching her.
She stumbled to a halt. He wasn't there a moment ago. That much she was sure of. Where did he come from? Why didn't I see him?
The figure in question was tall. A white scarf fell down his shoulders. Wrapped in a great black cloak that seemed to swallow his body whole, the only part of him visible was his face. Rania realized that had she been in any right state of mind, this would be the most unquestionably handsome man she had ever seen. His hair was black as night, long and smooth with three sharp locks dropping over his brow to contrast with pale sun-deprived skin. Thin slashes of dark brows, sharply pointed chin, and a finely crafted mouth completed this impression. His eyes did not at first appear to be open. However in those first heart-stopping moments this eerie figure turned and drifted over to one of the ceiling-high windows, lifting his head to gaze at the moon shining amongst glittering stars.
He did not speak for a time, and Rania found that she could not. Her teeth were chattering too hard. Not from cold.
It was fear. For some reason this man terrified her at first sight.
At last he shifted slightly, enough for one eye to glance back at her before returning to contemplate his domain.
"You come from Birkenstrad."
Even if she could speak, his tone made it clear this was not necessary. For that reason it was no surprise when he continued without waiting for her to answer. "In spite of this, you do not hail from there. You are a member of the wandering tribe that strayed uninvited into my domain three days past. Now you appear in my home as though you have some business here. Why?"
The words forced out of her throat before she could think. "We were captured. The constable said I was to take his daughter's place or see my tribe killed. I came to keep that from happening."
Silence reigned.
There came a slight shifting. Slowly one hand reached up to toy with the scarf around his neck.
"They take their responsibilities lightly. To behave in such a disingenuous manner is to flaunt my protection altogether. It is their turn. They know what I ask of them. This…" again he flicked a glance at her, "is no show of full faith. I am not appeased."
He appeared to be speaking to himself more than her. This realization served to ignite a faint flicker of reproach in her heart. It galvanized Rania to reassert why she had come.
"Are you the ruler here? The one they called the Graff?"
Still that shadowy figure did not look at her. "I am Graff Totholz," he replied absently.
"Then make those bastards release my kin!"
Her shout echoed faintly off the dome high above them. The clock ticked off seconds, until finally, the lord of the castle swung to face her. He seemed to study the Gypsy lass from top to bottom now, taking in her bare dirty feet, the way she clutched her threadbare garments which had been torn during the villagers' attack, before settling on her face. The black-clad nobleman stared at her for a very long time, and she stared right back.
At last Rania could take it no more. "They told me they would kill everyone if I didn't come! I'm here now! So tell them to let my family go!"
The Graff's face did not change. After a while though, those bloodless lips parted.
"No."
Her heart turned to ice at that word.
Totholz moved away from the window. His feet made no sound as he walked on over to where the clock stood. For a time he gazed up at its white face as though it were another moon that had captured his interest. Rania watched him, feeling helpless and foolish. What is wrong with me? Why can't I do anything, even speak? What the hell is going on!
"I accept."
So saying, the Graff turned and began to glide towards her. That mesmerizing face had not altered by one whit. He still looked utterly dispassionate. But now his eyes were open. Gray orbs speared into her and sent a shock up the girl's spine as though she had clutched an icicle with bare hands.
"This arrangement will stand," the shadowy specter spoke as he came to circle around her. It reminded Rania of the wolf prowling about back at the caravan. Rigid, she could not move in the slightest. Her pulse beat sluggishly, sounding like a great heavy drum.
Bejeweled white hands came around to cup gently beneath her chin. The Gypsy girl drew a sharp breath. The man's skin was shockingly cold. Fear like she had never known entered her soul. She wished desperately that he would stop touching her. Please, she begged silently, unable to force the words past frozen lips. Please let go of me.
"You shall remain under my roof. For so long as this is so, I give you my word that no harm will come to your family. My servants move to assure this even now."
Outside a wolf howled. She heard cloth rustle as he bent down low. Rania could only stare straight ahead, eyes wide and mouth half-open from a nameless horror. In the tall glass display case of the clock behind which the pendulum swung, she could see her image reflected clearly.
