Notes:
The characters of Baroness Wilhelmina von Elsner, Earl Jonathan Ashworth, Countess Elena Dolgorukaya, Viscount Nikolaus von Schreiber and Marchioness Isabella de Montoya are original creations of this fanfiction and do not appear in Bram Stoker's Dracula.
Readers familiar with Dracula's Guest by Bram Stoker—a short prequel to the novel Dracula—will recognize the reference and understand the significance of Munich in this context.
BARON VON KRIEGER'S ESTATE
"Please pardon our… rustic manners. We are not accustomed to… polite society." Brunhilde inclined her head slightly, a gesture both regal and strangely vulnerable. "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." She paused, her blue eyes sweeping over the assembled guests. "We thank you for bearing witness to… our truth." Her gaze settled on László and Radka. "And we thank you, our loyal friends," she added, her voice softening slightly, "for facilitating this… alliance."
At this point, László stepped forward, his demeanor respectful yet assertive, commanding the attention of everyone present. "My ladies," he began, his voice resonating with a practiced clarity, "allow me to present Baron Eduard Von Krieger, our gracious host, and Professor Abraham Van Helsing, esteemed scholar and… student… of the unseen." He gestured toward the two men with a slight bow of his head, then turned to the priest and nun standing slightly apart. "And as you requested, my ladies, representing the Church, we have Father Michael and Sister Agatha, of the Order of the Sisters of Mercy."
Hereswith remained silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the Baron and Professor Van Helsing. Then, she let her eyes drift over the elaborate decorations and the atmosphere of the vast lawn before the castle. Finally, she offered a slow, measured smile.
"Thank you, esteemed Baron, for welcoming us to this lovely place," she said smoothly. Then, after a deliberate pause, she added, "Though I must say, your taste in decor is… questionable."
The comment, delivered with a dry wit, caught the Baron off guard. He blinked, unsure whether to be offended or amused. Van Helsing, however, raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the unexpected display of humor from a being he had assumed to be wholly consumed by darkness.
The three vampiresses then turned their gazes towards the two members of the church. Brunhilde's eyes lingered on Sister Agatha, a flicker of gratitude warming her expression. "Later", she thought, "I will thank her properly … for the help she gave to my Jonathan".
Their expressions, though carefully composed, betrayed a flicker of something deeper, as their eyes lingered on the crucifixes adorning the priest and nun. The faint gleam of silver in the firelight seemed to cast a halo-like glow around the sacred symbols, a light the vampiresses appeared both drawn to and repelled by.
Zlata took a step forward, her dark eyes shimmering with something that teetered on the edge of sorrow. When she spoke, her voice was soft as a whisper, yet it carried through the heavy silence.
"Father," she began, each syllable imbued with a haunting cadence, "how we long to approach you… to kneel before you… to press our lips to the sacred symbol you wear." She hesitated, something tightening in her expression, as though the very admission pained her. "But… our condition…" Her voice trailed off. "We cannot come near."
The air grew heavy, thick with an unspoken weight. The only sound was the occasional crackle of the bonfire. Father Michael and Sister Agatha exchanged startled glances, the vampiress's words lingering between them like an unuttered prayer. There was no mockery in her tone, no malice—only a raw, aching yearning that seemed to pierce the veil of her cursed existence.
Professor Van Helsing, his piercing gaze fixed on the women, felt a thrill course through him. Years of research, of poring over ancient texts and whispered legends, had led him to this moment. He turned to Baron Von Krieger, his voice low and urgent.
"Baron," he began, his Dutch accent thick with barely contained excitement, "we must speak with them. Privately. There is much we need to understand."
The Baron, despite having already offered his assistance, hesitated. The close proximity of the living dead, their undeniable presence now that the initial shock had worn off, unnerved him. "Professor," he said, his voice still betraying a tremor of unease, "are you certain that is… prudent? So soon? Perhaps some… preliminary inquiries through… intermediaries…?"
Van Helsing shook his head firmly. "Baron, time waits for no man. And certainly not for them." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "If they have chosen to reveal themselves, to seek our aid, it suggests an urgency we cannot afford to ignore." His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. "What manner of evil must threaten them, if it compels them to risk such exposure?"
Hereswith, overhearing the exchange, let out an exaggerated sigh before interjecting, her tone both playful and commanding.
"Oh, Baron, don't be such a coward," she said, her voice laced with mock exasperation. "We've already agreed to your terms, haven't we? Unless, of course, you'd rather continue this conversation in front of your… entire guest list?" She gestured vaguely toward the gathered crowd, her smirk widening as a flush of embarrassment crept up the Baron's face.
