NOTES:
The characters of Father Michael and László are original creations of this fanfiction and do not appear in Bram Stoker's Dracula.
BUDAPEST
The midday sun, weak and watery, struggled to pierce the thick cloud cover that blanketed Budapest, casting a pall over the bustling market square. Sister Agatha, her woven basket heavy with fresh produce and loaves of bread, navigated the crowded stalls, her mind still troubled by Jonathan Harker's departure. His whispered accounts of strigoi and unholy horrors echoed in her thoughts.
She paused at a stall overflowing with fragrant herbs, inhaling the scent of rosemary and thyme. A shadow fell across the stall, and Sister Agatha looked up, startled. A tall, lean figure stood before her, his dark eyes, sharp and intense. He was a stranger, his face etched with a concern that seemed strangely familiar. He was Romani, she noted.
"Forgive me, Sister," he began, his voice a low murmur, "for disturbing you. But… I must speak with you. It's… urgent."
Sister Agatha clutched her basket tighter, her knuckles whitening. "I… I don't believe I know you," she stammered, her nervous gaze darting around. "If you have business with the convent, you should go there and request an audience to speak with the Mother Superior."
The man's expression turned grave. "Sister Agatha," he said, his voice soft yet insistent, "I know of the Englishman under your care. The one who spoke of…dark things."
Sister Agatha froze. How could this stranger know about Jonathan? A wave of disquiet washed over her, chased by a growing curiosity. Could this man offer some explanation for the young Englishman's torment?
"What… what do you know of him?" she asked, her voice trembling.
The Romani man's expression grew even more serious. "We know of his ordeal, Sister," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We know of the darkness he encountered. The strigoi… it is true, Sister. They are real."
Those words, spoken with such unwavering conviction, shattered what little remained of Sister Agatha's skepticism. A desperate hope flickered within her. She searched the Romani man's eyes, seeking answers.
Those words, spoken with such unwavering conviction, sent a chill down Sister Agatha's spine.. A flicker of fear crept into her heart, mingling with a reluctant curiosity.
"You… you believe him?" she whispered.
The man nodded solemnly. " We have seen the darkness he speaks of". He paused, his gaze intense
He lowered his voice. "Tomorrow night, there is a meeting—a gathering of those who seek knowledge of these things. A secret society... They call themselves the Ordo Draconis. They study supernatural phenomena, particularly ghosts, and are known to conduct séances with mediums regularly."
Sister Agatha's brow furrowed deeply. "A secret society? One devoted to the study of… forbidden knowledge?" She hesitated, crossing herself as a flicker of concern clouded her eyes. "I... I don't know. Such things are perilous. They delve into shadows where only those with the light of God in their hearts may tread without losing themselves."
The Romani man nodded, his expression one of understanding. "It's true that such societies often attract those who seek titillation, not the light, not the pursuit of true knowledge. I understand your reservations, Sister." He paused, his gaze distant, as though contemplating something far beyond the bustling market square. "But many in this society... they are powerful, influential, Sister. And they have resources. But they need proof. Undeniable proof—that the strigoi are real. And in return... they offer aid."
"Aid?" Sister Agatha asked, her interest piqued despite her reservations.
"There is a great evil, Sister," the Romani man explained, his voice low and urgent. "An evil that has been hidden in the Carpathians for centuries. Now... it seeks to spread its darkness across the world. There are those of us who would stand against it, fight it... but we need powerful allies."
Sister Agatha shivered, a chill that had nothing to do with the damp air. "The story sounds... compelling, young man," she admitted. "But tell me... why are you confiding this in me? I am but a simple nun."
The Romani man hesitated. "It was requested... stipulated... that a member of the Church be present, Sister. To bear witness. To attest to the truth. Someone like you, Sister. Someone of unwavering faith." He paused. "I hope you will consider attending, Sister. If you choose to come, a carriage will await you at the corner of Jókai utca and Aradi utca, tomorrow night, at eleven o'clock."
He made to turn away, but Sister Agatha, compelled by a sudden impulse, reached out to stop him. "Wait," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She hesitated, then asked, the question trembling on her lips, "Are you... a man of faith?"
The Romani man paused, turning back to face her. His gaze softened, and a faint smile touched his lips. He looked at the crucifix she wore, a simple silver cross hanging from a thin chain around her neck. "May I?" he asked, extending a hand towards it.
Sister Agatha, surprised but strangely compelled, nodded and lifted the crucifix from her habit, placing it in his outstretched hand. The Romani man held it gently, his fingers tracing the outline of the cross. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss against the cool metal. Then, he returned it to her, his dark eyes meeting hers, filled with a quiet sincerity that resonated deep within her soul. "With all my heart, Sister," he replied, his voice filled with a conviction that both surprised and reassured her. With a final, respectful nod, he turned and disappeared into the bustling crowd.