But behind her, where she could feel the man still standing, there was nothing.
God help me…
His lips passed over her ear, drawing a moan from deep within the orphan wanderer's breast.
"We shall see how long you last, Gypsy child."
Without another word, his mouth fastened upon her throat. Twin spikes of pain suddenly burned with a hellfire so fierce and hungry she couldn't even scream at this ghastly violation. Hot blood gushed with every slamming beat of Rania's heart.
The room spun, and she passed out.
Graff Totholz held the limp form in his arms for a few moments longer. With a visible effort he wrenched himself away, jaws wide and trembling from a heady ecstasy that cost him even the semblance of humanity he deigned to wear. It had been long since he tasted anything so fine. For a few seconds the only thing that made any sense in his predator's brain was to dive back in and feast on every last drop of this girl's rich fiery blood.
Instead he mastered himself. The lord of the manor lifted the unconscious maiden in his strong arms. At the same time he reached up and hooked a finger in the immaculate scarf he wore, drawing it slowly down until it hung limp as this dirty half-starved mendicant he held.
For a time he simply gazed at her pale face, great dark eyes closed. Tears sparkled on her lashes which she had not shed. The sight met with his approval. Cradling her to his chest, he wound the scarf loosely around her neck. Immediately the flow of blood halted. At the same time garish scarlet spread through the fabric with supernatural alacrity, until it hung like a stream of blood off her neck.
He bore her away then. This night had yielded unexpected fortune, and Graff Totholz was surprisingly eager to see what the future held in store for his newest treasure.
For a small town, Birkenstrad had a large jail. During daylight hours, that would have been ample warning for them to pass through without stopping. Instead for the past two days the Gypsy caravan found themselves confined to four of the cells in this subdued building. Heavy oaken doors and thick granite walls cut them off from one another, yet still they managed to communicate. For fear of being overheard they spoke in Caló, the Western variant of the Romani language. Aschen's family was originally from those parts and he had taught it to his own children. In this way they managed to work out a strategy.
On the third morning of their capture, when a hatch in the door opened and food was slid in, Ingelbert called out. "Hey! My sister is feeling ill. She needs a doctor."
There came a pause on the other side of the door, then movement down the corridor. A whispered consultation occurred followed by the sound of someone leaving.
The young Romani waited impatiently. His youngest sibling Mitzi took up moaning every so often and clutching her stomach while their sister Karin patted her head and spoke soothingly. He had stayed by them during the ambush, and because of this when the tribe got divided up it was to find themselves sharing a cell. One less thing to worry about; he might have gone crazy not knowing how his sisters were enduring this captivity. There was arguing among the villagers the night they were captured. At first he felt certain they would all be slain out of hand. Herded into jail, his people were given neither food nor blankets against the chill of the evening. The wandering folk awaited their inevitable death sentences and the chance it might afford them to break free.
But then there came the howling of wolves echoing through the windows of their cells. Panicked cries of Birkenstrad's residents followed as they were roused from their beds. There might have been a meeting of some kind. Even as Ingelbert wondered what this might mean, the door of his cell opened. Armed men waited without just as he had expected. However instead of dragging them out, two old women came in bearing a basket of food and blankets with soft pillows. These they offered to the wary prisoners. Accepting this bounty with ill grace, he watched them shuffle out. One of the constables then said, "If you need something, ask. We will provide."
He was too astonished to demand an explanation. The door shut in his face. At their elder's insistence, Mitzi and Karin wrapped themselves in the warm blankets and got some sleep. For his part Ingelbert remained awake talking to Aschen through the walls. Their father insisted they find out more before making any escape attempt. The rest of the tribe agreed. Something had happened which changed their situation. If they spoke to their captors, they might learn what truly led to them being held prisoner, why the change in treatment, and how the tribe might regain their freedom.
For Ingelbert there was one other question he burned with the desire to know: what had those bastards done with Rania?
The cell door opened. "You asked for a doctor?"