Van Helsing, unable to suppress a chuckle, nodded in agreement. "She has a point, Baron. Time is of the essence."
The Baron exhaled, still apprehensive but unable to deny the logic in Van Helsing's words. Finally, he nodded. "Very well, Professor," he conceded, his voice regaining some of its usual authority. "A private meeting. Inside. My library will suffice." He turned to László and Radka. "You will join us, of course." Then, addressing the vampiresses directly, he added with careful composure, "My ladies, if you would be so kind as to accompany us?"
Hereswith inclined her head, her smirk softening into something almost genuine. "It would be our… pleasure, Baron," she replied, a subtle emphasis on the last word, her voice a low, melodic murmur that sent a shiver down the spines of several nearby guests.
Van Helsing approached Father Michael and Sister Agatha with a serious expression. "Father Michael, Sister Agatha," he began, his voice respectful, "your presence is… essential at this meeting."
Before Father Michael could respond, one of the vampires, Brunhilde, stepped forward. Her gaze was steady, and her voice, though calm, carried a hint of authority. "Father," she said in a tone surprisingly respectful, "before we go to the Baron's library, I ask that you grant the young woman the solace she seeks. Hear her confession."
Father Michael blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected request from the vampire. Turning slightly, he noticed the young noblewoman who had approached him earlier. She was still there, her hands tightly clasped together as if seeking support from them. Her wide eyes flicked nervously between the priest and the three vampires.
Offering her a gentle smile, Father Michael leaned slightly toward her and asked, "My child, what is your name?"
The young woman hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice soft but clear. "Baroness Wilhelmina von Elsner, Father."
He inclined his head, his expression kind. "Baroness, if you seek confession, I will gladly offer it. Come."
The two moved apart from where the group was gathered, and Father Michael listened to her confession. Five minutes later, he returned with the Baroness by his side. Her face was calmer, her hands were no longer trembling, but her eyes still betrayed a lingering apprehension.
"Thank you, Father," she said softly. Then, gathering her courage, she added, "I… I wish to attend this meeting. I want to hear what the vampires have to say."
Father Michael exchanged a brief glance with Van Helsing, the Baron, Sister Agatha, and the vampires, gauging their reactions. The Baroness's resolve was evident, and Van Helsing was the first to nod.
"She is welcome," Van Helsing said, his voice firm. "If she has the strength to face what lies ahead, we shall not deny her."
The Baroness gave a small, determined nod, her posture straightening as she prepared to follow the group.
Father Michael turned to the Baron, his expression thoughtful. "Perhaps your other guests…?" He gestured toward the larger crowd, still buzzing with nervous energy.
"Of course." The Baron, understanding the unspoken request, turned to address the gathering. "Refreshments and sanctuary await within the castle. Please, make yourselves comfortable. For those who wish to observe the meeting," he added, motioning toward the smaller group clustered around Father Michael and Sister Agatha, "you are welcome to join us in the library. However, I must insist on absolute silence and respect."
As the crowd began to disperse, four young nobles stepped forward, their expressions marked by a mixture of hesitation and determination. They had overheard the Baron's invitation, as well as the earlier discussion concerning the Church's involvement.
The first to speak was a tall, lanky Englishman whose refined features were marred by a worried frown. He hesitated before addressing the Baron. "Baron," he began, his voice carrying the polished tones of nobility, "I am Earl Jonathan Ashworth. We understand that representatives of the Church will be present at this… meeting with the vampires?"
The Baron inclined his head. "Indeed, Lord Ashworth. Father Michael and Sister Agatha have graciously agreed to participate."
A palpable wave of relief passed through the group. The second to speak was a striking Russian noblewoman, her fiery red hair gleaming under the lantern light. There was an undeniable elegance to her bearing, a quiet regality that set her apart.
"I am Countess Elena Dolgorukaya," she said, clasping her hands together. "The presence of the Church changes everything. It brings… reassurance."
Next, a young Austrian nobleman stepped forward. His posture was precise, his mustache carefully groomed, the very picture of aristocratic decorum. Bowing slightly, he introduced himself. "Viscount Nikolaus von Schreiber," he said smoothly. "With the Church's involvement, we feel more at ease. If permitted, we would be honored to observe."
Finally, a Spanish noblewoman added her voice to the conversation. Her green eyes flashed with intensity, her stance one of unwavering resolve.