HOURS LATER: The Convent Garden
A gentle rain continued to fall upon the convent garden, washing the dust from the leaves and filling the air with the earthy scent of damp soil. Sister Agatha paced restlessly beneath the covered walkway, her rosary beads clicking a soft rhythm against her knuckles. Her encounter with László, the Romani man, had left her unsettled, his words echoing in her thoughts. A secret society, proof of strigoi, a darkness threatening to engulf the world… It all seemed so fantastical, so far removed from the quiet serenity of her life within the convent walls. Yet, the conviction in László's eyes, his chilling certainty about the strigoi, and the unsettling familiarity of his concern for Jonathan gnawed at her.
Father Michael emerged from the convent, his black cassock shimmering faintly in the dim light. He paused beside Sister Agatha, his gaze sweeping the tranquil garden, a peaceful haven seemingly untouched by the darkness László had described. "A troubled mind makes for restless pacing, Sister," he observed, his voice gentle but laced with a hint of concern. "Something weighs heavily on your heart."
Sister Agatha turned to him, her brow furrowed with worry. "Father Michael, I… I need your counsel. Something… strange has happened. Do you recall my mentioning a few days ago, a young Englishman who had been under our care?"
Father Michael's brow furrowed in thought. "Yes, Sister. The young man who… suffered from… delusions of shadows and darkness, if I recall correctly? I regret I didn't have the chance to meet him before he departed with his sister."
"That is he, Father," Sister Agatha confirmed, a chill tracing its path down her spine as she remembered Jonathan's haunted gaze. "This afternoon… I was approached in the market square by a… a Romani man. He… he knew of Jonathan. He knew of the dark things Jonathan spoke of in his delirium."
Father Michael's brow furrowed. "A Romani man? Here, in Budapest? Seeking you out specifically? That is… unusual."
"Yes, Father," Sister Agatha replied, her voice gaining urgency. "He… he stopped me. Said he knew of Jonathan's ordeal, of the… the dead that walk at night. Creatures of darkness Jonathan insisted were real."
Father Michael's brow furrowed, a flicker of concern in his warm brown eyes. "Dead that walk at night?" he questioned, his tone laced with a hint of skepticism. He adjusted his spectacles, the gesture a familiar tic when he was deep in thought. "Sister, you know such tales are merely… folklore. Superstitions passed down through generations. Surely, a rational mind like yours doesn't give credence to such…"
Sister Agatha hesitated, then continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, her gaze fixed on the manicured rose bushes that lined the convent garden path. "He spoke of… strigoi, Father," she confessed, the Romanian word heavy on her tongue. "Vampires. The dead… condemned to rise from their graves each night, to feed on the blood of the living… He said… he said they are real."
Father Michael's expression remained neutral, but Sister Agatha could sense the wheels turning behind his calm facade. This man, a seasoned priest, a scholar dispatched from the Vatican on a delicate mission, had undoubtedly encountered many unusual situations in his service to the Church. But vampires? Strigoi? That was a concept that surely strained the boundaries of even his extensive knowledge and experience of the world.
"And what did this… Romani man… want from you, Sister?" Father Michael asked, his voice carefully measured, a hint of concern underlying his usual jovial tone.
"He claimed they have undeniable proof… that the s… strigoi are real, Father," Sister Agatha replied, her voice still trembling slightly, the memory of László's intense gaze vivid in her mind. "And… and that they needed someone from the Church… to bear witness."
"Proof?" Father Michael repeated, a touch of skepticism coloring his tone. He adjusted his spectacles, the gesture a familiar tic when he was grappling with something he couldn't quite comprehend. "Proof of… vampires, Sister? Surely, you don't put stock in such…"
Sister Agatha, still flustered, hurried on. "He invited me to a meeting, Father. With members of a secret society," she explained, wringing her hands slightly. "The Ordo Draconis. He said... they study such things. They seek knowledge of the supernatural."
Father Michael was silent for a moment, considering her words. "A secret society, Sister? Dabbling in the occult... These are dangerous waters we're wading into. Are you certain this is something we should be involving ourselves with?"
Sister Agatha nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of his words. "I know, Father. But... what if Jonathan's ravings weren't ravings at all? What if... what if there is truth to his words?"
Before Father Michael could reply, she continued, her voice rising with urgency. "He also spoke of a great evil, Father," Sister Agatha said, desperate to convey the gravity of László's warning. "An ancient darkness that threatens to spread across the world. He believes this Ordo Draconis... if they are convinced at tonight's meeting... they have resources... knowledge... that could help in the fight against this evil."
Father Michael's gaze met hers, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and quiet determination. He sighed, weighing her words carefully before speaking, his voice tinged with reluctance. "I remain skeptical, Sister. Vampires, This... society,'... it all sounds like a dangerous path. But, if there is even a fraction of truth to what you're saying… then we must face it. We must seek the truth, wherever it may lead us."
He paused, steeling himself, before adding with quiet resolve, "Tonight… we go to this meeting."