Surprised, Ingelbert looked up. He had been expecting an elderly figure. Instead there stood framed in the doorframe the tall lean frame of a youth no older than himself. Steely blue eyes were far older, however. His glistening black hair was cut short save at the front where it fell in two sharp points to frame both sides of his face. He had pale skin with a stern unforgiving cast that gave his admittedly handsome features an almost regal air. Sunlight glinted off his glasses as he cast a stern withering look about. His cobalt blue eyes took note of everything in the bare room, and a slight frown caused his lip to twist. Ingelbert was about to speak only to be stalled by an icy look cast his way.
The healer stepped inside without another word. "My name is Ulric Sterne. You may address me as Herr Sterne. Where is my patient?"
Little Mitzi had left off moaning and fell to staring at this white-draped figure as though he were an angel descended from on high. Karin hovered protectively nearby, looking decidedly less impressed by this haughty outsider. Ulric fixed his eyes on Mitzi, and the girl reddened so fast it seemed to cause him concern. He came forward, opening a small bag and removing a… a metal…
Hmmm…
Did they have stethoscopes back then? Oh well, time to hit the search engine.
Rania shrank back against a pillar in superstitious dread. Around the ragged Gypsy those airy phantoms spun without pause across the enormous ballroom floor. Hundreds of ghostly dancers courted one another, their feet never touching the ground.
The girl looked from one end of the vast space to another. She could no longer see the door which led her in here. Everything just stretched on away forever (infinitely?), with more twirling partners visible far off. Eerie music played as those unearthly souls labored on, faces cold and uncaring as they stared into each other's dead white eyes. It was nothing like the wild and exuberant displays she knew.
A pair floated past her hiding spot. Man and woman, they were both young, dressed regally like all the others. Yet there was no passion between them. They might as well have been waltzing alone. This was being forced upon them. A punishment, she realized; they danced not for the sake of one another or even themselves, but for someone else's cruel entertainment (enjoyment?).
They're trapped here, she realized.
And suddenly she could take no more. The fear was gone, replaced with outrage. How dare someone take the gifts of music and dance and use them to hurt others? This went against her people's way of life so surely that it struck into the young wanderer's heart.
Before she knew it Rania was on her feet and striding out into the center of the ballroom. A pair of masked wraiths passed right through her, but she felt only a slight stirring of clothes and hair. Upon reaching an empty spot, she stopped. Flinging her hands up into the air, the furious prisoner assumed a pose with head bent and eyes closed, listening not to the perfect but empty music in the hall, but the angry beat of her own heart.
And then she began to dance.
Tattered skirt whirled around her. With fiercest grace she spun one leg out, revealing thigh and calve without care. Rania performed not the stately formal dances of the nobility, but her own people's joyous expression that came more from the blood than the head. Flipping her hips provocatively, she shot fierce smoldering glances over her shoulder, imagining a man of the tribes watching on the sidelines. His face was not clear in her head. Still she sought to provoke him, pull him into the light of the great bonfire to join her in wild abandonment. Her arms rippled like silk flowing in the breeze. Every move was calculated to strip away inhibitions and seize hold of a bravo's interest so that he could not help himself but join her. This was dance! This was life!
As the hot-blooded Gypsy waif continued to burn a passionate trail across the dance floor, the ghosts seemingly took no more notice of her than she did of them. When she drew close, they did not move away. However as Rania passed through the ethereal performers, some of them stirred. An elderly man with a white beard shook his bald head, regarding the woman in his arms in confusion. She too gave a brief start of recognition before both lapsed back into bland indifference. This same brief inspiration happened again and again, with no lasting effect.
It was only when the young couple from before touched her did something change. As Rania stormed through the nobleman with limbs whirling in enticement, his face altered. Color returned to his eyes and he stared at his partner as though seeing her for the first time. Her own white orbs remained distant as the moon. A shudder went through him, and the warmth began to fade as their heartless pairing continued. Yet before it could vanish completely the pale shade looked over and spied Rania. In desperation he seized his partner and spun her about so that both of them moved through the dancing peasant girl.
At this the dead woman's face lit up. She gazed in astonishment at the man across from her. They continued to move in time, never missing a beat, locked in perfect synchronized step. Yet there was more to it now. Not just blind movement of phantom limbs, but an eagerness, a yearning was growing between them. Their forms gained in color. Neither spoke, yet their expressions cried out to one another.