"I am Marchioness Isabella de Montoya," she declared, her voice firm. Then, after a brief pause, she gestured toward the vampires. "I want to hear what they have to say." A flicker of uncertainty passed over her features, but she held her ground. "I confess that I still feel some fear, but the presence of Father Michael and Sister Agatha gives me a measure of comfort."
The Baron smiled warmly. "Your presence is most welcome. Strength in numbers, as they say. Please, join us."
The four nobles exchanged glances before inclining their heads respectfully, evident relief in their expressions. As the larger crowd dispersed, some casting wary glances over their shoulders, Earl Ashworth, Countess Dolgorukaya, Viscount von Schreiber, and Marchioness de Montoya fell into step with the smaller party heading toward the library. Their faces were a mixture of apprehension and determination, their footsteps carrying them toward an encounter unlike any they had ever known.
The Baron led the way toward the castle, the flickering torches casting long, twisting shadows along the stone walls. Walking beside Father Michael and Sister Agatha, Baroness Wilhelmina von Elsner leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Father Michael, Sister Agatha," she began, her tone hushed, "if I may, there's something I feel I must share with you." Her gaze flickered briefly toward the three vampires.
Father Michael turned to her, his expression both kind and concerned. "Baroness," he said gently, "you seem troubled. Is there something weighing on your heart?"
Wilhelmina wrung her hands, her gaze flickering nervously between the priest and the nun. "My family," she began hesitantly, "has a long history in Munich. Generations of von Elsners have lived there. And there are… stories. Legends, really. Whispers passed down through the years." She took a steadying breath before continuing, "It's why I sought out the Ordo Draconis. It's the reason I came to Budapest tonight."
Sister Agatha's brow furrowed. "Legends, Baroness? Of what nature?"
Wilhelmina's voice dropped to a near whisper, as if afraid that merely speaking the words might summon the horrors she described. "There is an abandoned village, Father, Sister. Just a few hours from Munich. Heimstetten. No one has lived there for… well, no one living has lived there for nearly three centuries. They say it's cursed."
Father Michael and Sister Agatha exchanged a glance. "Cursed?" Father Michael prompted, his tone carefully measured.
Wilhelmina nodded, her eyes wide. "Cursed," she repeated. "They say… terrible things happened there. Deaths. Strange illnesses. People vanishing in the night. Livestock drained of blood. Whispers of… things moving in the shadows. Shapes against the moon. The villagers—those who survived—fled. Abandoned their homes, their fields, everything. They claimed the land itself was tainted, poisoned by… something unholy."
A shiver ran down Sister Agatha's spine. The Baroness's tale bore an eerie resemblance to Jonathan Harker's harrowing account of Castle Dracula. A growing sense of unease crept over her, the suspicion that these fragments of folklore were not isolated but instead woven into a much larger, far darker tapestry.
Father Michael's expression grew solemn, his voice low and deliberate as he asked the question that hung heavy in the air. "Baroness… do you believe this village is… infested with… vampires?"
Wilhelmina hesitated, her eyes darting nervously toward Brunhilde, Hereswith, and Zlata, who walked a few paces ahead, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Then, drawing a shuddering breath, she nodded. "I do, Father," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I believe it with all my heart. And that is why I am here. I… I need to know. I need to understand."
Meanwhile, László murmured something quietly to Brunhilde and her sisters in Romani. Van Helsing, always alert thanks to his keen senses, noticed the subtle shift in the vampires' expressions as they understood and responded to László's words. Intrigued, he addressed them directly.
"My ladies," he began, his voice polite yet tinged with scholarly inquisitiveness, "I couldn't help but notice you understand the Romani tongue. A fascinating language, rich in history. If I may be so bold, how many languages do you… speak?"
Brunhilde, her lips curving into a faint, almost amused smile, met his gaze. "Professor," she replied, her voice a low, melodic murmur, "after so many centuries of… this existence… we have acquired, shall we say, a facility with several languages." Her blue eyes glinted in the torchlight as she added, with a subtle undercurrent of warning, "Some… more fluently… than others."
Zlata, complementing Brunhilde's statement, gave the professor a slight nod of acknowledgment, as if to affirm the truth of her sister's words. Hereswith Her expression remained unreadable, her green eyes fixed intently on Van Helsing with a mask of cold intensity that betrayed nothing of her thoughts.