HOURS LATER
The gas lamps flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow on the rain-slicked cobblestones, painting the scene in hues of shadow and gloom. Sister Agatha and Father Michael stood huddled beneath the awning of a closed apothecary, the chill night air biting at their exposed skin. Sister Agatha clutched her rosary, the smooth beads a source of comfort in the unsettling stillness. Beside her, Father Michael shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the small leather-bound satchel clutched tightly in his hand, the silver clasp glinting faintly in the dim light.
A sleek black carriage, drawn by two magnificent black Friesians, materialized out of the swirling mist, the rhythmic clip-clop of their hooves echoing softly on the wet cobblestones. László emerged, his dark eyes widening slightly as he took in the unexpected presence of Father Michael.
"Sister Agatha," he began, a flicker of surprise in his voice. He paused, taking a moment to collect himself, then a warm, genuine smile spread across his face. "It gladdens my heart to see you chose to join us, Sister. And… you've brought… reinforcements." He glanced at Father Michael, a hint of curiosity in his gaze.
Sister Agatha smiled faintly and made the introductions. "László, this is Father Michael. He's a visiting priest from America, here on a mission from the Vatican. He's currently staying at our convent."
László's smile widened, a genuine expression of welcome replacing the initial surprise. "A priest!" he exclaimed, a hint of reverence in his tone. "That is… most fortunate. Providence, perhaps?" He bowed respectfully to Father Michael. "Father, it is an honor. I must confess, this is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting someone from America."
Father Michael, though clearly still wary, his gaze lingering on László's worn clothes and the silver ring that adorned his finger, returned the bow with a polite nod. "The honor is mine," he replied, his American accent a stark contrast to László's lilting Romani inflection. " Dio mio, but this is a strange situation we find ourselves in." He chuckled softly, but there was a nervous tremor underlying the sound.
As Sister Agatha and Father Michael settled into the plush velvet seats of the carriage, László's gaze fell upon the small satchel Father Michael carried. He noticed the embossed crucifix on the cover and the slight bulge beneath the leather that hinted at its contents. A knowing smile touched his lips. "With a priest among us, Sister," he remarked, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, "perhaps we will have more than just earthly allies in this fight."
He paused, his eyes twinkling, then turned to Father Michael. "Forgive my curiosity, Father, but do you… happen to carry the… Blessed Sacrament with you?"
Father Michael hesitated for a moment, then nodded, his hand instinctively going to the satchel. "Indeed, I do," he replied, a flicker of surprise in his voice. "I never leave the convent without it. As you said, we may need more than earthly allies in this fight." He opened the satchel just enough to reveal the small, silver pyx nestled within, the consecrated hosts a stark reminder of the sacred duty he carried, a duty that now seemed to extend beyond the convent walls and into this world of shadows and secrets.
László's smile broadened, his gaze filled with a quiet reverence. "Then we are truly blessed, Father," he said softly. He gave the driver a signal, and the carriage rolled smoothly into the night, the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves a steady counterpoint to the growing unease within the carriage. As the city lights receded into the distance, they journeyed toward the darkened outskirts of Budapest, toward the secluded estate of Baron Von Krieger, and the unsettling truths that awaited them there
1 HOUR LATER
The carriage rattled along a narrow, winding road, the skeletal branches of ancient trees clawing at the night sky. Inside, Sister Agatha and Father Michael sat in tense silence, the anticipation gnawing at their composure. Only the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves and the creaking of the carriage wheels punctuated the stillness.
"Sister Agatha tells me you are a man of faith, László," Father Michael said, breaking the silence, his voice thoughtful.
László nodded, meeting the priest's gaze in the dim light of the carriage. "With all my heart, Father."
Father Michael paused, then continued, a more serious tone entering his voice. "Then as a man of faith, László, I must ask – what is your opinion of this… Ordo Draconis? This secret society dealing in… shadows?"
László sighed, his gaze drifting to the carriage window. "In the war we are fighting, Father," he said, his voice low and grave, "we need all the allies we can get." He paused, a troubled expression crossing his face. "The Ordo… it is mostly comprised of the European nobility, and some immensely wealthy commoners. Many are there for fashion, Father, not true belief. For amusement. To appear… sophisticated." He hesitated, then added, "There are a few, however… a very few… who are genuinely interested. The Baron, of course. And… a scholar from Amsterdam. He understands."
Sister Agatha frowned. "Children playing with fire," she murmured, shaking her head. "The mystic arts are not a game. They dabble in things they do not understand."
"Father Michael nodded grimly. "Rich and bored, playing with things they don't truly understand as if it were a new toy," he agreed. "They risk their souls."
László nodded, his expression somber. "Let us hope," he said quietly, "that tonight's… demonstration… will open their eyes to the true nature of the darkness we face."