It spread out from them. More dancers became aware of one another. As they did one could almost read the history in their separate performances. Here a father danced with his daughter on the day of her marriage. There a gallant duke escorted his spry duchess as they celebrated forty years of wedded bliss. A shy lady took the hand of a man for the first time, and thrilled at his touch. Lovers held one another all aware that they were soon to part and never meet again.
The unseen orchestra began to play louder. As though aghast at being defied by those lost souls whom it had previously commanded, the music sought to bring them back under its spell. To no avail. Violins skirled a warning, pipes shrieked in outrage; to no avail. Each man and woman paid attention only to the person across from them. They danced for one another now. Louder and angrier the notes became, more desperate, driven by a mortal terror.
Suddenly the young couple from before stopped.
"Friedrich," the phantom woman whispered longingly.
"Paula," he responded with no less passion. They bent forward to share a kiss.
As they did, harp strings snapped. Trumpets choked with blood. Violins were tossed into pitiless flames to burn. With a final terrible scream of despair, the phantom orchestra went silent, and the hall grew quiet.
Then someone began to clap loudly. "Bravo!"
Rania stumbled to a halt and looked around in bewilderment. The ballroom was empty. Candles burned, but the spectral dancers were all gone. She stood alone in that space, which no longer went on forever. She could see the doors at either end leading out.
"Bravo, little lady! Ya actually broke my spell on 'em! But do ye think the Graff'll be pleased when he finds out?"
The girl turned to find herself confronted by an eerie specter more disturbing for being solid. He was dressed in plain winding gray robes that wound around him like a toga. His thin arms and legs were bare, with white skin and curved dark nails that ended in points. A gray hood shrouded his head so completely that it covered his eyes. The only part of his face visible was a great white toothy smile stretching from ear to ear. This foreboding apparition clutched a long staff topped by a gleaming scythe blade fashioned in the shape of an animal's jawbone. The weapon stood straight up in the air as though planted in the floor, and he hung off it, horned feet rubbing against the haft, fingers opening and closing along its length. This pale menace rubbed a cheek against his perch and chuckled as he regarded her standing there in astonishment.
"Lemme introduce myself, O Honored Guest! I'm called Gehrin, a humble servant of the Graff, and I–"
"You'll die. Worse yet, you'll take your family with you. And Rania still won't be saved."
Ingelbert glared at his host. Looking up from the book he was reading, Ulric leaned back in the plush leather chair.
"You're being allowed the run of the town at my insistence, but don't assume I'll let you put innocent lives in danger to satisfy a needless sense of heroics."
"What do you know about it?" the brash youth bit back.
In response Sterne tilted his glasses up and affixed him with a cold look that made the Gypsy flinch and grit his teeth in spite of himself. "My family has history here, in case you haven't noticed. Birkenstrad isn't the only town under Totholtz's rule. There are two others in this forest alone… used to be three. Before I was born, somebody from that place got it into his head to invade the castle during daylight hours to slay the Graff. Even convinced a large band to join in. Strength in numbers, and all that."
He gestured at the warm sunlight spilling through a window into his family's library. "Strigoi and other night-folk are weakened by the sun, you're right about that much. But they are by no means helpless. As those fools learned to their sorrow. After the Graff was done with them, he burned their village to the ground. Worse things were done to the inhabitants." The physician turned back to his medical tome, flicked a page viciously as he continued to read. "Not a soul survived. The other towns got the message. This is his domain."
For all his reserve, Ingelbert couldn't suppress a shiver. Swiftly he rallied and came stalking forward to slam both hands down on the table. "You said your grandfather fought them, that he knew of ways to beat the demons, that he was some kind of town hero!" He pointed to the painting of the old man on the wall. "Why can't you do the same?"
This time Sterne didn't look at him, but a frown gave his noble face a bitter cast. "Grandfather used to tell me stories about what life was like when he was my age… before the Graff came back from the war. Before our lives went to hell. There were werewolves back then, but scattered and few. With the proper equipment and training they could be hunted successfully."