The small group, led by the Baron, continued toward the castle. The flickering torches carried by the servants cast long, dancing shadows that writhed and twisted along the stone walls, mimicking the very darkness Van Helsing sought to comprehend.
As they ascended the steps to the castle's grand entrance, Hereswith's gaze lingered on Van Helsing's back. She leaned slightly toward Brunhilde and murmured softly, her voice barely audible above the crackling of the torches, "The professor has an old soul, sister."
"What do you mean, Hereswith?" Brunhilde asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Look at him closely," Hereswith murmured, her tone measured, thoughtful. "Like my Mina and your Jonathan, I believe we knew the Professor when we were still… among the living."
A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps even longing—crossed her features before she composed herself once more, her expression carefully neutral.
Brunhilde regarded her sister with a knowing look before shifting her gaze. "Those words you spoke to the Baron," she said, her voice steady, though a glimmer of amusement danced in her eyes.
Hereswith feigned innocence, tilting her head slightly. "What about them?" she asked, her tone light, as if she truly had no idea what her sister meant.
Brunhilde leaned in, lowering her voice. "Must you always tease them, sister?" There was a blend of exasperation and reluctant amusement in her words.
Hereswith's lips curved into a slow, mischievous smile. "Oh, dear sister, can't we have a little fun with the living?"
Brunhilde sighed, shaking her head. "You haven't changed," she murmured. "Even after all these centuries of… existence, you still find joy in unsettling people." She paused, studying Hereswith for a long moment before adding, "I still remember how you used to torment Mina in the camp."
The playful gleam in Hereswith's eyes dimmed, just for a moment, replaced by something almost wistful. "That was different," she said softly. "I wanted her to adapt quickly. To leave those old Roman books behind—if only for a little while—and focus on learning the sword."
Brunhilde arched a brow. "Oh? And what was so wrong with those books?" she countered. "You forget, sister, that we, too, learned much from them. History, philosophy, even the art of rhetoric. Mina and Jonathan… they brought knowledge with them, and we were all the wiser for it."
Hereswith rolled her eyes but didn't argue.
Brunhilde smirked. "Don't pretend you didn't learn a thing or two from the Roman tomes Mina and Jonathan brought to the camp. We both did."
Hereswith gave an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, yes. And yet, I still say she spent too much time buried in them." Then, with a smirk, she added, "Besides, my sweet Mina was adorable when I teased her… especially when she blushed."
As the words left her lips, Hereswith bit down lightly on her lower lip, a flicker of something deeper crossing her features. For a brief moment, the world around her faded, giving way to a memory—Mina's lap beneath her head, the warmth of her presence, the steady cadence of her voice as she read aloud from The Odyssey. She could still hear the gentle lilt of Mina's Latin, the way her fingers absentmindedly traced soothing patterns along Hereswith's temple as she recounted the trials of Odysseus. The scent of parchment and summer grass filled her mind, mingling with the ghost of a touch she had not felt in centuries. A life long lost… and yet, in that moment, unbearably close.
Brunhilde's expression softened, and for a moment, it was almost wistful. "Some habits are hard to break," she admitted. "And some parts of us… never truly die."
Hereswith arched a brow, her smirk widening. "Oh, don't pretend to be innocent, dear sister," she said slyly. "Your beloved Roman patrician—your Jonathan—was just as much a target of your teasing."
Brunhilde stiffened slightly, the faintest flush rising to her cheeks.
The exchange, though quiet, did not go unnoticed by Sister Agatha. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place—these enigmatic women, cursed with living death, were more than just creatures of the night. They were not empty shadows of their former selves, as she had once assumed; there was a light within them still, fragile yet persistent, flickering like the flame of a candle. It was not only the past that lingered within them, but something more—something beyond the hunger and the night.
BUDAPEST TO MUNICH - NIGHT TRAIN - MINA & JONATHAN
The train's rhythmic clatter and sway lulled most passengers into a drowsy quiet. Outside, the Hungarian countryside blurred past. Mina, gazing out the window, felt a familiar unease. Budapest, with its convents and secrets, was behind them, but the shadows of Jonathan's ordeal, the unsettling revelations about the strigoi, and a new, more personal disquiet lingered. A disquiet now tinged with a strange, inexplicable excitement.
She glanced at Jonathan. He stared out the opposite window, brow furrowed, lost in thought, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against his satchel. The sunlight cast his face in shadow, accentuating the lines of worry, but also a wistful longing she hadn't noticed before.
"Penny for your thoughts, brother?" Mina asked softly, her voice betraying a hint of the anxiety she was trying to suppress.