As they rounded a bend, the silhouette of Baron Von Krieger's estate emerged—a towering structure of dark stone framed against the moonlit sky. The sprawling manor seemed almost alive, its glowing windows watching like sentinel eyes. But it was the figures gathered on the expansive lawn before the house that drew Sister Agatha's and Father Michael's attention. They stood in small clusters, their hushed murmurs drifting faintly on the cool night air.
László broke the silence, his voice tinged with melancholy. "The gathering will be held outside tonight. What you are about to witness… is best observed under the vast expanse of the heavens."
As the carriage came to a halt at the edge of the sprawling lawn, László turned to them, his expression earnest. "Whatever you see tonight… do not allow yourselves to be swayed by first impressions. Remember: even in the deepest darkness, there is light." With that cryptic warning, he stepped out of the carriage and extended a hand to assist them.
Stepping onto the lawn, Sister Agatha and Father Michael were struck by the eerie beauty of the scene. A massive bonfire crackled at the center, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows over the finely dressed crowd. Romani musicians seated near the fire wove a haunting melody with violins and cimbaloms, the notes lingering in the night air, amplifying the otherworldly atmosphere.
Two men approached from across the lawn. The first, a tall and commanding figure with a neatly trimmed silver beard, carried himself with the effortless confidence of a nobleman. Beside him was a man whose piercing eyes and sharp demeanor marked him as a scholar, his gaze scanning the scene with the intensity of a mind accustomed to unraveling complexities.
László noticed their approach and turned to Sister Agatha and Father Michael. "Wait here for a moment," he said softly, his tone carrying an undercurrent of gravity. Without further explanation, he stepped forward to intercept the two men.
Sister Agatha and Father Michael exchanged a glance, curiosity flickering between them as they observed the interaction from afar. The three men spoke in low, measured tones, their conversation almost swallowed by the night. At one point, the nobleman's gaze flicked toward the priest and nun. He murmured something to László, who responded with a brief but decisive nod.
After their exchange, the three men began walking toward Sister Agatha and Father Michael.
László performed the introductions, his tone formal and measured. "Sister Agatha, Father Michael," he said, gesturing toward the nobleman, "may I present your gracious host for the evening, Baron Eduard Von Krieger." Turning to the other man, his expression became more serious, "And this," he continued, his voice dropping slightly, "is Professor Abraham Van Helsing. From what I have observed within this esteemed society, Professor Van Helsing possesses the most profound understanding of the…matters…that concern us tonight. A true polymath—physician, doctor of law, philosopher, scientist, metaphysician…and a devout Catholic. He has dedicated his life to the pursuit of knowledge, both earthly and divine, and his insights will be invaluable."
At the mention of Van Helsing's name, Sister Agatha noticed Father Michael stiffen, his expression flickering with recognition and surprise. As Van Helsing stepped forward, offering his hand, the priest clasped it firmly, his voice filled with a mix of reverence and admiration. "Professor Van Helsing," Father Michael said, "it is truly an honor to meet you. I have not had the privilege of meeting you in person before, but I am well aware of your work. The Vatican has referenced your studies on more than one occasion."
Van Helsing inclined his head humbly, a faint smile softening his otherwise sharp features. "I am honored by your words, Father," he replied. "Faith and knowledge are not enemies but allies, as I believe you will agree."
Father Michael turned to Sister Agatha, his voice lowered but tinged with quiet intensity. "Sister," he said, "that man is likely the foremost lay expert in Europe on the mystical sciences. His knowledge in these matters… there is no equal outside the Church."
Sister Agatha, ever observant, noted the way Father Michael's tone carried not just respect but something close to relief. It was as if the priest felt comforted by Van Helsing's presence, an acknowledgment that their cause was in capable hands.
"Sister Agatha, Father Michael," the baron greeted warmly. "Welcome. I trust your journey was pleasant. It is truly a pleasure to meet you both," he said earnestly, his gaze shifting between them. "I must admit, I was quite skeptical that you, Sister, would accept the invitation. And now, to find not just one, but two esteemed members of the Church here this evening…" He paused, exhaling softly, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "I am… relieved. Your presence tonight means more to me than I can easily express."
Van Helsing, standing beside him, nodded in agreement. "Indeed," he added. "It takes courage to step into a setting such as this. Your faith will be of great importance tonight."
The nobleman's attention returned to László. His tone dropped, becoming almost conspiratorial. "I trust that with representatives of the Church bearing witness, they will now be… satisfied?"
László smiled faintly, his expression unreadable. "Yes," he replied. "That was one of their conditions."
The baron nodded, seemingly reassured. Sister Agatha and Father Michael exchanged a glance, confusion flickering in their eyes. Father Michael broke the silence, his tone measured but firm. "Who will be satisfied with our presence?"
László's smile deepened slightly, and there was a glint of something almost playful in his eyes as he answered. "The Strigoi," he said simply. "It was their demand. They insisted that representatives of the Church bear witness to tonight's events."