Slowly he closed the book on the table before him. A snarling wolf's head was emblazoned on the red leather cover. A look of similar ferocity lurked in Ulric's bright blue eyes when he looked up. "With the rise of Totholtz that changed. Now they had a leader. And there are even worse things than werewolves in these woods now. Grandfather fought them for as long as he could. But he grew old. And his… heir…" a vicious twist of the lip on that word, "proved unworthy. So he set to teaching me at a young age. I learned all I could… before one of the Graff's minions killed him. Now I save those I can, without the use of his teachings… while I wait for a time to strike. And take my revenge."
Ingelbert leaned back and crossed his arms. "Then help me. Help me kill this Totholtz, and save Rania. It's the only way to keep our loved ones safe."
At this Ulric's eyes drifted down the long library, to where the lovely Adelaide busied herself shelving books. The constable's daughter took note of his gaze and offered a small, sad smile in return. Brushing a strand of fiery orange hair back behind one ear, she then resumed her work.
"There might…" Ulric conceded slowly, "… be a way."
The Graff grabbed Rania by the arm and yanked her to him. He stared down at the girl, eyes alight with some inner fire, which she met with a defiant glare.
"You want my blood?" she snarled. "Take it, demon!"
She expected him to go for her throat. Instead Rania was shocked when Graff Totholtz bent swiftly down and kissed her hard on the lips.
The experience was so unforeseen she forgot everything that had led up to it. Attired in the unwanted red dress, the Gypsy waif held stock still in the vampire's black-clad embrace. Her body felt hot, like there was a bonfire raging beneath the skin. Instinctively her eyes fluttered closed as that strong commanding mouth claimed all her senses. The touch of his lips had never felt like this before, when he… would…
In a flash Rania came back to herself. Revulsion hit hard, and she seized hold of his cloak in an effort to push him away. The Graff did not budge an inch. Fury awoke. All the times he had violated her body with his unnatural craving were as nothing compared to this. It made her so furious the world went red in her field of vision, and drawing a deep breath through her nose, she shoved with all the strength she could lay claim to.
Suddenly Totholtz snapped back. On his face was the closest thing to emotion she had ever seen on that normally impassive mask. He looked… surprised. At her strength, or maybe…?
The lord of vampires flung her away from him so that she pitched to the floor in a flurry of scarlet silk. Without a word he turned and went striding off, seeming to vanish into the deep shadows of the dance hall. Rania sat there panting for a time. Then shakily she rose up and tottered toward the exit on trembling bare feet.
Up in the gallery, Rajnee observed these proceedings with narrowed eyes. "The hell was that about?" he growled.
"Hmm?" beside him the devilish Lohengrin lounged in midair on his bone-tipped scythe. "Do you know what he means, my pet?"
"Bad case of fleas, maybe?" A seductive chuckle escaped the luscious lips of the succubus Semele. She shook out her wealth of golden hair, then drifted over on bat wings to hover at the werewolf captain's shoulder, who scowled blackly at her. "Oh, don't grumble, Rajnee," the demonic temptress declared lightly. "I do believe our dear Graff Totholtz has just taken an interest in that sweet little girl after all."
"Her?" he scoffed at this notion. "I've seen sticks with more shape to them. She's just a dirty Gypsy. He'll get tired of her eventually, and when he does, I'll be ready to take some payback." He fingered the burned flesh of his tattooed forehead where Rania's torch had scarred him.
Grin drifted over the edge of the balcony to observe the girl's flight. "I wouldn't be so sure," he mused. "There's something about this one. I daresay she might prove to be more important than any of us had first surmised." Beneath his concealing hood, the pallid ghoul leered. "After all, there is no greater weapon in our arsenal than love…"
"Amen to that." Semele traced a sharp fingernail over her burgeoning cleavage. She then spread both wings wide. "Excuse me now, boys. I feel like having another chat with our darling guest. Hold down the fort, won't you?" With a laugh she drifted down to the ballroom floor and flew in pursuit of Rania.