Jonathan started, as if awakened from a dream. He turned to her, forcing a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just… reflecting, Mina," he replied quietly. "On everything. It's… a lot to process."
Mina took his hand, her touch gentle but firm. Beneath the surface, she felt a tremor in his grip, a subtle vibration of an emotion she was beginning to recognize. "I know, Jonathan," she said warmly, her voice carrying a familiar undercurrent of concern. "It's more than anyone should have to bear."
He squeezed her hand, then released it, his gaze distant once more. "I feel… responsible, Mina," he whispered, his voice heavy with guilt. "I brought him those documents. Facilitated his move to England."
Mina's heart ached at his words. She knew the guilt he carried, the burden of responsibility he placed upon himself. "Jonathan," she said firmly, her voice filled with gentle reassurance, "you mustn't blame yourself. You didn't know."
He sighed, his gaze still distant. "Perhaps," he murmured, almost to himself, "but the thought… of what he might do… in England…" His voice trailed off, the unspoken fear now colored by a different hue.
Mina noticed a slim, leather-bound book resting on his lap. The title, embossed in faded gold lettering, caught her eye: Folklore of the Carpathians. "What are you reading?" she asked, hoping to steer his thoughts away from the darkness.
He looked at the book, then back at her, a flicker of something akin to gratitude in his eyes. "It's… something Sister Agatha gave me," he explained, his voice hesitant. "She thought it might… help me understand… what I experienced."
Mina nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on the book. "Perhaps it will," she said softly, though a knot of unease tightened in her stomach. She couldn't shake the feeling that delving deeper into the folklore of the region would only serve to amplify the shadows that already clung to them both. She reached out and touched the silver crucifix beneath her collar, drawing a small measure of comfort from its familiar weight.
"Perhaps this book will give me the knowledge I need to stop that bastard," Jonathan said suddenly, his voice sharp with unexpected fury. The vehemence in his tone startled Mina—she had always known her brother to be calm and composed, rarely prone to anger. But just as quickly as the fire had flared, it receded, leaving behind a quiet, simmering determination.
Jonathan's eyes met hers, and Mina saw it then—a spark of resolve, yes, but also something deeper. There was an unspoken yearning in his gaze, a quiet ache that pierced her more than his sudden burst of anger. "I won't rest until he's stopped," he murmured, his voice steady but low, as though speaking more to himself than to her. He hesitated, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Then, almost too softly to be heard, he added, "I owe it… to Brunhilde."
The knot in Mina's stomach tightened. He longs for her, she realized, with sudden, profound understanding. It wasn't just gratitude; it was something more. A reflection of her own inexplicable yearning for the red-haired woman in her dreams—a woman she now knew to be real, a woman Jonathan had seen in that cursed castle, a woman who, like Brunhilde, walked in the shadows.
Heat rose to Mina's cheeks as she recalled a romantic novel she'd read years ago, filled with tales of souls entwined beyond time—lovers destined to find one another across lifetimes, drawn together by forces beyond comprehension. She had giggled over it with Lucy then, dismissing it as sentimental fancy. But wasn't that a lie?
She could almost hear Lucy's teasing voice in her mind, calling her out for her pretense. "Oh, Mina, you are the worst kind of romantic—the kind that won't admit it!" Because the truth was, she had always believed in such things. Even when she laughed and rolled her eyes at Lucy's wild notions of love written in the stars, a secret part of her had yearned to believe it was real. And if Lucy had been there now, she would have smiled knowingly, seen straight through her, and whispered, "You feel it, don't you? That pull?"
Jonathan had barely spoken to Brunhilde, and still, the longing in his eyes was undeniable. Just as her own yearning for a woman she had only met in dreams, yet knew to be as real as the shadows stretching across the train carriage, felt… undeniable.
She forced a smile, masking her inner turmoil. "Of course, Jonathan," she said softly, her voice reflecting the unspoken connection between them. "We owe it to everyone he might harm." And as the words left her lips, Mina knew their shared mission was now intertwined with these unsettling, forbidden desires, weaving another layer of complexity into the darkness ahead.
The train rattled onward, carrying them toward an uncertain future, a future where love, loss, and the shadow of the cursed undead were inextricably bound.
It jolted slightly as it sped forward, but Mina hardly noticed. The world outside the window blurred into darkness, save for the faint flicker of moonlight. She closed her eyes, gripping the crucifix beneath her collar, as if its touch could anchor her amidst the waves of emotions she dared not name.