Sister Agatha furrowed her brow, a spark of unease passing over her face. Father Michael, on the other hand, remained skeptical, his mind grappling with the implications of what they had just heard. To him, this seemed more like an elaborate theatrical display orchestrated by a secretive society. Yet this latest revelation—the claim that the Strigoi themselves had demanded their presence—stirred a flicker of curiosity he couldn't entirely suppress. He glanced down at the satchel at his side, his jaw tightening as he weighed the possibility that the night might hold more truth than illusion.
László gestured toward the gathering ahead. "All will become clear soon," he said, his tone calm but laced with an enigmatic undertone. "For now, let us proceed. There is much to prepare."
With that, the group began moving toward the heart of the gathering, the tension in the air thick enough to taste. Sister Agatha and Father Michael followed, their thoughts racing with questions as the night seemed to darken around them.
As Sister Agatha moved through the gathering, she observed a mix of men and women of varying ages, all dressed in the finery of Europe's elite. Some wore jeweled insignia of nobility, their faces etched with aristocratic curiosity. Others, younger and less formally attired, whispered amongst themselves, their gazes shifting between the newcomers and the imposing figure of Professor Abraham Van Helsing. Sister Agatha, her senses heightened, noticed the skepticism in the eyes of several guests. Their expressions ranged from polite interest to outright disbelief.
Observing the curious glances of the priest and the nun, the Baron smiled. "Many of my guests are seekers of hidden truths. Tonight, we have a rare opportunity to witness something that few have ever encountered."
As the Baron spoke, Sister Agatha overheard a nearby conversation. A young woman, her eyes wide with morbid curiosity, leaned closer to her companion, whispering, "Do you think it's true… those… creatures? The ones from folklore?" Her companion, a young man with a carefully waxed mustache, chuckled and replied, "Don't be absurd, darling. Such things are mere superstition. The Baron enjoys a good… theatrical presentation. It's all rather… avant-garde, wouldn't you say?"
Father Michael smirked. "It seems I'm not the only one who came with a skeptical mind," he whispered to Sister Agatha, a comment that brought a slight smile to her face. , though herself uncertain of what to expect, felt a growing sense of anticipation, a desperate hope that tonight, in this strange gathering of skeptics and scholars, beneath the vast, indifferent sky, she might finally find some answers to the questions that haunted her. She clutched her rosary tighter, her gaze fixed on László , waiting for the… revelations… to begin.
At that moment, Father Michael, gazing up at the moon, thought he saw something flicker in his peripheral vision – a fleeting shape silhouetted against the moon's luminous disc. He blinked, and it was gone, leaving him with a prickle of unease. Dismissing it as a trick of the light, a momentary distortion caused by the firelight and the hypnotic music, he then noticed László, who had gone ahead, conversing with other Romani people, his expression serious.
László then approached the Baron's group, accompanied by the other Romani. A hushed anticipation rippled through the assembled guests as László leaned in and whispered to Baron Von Krieger. The Baron nodded slowly. He turned to address the gathering, raising a hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "if you would be so kind as to gather closer. László has a most intriguing announcement." László gestured sharply to the musicians. "Silence," he commanded. The music ceased, the sudden quiet amplifying the crackling bonfire. The guests formed a tighter circle.
László stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the assembled guests. "For centuries," he began, his voice resonating with quiet intensity, "a great evil has been contained within the Carpathian Mountains. An ancient darkness, preying upon the innocent." He paused, letting his words sink in. "But now, this evil seeks to spread, to cast its shadow across the world. It craves the teeming populations of the cities."
He paused again, his gaze lingering on Baron Von Krieger and Professor Van Helsing. Then, his eyes softened as he turned to Sister Agatha and Father Michael, a faint smile touching his lips. "To combat this encroaching darkness," he continued, "we will need the combined strength of all who stand for the light. Scholars, scientists, men and women of faith… all must unite."
His expression turned grave once more. "The esteemed Ordo Draconis," he said, his voice gaining urgency, "has long sought proof of the legends. They seek confirmation of the strigoi… the undead… They have demanded proof before offering their aid. And tonight," he declared, his voice ringing with newfound power, "that proof will be provided."
László leaned in and whispered something to the young Romani woman beside him. She nodded, a serious expression on her face. László then turned back to the assembled guests, gesturing towards the young woman. "This is Radka," he announced. "She will guide you in what must be done next."
Radka turned to the other Romani and spoke to them in their native tongue, her voice low and urgent. They nodded and moved purposefully, carrying a large wooden crate towards the center of the clearing. From the crate, they retrieved several bundles of dried herbs, which they began to scatter along the ground, their movements precise and ritualistic. With a small rake, they then carefully delineated a wide circle around the bonfire, the freshly turned earth a stark contrast to the trampled grass.
Once the circle was complete, Radka raised her voice, her tone suddenly sharp, commanding. "Do not approach the perimeter," she instructed, her gaze sweeping the assembled guests. "Remain where you are. And under no circumstances are you to… interact… with… them… unless they wish it."