Rajnee scratched at his matted red hair uncomfortably. "I don't like this. We can't let the Graff be distracted by a–"
"You should've run when you had the chance, boy," Rajnee snarled as he edged along the narrow bridge of stone. Drool flecked his muzzle, and the werewolf rumbled deep in his hairy red chest. "Like you did when I killed your grandpa!"
Ulric Sterne made no reply. All his concentration was bent on the enemy before him. He kept his bow notched and ready to fly in an instant, the silver arrow seeming to glow under the moon.
'Grandfather', he prayed, 'let me see this done. Let no more innocents die.'
The devil wind whipped around the castle with such force he feared being blown away. The young mystic didn't dare look down to see just how far off the ground he really was. This strand of masonry they both stood on rumbled beneath his feet, and at his back the huge mausoleum at the center of this web of columns burned with a crimson radiance reflected in the moon overhead. Had Ingelbert made it? Could Rania be safe even now? He had warned the Gypsy not to come back for him, offering to fend off the wolf pack alone. This deep into the castle, there could be no hesitation. Now bleeding, exhausted, and nearly bereft of silver arrows, he faced this most powerful opponent in what might prove to be the last fight of his life.
"Worried about your friend?" The prime werebeast gnashed his fangs, speech rendered an almost unintelligible growl by his half-wolf form. "Don't be. He'll never reach the Graff. Grin's in there, don't you know. The boy's as good as dead."
Ulric's arm did not stir in the slightest. The damned soul clearly feared his weapon; small wonder, having lost so many of his host to them. Only one arrow left, and my dagger. I don't stand a chance against him in a close quarters fight. Which means I can't afford to miss. The bridge they stood upon was no more than two feet across, limiting the werewolf's movement. It was the entire reason he led the sinful soul out here. There's no place for him to dodge. I have the advantage. I must choose my moment, just as you taught me, Grandfather.
The hulking beast drew ever closer, muscles flexing beneath his furred pelt and claws raised in preparation to rend his flesh. "And once we're done with you, Birkenstrad will pay dearly for your rebellion as well."
Don't think about that. Don't pay his words any heed. Forget about everything but this moment. Don't let your concern for anyone cloud your (Adelaide) judgement! Be strong!
Rajnee slyly noted how the human fighter's eyes narrowed behind his glasses at mention of his hometown. He crept ever closer, the wind running through his red pelt like a lover's hands. "There anyone I should pay special attention to when I get there, eh? A sister, maybe?" His eyes burned with unholy fire. "Or how about… a girlfriend?"
The silver arrowhead never wavered from the beast's heart. Yet Ulric could feel his own start to pound hard.
"Like the Constable's daughter."
Teeth gritted, the avenger involuntarily pulled back his bowstring even farther. He could almost hear his father's spiteful words in his ear: 'Fool boy! You're letting him bait you!'
"I believe her name was… Adelai–"
NOW!
The bowstring thrummed as the arrow shot towards its target. Dear God, please…!
The werewolf leapt straight into the air, the silver shaft passing harmlessly below him. His leap propelled him over fifty feet so that he hung for a moment silhouetted against the moon, borne aloft by the devil wind, a wild demon from hell itself.
And then he was tearing down for his target like a juggernaut. Ulric felt panic set in as he pulled the silver dagger from his belt. Run! No, he'll catch me! No room to dodge, no chance to fight, just…
Rajnee dropped straight toward him with a howl. Sterne's body froze with indecision. In that moment Ulric knew he was about to die.
Grandfather… I'm sorry. I failed.
With a whistling note, an arrow erupted through the werewolf captain's open jaws.
Ulric gaped. On instinct he stumbled back and flopped down hard. For a moment he nearly fell off the edge, dropping his knife and gripping the stone sides feverishly so that they bit into his palms.
Rajnee hit the bridge right in front of him and collapsed face forward. A gurgling rasp came from the dying monster's throat. For a moment their eyes met, and neither could tell which looked more surprised. Then the Graf's lieutenant slid off and plummeted towards the castle roof, disappearing into the darkness as Hell swallowed another black soul.
"Didn't your teacher instruct you not to waste ammunition?"
When Ulric looked up, he felt certain he must be dreaming. "Grandfather…?" he whispered.
"I suppose it's less insulting than your usual way of addressing me. Though hardly accurate."