As she spoke, the other Romani men, their faces grim, their movements precise and efficient, began placing small, barrels around the edge of the gathering. One of the men, with a practiced hand, unstoppered a barrel, revealing its contents – a viscous, crimson liquid that shimmered like rubies in the firelight. A pungent, coppery scent wafted on the night air, adding a visceral, unsettling element to the already charged atmosphere.
"Blood," László explained, his voice low and steady, cutting through the rising murmurs of confusion and disgust. "A necessary… offering… A… precaution."
Both Sister Agatha and Father Michael instinctively made the sign of the cross. Those who had scoffed at the idea of vampires now shifted uneasily, their skepticism wavering in the face of the unsettling display.
Radka taking a deep breath began to chant in a low, melodic voice, the Romani words ancient and strange, yet carrying a power that resonated deep within the hearts of those who listened.
Abraham Van Helsing, his piercing gaze fixed on Radka, repeated the words with a quiet intensity, his mind racing. He recognized some of the root words, their origins tracing back to ancient Sanskrit and Proto-Indo-European languages. He scribbled furiously in his notebook, his fascination growing with each passing moment.
"We are ready," Radka murmured to László, her voice low and steady despite the tension crackling in the air. László nodded, his gaze sweeping across the assembled guests, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension in his eyes. He reached into a leather pouch at his side and withdrew a small, cylindrical object.
A young nobleman, his face pale, whispered to his companion, "Good heavens, what is this? Is he going to… blow something up?" His companion, equally unnerved, simply shook her head, her wide eyes betraying her apprehension.
László, ignoring the ripple of nervous whispers from the crowd, struck a match against the rough stone of a nearby wall, the flame flaring briefly in the darkness. With a practiced hand, he lit the fuse of the firework, the sulfurous scent mingling with the faint coppery tang lingering in the air. A collective gasp rippled through the gathered crowd as he held it aloft for a moment, the sputtering fuse a fragile point of light against the vast night sky. Then, with a sharp whoosh, the firework shot upwards, trailing a glittering stream of sparks. High above the estate, it exploded in a brilliant burst, showering the clearing in a cascade of red and gold light.
The fading brilliance left a sulfurous phantom hanging in the air. Silence, heavy and expectant, descended upon the gathering. László, his eyes reflecting the faint moonlight, murmured, "Observe the moon."
A ripple of nervous whispers moved through the crowd. Near Sister Agatha, a young woman in a shimmering gown gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Look!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with awe and fear. "Up there! Do you see? It's… it's moving…"
Beside her, a young man in a Hussar officer's uniform scoffed, though his wide eyes, fixed on the sky, betrayed his unease. "Don't be ridiculous, Ilona," he said, his tone dismissive. "It's just the moon, playing tricks on the light."
"No, Sándor, look closer!" the countess insisted, her voice barely more than a whisper now, her grip tightening on his arm. "It's like… like dust motes… dancing in the moonlight… but… but it's changing…"
At first, it was as she described. Just the faintest shimmer against the darkness, like motes of dust caught in a moonbeam, their movement slow, almost imperceptible. But as the onlookers gazed upward, the dance grew more pronounced. The motes swirled and pulsed with a faint, internal luminescence, their movements no longer random but weaving intricate, hypnotic patterns against the night sky.
A chill snaked down Sister Agatha's spine. "He was telling the truth", she thought, remembering Jonathan Harker's haunted eyes and his trembling voice recounting impossible things. Everything he described… true…
The air grew electric, charged with an unseen energy. Around her, the expressions of the gathered guests shifted—skepticism giving way to awe, fear, and even terror. Some staggered back, their faces pale. A few fainted outright, their bodies caught by nearby companions. Others clutched at pendants or crosses, whispering prayers in trembling voices.
Beside her, Father Michael's grip tightened on the satchel slung over his shoulder. "I came to Budapest on another mission…" he whispered, his voice strained as his fingers fumbled beneath the flap, searching for the silver pyx hidden within, readying himself to retrieve a consecrated host. "…but I believe this is more important."
Before his hand could close around the sacred object, László's hand came to rest over his, firm but gentle. "Please, Father, I beg you," László murmured, his dark eyes locking onto the priest's with an almost pleading intensity. "These are not demons. Not devils to be banished. Remember my words: there is light, even in darkness. Do not judge them before you have heard their story. I beg you… wait."
Father Michael turned his gaze to László, his expression wavering between surprise and suspicion. For a long moment, he studied the man, as if searching for any crack in his resolve or sincerity. Slowly, the priest's eyes shifted back to the swirling lights above, his face etched with doubt and a quiet struggle. The patterns in the sky danced and pulsed, their strange beauty a stark contrast to the unease within his heart.
His jaw tightened as his inner conflict reached its peak. Finally, with a deep, measured breath, he made his choice. Releasing the satchel, he reached into his pocket and drew out his crucifix. Holding it with a reverence born of both faith and fear, he pressed it to his lips in a silent prayer, his voice trembling as he whispered, "My God… I hope he's right."
The crucifix caught the faint moonlight as Father Michael lowered it, his grip firm yet pensive. Whatever lay ahead, it was clear he would move forward, his faith both his shield and his guide.
Van Helsing, his piercing gaze fixed on the swirling lights before him, leaned forward with an intensity that seemed to draw him closer to the phenomenon. "Magnificent…" he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "…The legends… the tales of the undead and their capacities for shape-shifting… true…"
His hand trembled as he hastily scribbled in his notebook, the pen moving in rapid, erratic strokes as though his thoughts could scarcely keep up with what he was witnessing.
Beside him, the Baron's usual air of composed authority had unraveled. He gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles turning white as his hands betrayed the tension he was trying to suppress. His jaw tightened, and yet he nodded, his wide eyes fixed on the same scene that transfixed Van Helsing. Whatever this was, it had shaken even the Baron's unflappable demeanor.
The motes, now intensely bright, began to coalesce, their dance reaching a fever pitch. Within the swirling luminescence, forms emerged—limbs, graceful and fluid; faces, ethereal and beautiful, yet unsettling, framed by shimmering hair. Three figures descended, solidifying as they drifted downwards, the swirling motes weaving around them until, at last, they stood upon the earth, three women of unearthly beauty.
Father Michael, his crucifix clutched tightly in his hand, observed the women with a cautious curiosity. Their otherworldly presence both fascinated and disturbed him. He sensed a power emanating from them, a darkness that seemed to shimmer just beneath the surface of their ethereal beauty. As he watched, he felt a trembling hand slip into his. He looked down to see a young woman, her face pale and drawn, her eyes wide with unshed tears, clutching his hand with surprising strength. Her attire suggested German nobility, but her trembling lips and the desperate plea in her eyes spoke of a terror that transcended social status. "Father," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion, "I... I must confess."
At that moment, Father Michael realized that he and Sister Agatha were no longer alone at the edge of the gathering. A small crowd had formed around them, their faces a mixture fear, and desperate hope. They pressed closer, their trembling hands reaching out, their whispered pleas for blessings and protection mingling with the crackling of the bonfire and the lingering scent of blood.
A wave of sadness washed over Father Michael, and he remembered his earlier conversation with László in the carriage, and Sister Agatha's words echoed in his mind: "Children playing with fire... thinking it all amusement." He looked at the faces surrounding him, their expressions mirroring the same terror that had gripped Jonathan Harker, and he knew that this night, this encounter with the three strigoaice , was far more than just a game for the wealthy and bored. It was a glimpse into a darkness that threatened to consume them all.
As the pleas for divine intervention swirled around him, Father Michael felt a strange calm settle over him. He gently disengaged his hand from the young noblewoman's grasp, offering her a reassuring smile. "My child," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, "I will hear your confession soon. But first, we must all… be brave. Be strong in your faith."
He turned his gaze back towards the three women, his expression a mixture of apprehension and a strange, burgeoning sense of awe. They were undeniably beautiful,. Yet, beneath the surface, he sensed the darkness László had warned him about, a predatory stillness that sent a shiver down his spine. It was then that he noticed the tallest of the three, the one with the striking blonde hair, was watching him. Her piercing blue eyes met his, and to his astonishment, a faint smile touched her lips. It wasn't a cruel or mocking smile, as he might have expected from a creature of darkness. It was something else entirely… something akin to… approval. The unexpected warmth of the gesture disarmed him, leaving him momentarily speechless.
Suddenly, the faint smile that had adorned the blonde strigoaice's lips vanished, replaced by a predatory gleam. The transformation was swift and deeply unsettling. The other two women, their faces now marked by the same chilling intensity, mirrored her expression. Their gazes swept over the gathered guests like hunters surveying their prey. The hushed whispers were replaced by gasps and stifled cries as tension rippled through the crowd.
Before the vampires could act, László and Radka moved toward them, their faces a mix of respect and apprehension. A heavy silence fell over the gathering as a tense exchange of words took place between the Romani and the strigoaice. László gestured subtly toward the barrels of blood, his movements deliberate, as though trying to placate a dangerous predator. The tension, already palpable, became nearly unbearable. The guests shifted uneasily, their anxious whispers silenced by the oppressive stillness.
After a few more moments of tension, during which the vampires seemed to wrestle with some internal conflict, the predatory expressions on their faces began to soften. Suddenly, the fierce intensity disappeared, replaced by an unsettling neutrality. Then, with preternatural grace, the strigoaice moved toward the barrels. Each step was smooth and deliberate, their movements hypnotic and otherworldly.
They paused before the barrels, their eyes scanning the contents. One of the vampires, the dark-haired one, let her gaze linger on the assembled guests for a moment longer than necessary. A low, chilling chuckle escaped her lips. "I trust," she said, her voice laced with a predatory edge, "that what you are witnessing tonight is sufficiently convincing. We are real."