The stupefied teen blinked frantically. He took off his cracked spectacles and put them back on. There indeed on the bridge was a white-haired bowman wearing a hooded cowl emblazoned with the five-pointed mark of their order. Yet the face proved even more shocking than even the thought of his dead teacher coming back to life.
"Richter?!" he blurted out in disbelief.
"Don't refer to me by my given name," his father ordered peremptorily. "How many times must I tell you?"
With no evident trepidation the elder archer strode briskly along the stone beam until he stood over his astonished offspring.
"You are a disgrace as usual." Richter Sterne's expression was his usual icy mask as he spoke. "While I do not fault your intentions in coming here, I do question your execution. There is more at stake than one Gypsy girl's life."
He then knelt down and held out a hand. "But once begun, we must accept reality. Now let us go. Dawn is swift approaching. While you and your friend were drawing their attention in your usual overly dramatic fashion, I took the opportunity to construct a magic circle around this whole complex. It should prevent any of the Graff's forces from leaving the castle during the day when he is slumbering. Before then we must…"
"Don't stop now, little Gypsy boy," the white-robed phantom Gehrin hissed as he hung in the air, spinning his scythe round and round one hand. "Yer almost the-e-e-rrre!"
Bound hand and foot by the demon's sorcery, Inglebert panted heavily, sweat dripping off his face as he stared at the glowing characters before him. His name; guess the demon's name, and he'd win, like the old woman outside Berkenstradt had warned. It hadn't made any sense at the time, but now with Gehrin's challenge set to cost him his life, his only hope was to use his head.
Got to put those strange symbols together. Row… no, LO-! Then han… fen… HEN-! And lastly…
"G… Grrri…"
He could see the devil's lips stretched across his face below the concealing cowl, the only part of his face that was visible, mocking the whole world with his sick twisted…
Like a shot of lightning across his brain, the answer came to him.
"LOHENGRIN!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.
The scythe blade stopped a hair's-breadth short of taking off his head.
"Well, well. Not so dumb after all, huh?" When Inglebert looked up, only that eerie smile hung once more in empty air. "Bye-bye!" it sang merrily, and disappeared.
The Graff held Inglebert by the throat high off the floor, his legs kicking futilely. Totholtz glanced down at the silver dagger buried in his chest. With utter contempt he wrapped pale fingers around its handle and pulled the weapon free. Dark red blood hissed and smoked upon it, but nothing more.
The knife clattered to the floor of his inner sanctum. At the same time, the vampire lord's eyes glowed red. His black-cloaked body seemed to swell larger, white face transforming into a demonic death mask that stood out against the pitch-dark body. His jaws opened wide, canines sprouting to wicked lengths.
"STOP!"
Totholtz ignored Rania's outburst, crouched on the floor in her dark green wedding dress. As Inglebert continued to struggle like a child in the monster's grip, the Graff bent down to tear his face off. Had Totholtz bothered to look, he might have been pleased to see the Gypsy girl's own eyes glowed as red as his own now.
Rania felt her spirit teetering on the line between damnation and salvation. The night was surging through her blood, screaming for cruelty and pain to be unleashed. She could actually sense it, out there, past the circle of thick blood-stained glass windows that encircled this whole mausoleum.
And she could feel more than that.
All the rage came bursting forth, the desire for vengeance that had been building up in her since arriving in this sinister place, or maybe her entire short bitter life. The power was there, just as Totholtz had promised her, magnified and focused by the unholy mark the immortal's tainted mouth had left on her blood, her soul. 'Let it out,' he had said. 'Let it serve you.'
A force unlike anything she had ever known filled the orphan girl. As Graff Totholtz moved to tear the life from her helpless friend, she opened her mouth wide, closed her eyes and SCREAMED!
The force of this shout held the power of a volley of cannonballs, and in an instant, every last window in the room was blasted into shards that went tumbling out in a glittering shower over the roofs of the castle.
They sparkled like red diamonds in the light of the newly risen morning sun.