With that, they each approached a barrel, their movements driven by a raw, animalistic hunger. There was no ritual, no ceremony, just a primal need. One by one, they plunged their hands into the blood, the crimson liquid clinging to their pale skin. They brought their hands to their lips, savoring the taste with a reverence that was both fascinating and terrifying. Low growls rumbled in their chests as they fed, the metallic tang of blood saturating the air, overwhelming the scent of damp earth and distant herbs.
At that moment, László and Radka, their faces showing some measure of relief, approached Baron Von Krieger and Professor Van Helsing. They spoke to them in hushed, urgent tones. The baron's face paled as he listened, his expression faltering. Meanwhile, a flicker of grim understanding crossed Van Helsing's features as he nodded sharply, his resolve evident.
Finally, László and Radka approached Sister Agatha and Father Michael. László's dark eyes met the priest's, his gaze intense yet steady. His voice, low and deliberate, carried a calm urgency.
"Remember, Father," László murmured, his voice low and deliberate. "There is light within them, but also darkness. They were not evil in life. But now… they are strigoaice—restless dead, cursed to rise from their graves at night and drink blood. This curse is their burden to bear."
As Father Michael's expression grew pensive, László repeated himself, his dark eyes locking with the priest's. "It is their burden, Father. But remember this—it was not of their choosing."
Sister Agatha, her gaze fixed on the three vampires, whispered, "I... I had always envisioned them as demons, Father. Creatures of pure evil, driven only by a thirst for blood. But they... they showed… restraint." She paused, then added, her voice barely above a whisper, "Perhaps... our perception of them has been... woefully incomplete.
Father Michael, still clutching his crucifix, nodded slowly, his gaze distant and thoughtful. "Perhaps," he echoed, his voice barely audible. He was about to speak further when the Baron and Van Helsing approached.
Baron Von Krieger, observing the fear etched on the faces of his guests and the strange tableau of the German noblewoman clinging to Father Michael, cleared his throat nervously. He turned to László and Radka, his usual composure faltering slightly.
"Please," he began, his voice slightly shaky, gesturing toward the three vampiresses who had already ceased feeding and were whispering among themselves near the barrels, their crimson-stained hands a stark reminder of their nature. "Tell… them… that the Ordo Draconis will provide all necessary assistance for their… relocation… to England." He paused, swallowing hard, and then continued, his voice regaining some of its usual authority. "Assure them that they will be provided with a… suitable… residence. A place where they will not be disturbed. Discreet."
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze flickering between László and Radka. "Transportation… logistics… everything will be handled with the utmost discretion," he added, his tone now firm, as if trying to convince himself as much as László and Radka. "Tell them… they have our word."
László opened his mouth to reply to the Baron, but before he could utter a word, a woman's voice, smooth as velvet yet carrying an undercurrent of steel, cut through the night air. "We believe your word, Baron."
Every head in the clearing swiveled towards the source of the sound. A collective gasp rippled through the assembled guests, followed by a hushed silence punctuated only by the crackling bonfire. Standing a few paces away, their figures illuminated by the flickering flames, were the three vampires. They had approached unnoticed, their movements preternaturally silent. Their faces, though still bearing traces of the crimson feast, were now devoid of the predatory intensity they had displayed moments before. They observed the gathering with an unsettling calm, their expressions unreadable.
The Baron, visibly startled, fumbled with his cane, his gaze fixed on the women. A nervous tremor ran through him, but he quickly composed himself, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "My ladies," he stammered, a slight tremor in his voice, "we… we didn't realize you were… so close."
The tallest of the three, the blonde woman whose smile had so unnerved Father Michael, stepped forward. Her crimson lips curved into a subtle, almost amused expression. "It seemed prudent to maintain a… respectful distance… while our hunger was still upon us," she said, her voice a low, melodic murmur that carried across the clearing despite the crackling fire. Her piercing blue eyes met the Baron's, holding his gaze with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. "But rest assured, dear Baron," she continued, her voice softening slightly, "we heard… everything… while we… sated ourselves."
Beside the Baron, Van Helsing, though clearly startled by their sudden appearance, quickly recovered his composure. His scholarly curiosity seemed to outweigh any fear, his piercing gaze fixed on the women with an intensity that mirrored their own.
At that moment, the red-haired vampire leaned in, whispering something in the blonde's ear. A genuine smile, a stark contrast to the predatory grin she had displayed earlier, touched the blonde's lips. She turned back to the Baron, her blue eyes now softer, though no less intense.
please pardon our… rustic manners. We are not accustomed to… polite society." She inclined her head slightly, a gesture that was both regal and strangely vulnerable. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Brunhilde." She gestured to the red-haired vampire. "This is Hereswith." Then, indicating the dark-haired vampire, she completed the introductions. "And this is Zlata.