Graff Totholtz emitted a howl so loud it rocked the entire mighty fortress down to its foundation. But for all the outrage in his voice, there was fear too, as the blazing golden sun sent its shafts piercing into the heart of the vampire's abode like spears aimed at his unbeating heart.
And where they touched him, the lord of the undead erupted into flames.
Totholtz continued to wail as his form caught fire like a pitch-soaked rag. Suddenly that gigantic body exploded, sending Inglebert flying. As Rania watched, the burning pieces of midnight became individual bats. A virtual horde of winged night-flyers swept throughout the burial chamber screeching in pain. Holy fire continued to overtake them so that they resembled flaming torches on the wing, or will-o-the-wisps. Resolutely Rania crawled below this hellstorm of fury. The sun's rays caused her to cringe, and not simply because she hadn't felt their touch in what seemed like years. Yet even as the pain raced over her skin, she could feel it removing whatever hellish taint the Graff had bestowed upon her. With every move she made, life and warmth returned to her limbs. It wasn't enough. I would not accept his evil, even if it meant rescuing my family, and so he could not make me like him. Now it seems I might be able to save them and myself after all.
She finally made her way over to Inglebert. Lifting him to a sitting position, Rania's heart soared when his eyes opened. Though clearly in pain from the injuries the Graff had inflicted upon him, it looked as though he would still survive. But only if I can get him out of here.
Overhead there came a loud shriek. Rania looked up in time to see the blaze of bats go twisting down like a cyclone straight into the half-open stone sarcophagus that dominated the center of this chamber. As she watched the last crumbling creature sink below the lip, two hands still engulfed in fire reached above the edge of the cairn and seized the lid, dragging it painfully closed.
Moments before the stone cover shut, two blood-red eyes burned from within those dark depths. They lanced into her with a shock so strong Rania could not look away, seeming to betoken a terrible promise…
'You are mine.'
A second later the casket had sealed itself from the unforgiving sun. The whole thing then sank swiftly down on some unseen mechanism until only the top was visible, flush with the floor beneath their feet. The weakened and vulnerable Graff was now beyond their reach.
Rania stared at that carved stone surface. She settled Inglebert gently back to the floor, wincing at his gasp of pain. Then the girl stood up. Walking forward, she picked up the silver dagger where it had fallen, examining herself in its polished sheen. No longer did she appear blurry in the reflection, a sign that her soul had not been lost to the darkness.
With that Rania marched over until she stood beside the submerged sarcophagus. Gazing down upon its carved surface, she considered the monster that lay resting beneath it.
Then she bent low. Carefully the girl drew the dagger's blade down in a long straight line. Afterwards she painted another mark straight across it near the top.
Rania stepped back. There before her on the Graff's tomb was a cross, drawn in his own blood. Beneath her feet a sound came, like a faint but furious scream far below, as though arising from the deepest pit of Hell itself.
She laid the bloody silver dagger upon the holy symbol's intersecting lines with the blade pointing down, almost like another cross atop the first. Perhaps that would be enough to hold him in there. At least long enough for her clan to flee from this nightmarish land and never return.
With that settled, she then went back to where Inglebert lay. Rania helped him clamber to his feet. Draping his arm over her shoulder, she supported the weary youth. He was too weak to protest this treatment as the two bedraggled Romani stumbled from the room without looking back.
As they made their way through the empty echoing corridors, Rania contemplated everything that had happened here. Unlike her clan, she did not believe she could escape the Graff's reach so easily. Totholtz had claimed her for his own, and he would not stop seeking her for so long as she lived. The thought of being with him for all eternity still made the Gypsy waif tremble, and not entirely from fear. The wicked vampire had been correct in his summation; there was wickedness in her too, a hatred for the human race that cleaved more closely to hell than heaven. Part of her still yearned to be with him, to satisfy his hungry desires alongside her own. Yet what he had neglected to mention was the choice one had to make in order to be truly damned.
Totholtz let the bitter hatred at love's betrayal so long ago consume him, offering up his very soul to the powers of darkness for the sake of vengeance. Right then Rania silently promised herself she would take the lesson he had unintentionally taught her to heart. Heart, body and soul; so long as she could lay claim to any one of them, the night would never claim her.
To be continued…