Jonathan, meanwhile, had turned back to the book, his jaw set and his expression unreadable. But Mina could feel the unspoken weight in the air between them. Neither dared say it aloud, but the truth loomed large: their fates had become intertwined, bound to beings they scarcely understood.
ATLANTIC OCEAN - QUINCEY MORRIS (A YEAR AND A HALF BEFORE THE MAIN EVENTS)
The rhythmic sloshing of waves against the hull and the creaking of the ship's timbers provided a monotonous soundtrack to the card game unfolding in Quincey Morris's private cabin. The air, thick with the scent of salt and stale tobacco, hung heavy in the confined space. Outside, the vast, indifferent expanse of the Atlantic stretched toward the horizon, a watery wilderness mirroring the unease churning in Quincey's gut.
Across the small table, Chayton Black Elk and Elijah Freeman, his two bodyguards, sat immersed in a hand of poker. Quincey, nursing a glass of bourbon, watched them, his mind replaying Chayton's cryptic remarks about the darkness he'd witnessed in Europe.
"Mr. Black Elk," Quincey began, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, "you mentioned seeing some unsettling things during your time in Europe. Something about a darkness… Care to elaborate?"
Chayton's hand paused over his cards, his dark eyes meeting Quincey's with a flicker of hesitation. "Some things are best left undisturbed, Mr. Morris," he replied, his voice quiet, laced with a weariness that hinted at something deeper than just fatigue.
"Indeed," Elijah Freeman added, his gaze steady, "some things ain't meant for tellin'."
Quincey leaned forward, his tone more insistent. "But perhaps," he persisted, "some things are meant for sharing. Especially amongst… friends. And allies who have to watch each other's backs."
Chayton sighed, a sound like the wind whispering through dry leaves. He glanced at Elijah, who gave a subtle nod of agreement. "You wouldn't believe me," he finally said, his voice barely a whisper, as if the words themselves carried a weight he was reluctant to bear.
"Try us," Quincey urged, his curiosity piqued.
Chayton hesitated for a moment longer, then began, his voice low and measured, each word carefully chosen. "It was during the European tour, near the end. Budapest."
"Ah, Budapest," Quincey mused, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "Where the East truly begins to take shape, doesn't it?"
Chayton nodded, his gaze distant. "We had a few days' respite between performances. Our Austro-Hungarian hosts offered a… tour of the countryside. A chance to experience… local customs." His hand instinctively went to the silver cross at his chest, his fingers tracing its outline.
"And?" Quincey prompted, leaning forward. Elijah, too, seemed to hold his breath, his usual stoicism giving way to a quiet attentiveness.
Chayton took a deep breath, his eyes closing briefly as if to ward off a disturbing memory. He made the sign of the cross before continuing, his voice barely a whisper. "One night… in a small village… I was awakened by a commotion outside the inn. Several of us—my fellow braves, some of the white performers, even Buffalo Bill himself—we went to investigate."
He paused, his gaze distant, lost in the memory. "There was a procession… villagers… carrying torches and farm implements… chanting in a language none of us understood." He glanced at Quincey, his eyes wide. "Our translator… he asked them what was happening. They said they were going to the cemetery… to destroy the strigoi."
"The… what?" Quincey asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"The strigoi," Chayton repeated, his voice barely audible. "The… cursed one, the dead that walks at night."
Quincey and Elijah exchanged glances, a mixture of surprise and skepticism flickering in their eyes. The notion of a "dead one that walks at night" seemed absurd, even in the dimly lit cabin, miles from the familiar plains of Texas. Yet, there was a gravity in Chayton's tone, a conviction in his eyes, that held them captive.
"And did you… believe them?" Quincey finally asked, his voice tinged with a hint of disbelief.
Chayton shook his head slowly. "We were skeptical, of course. Men of the world, we thought ourselves. Buffalo Bill, especially, scoffed at the notion. But… curiosity, perhaps… or maybe a morbid fascination with the… local customs… we decided to follow."
Chayton paused, his gaze distant, as if reliving the torchlit procession through the darkened streets of the village. "The cemetery was on a hill overlooking the village. Small, overgrown… neglected." He shivered, though the cabin was warm. "The villagers… they knew exactly which grave to unearth. No markings distinguished it, but they knew." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Our translator said… sometimes… the earth above a strigoi's grave remains… unsettled. As if… as if it refuses to accept the unclean within."
"When they opened the coffin…" Chayton hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. "...we saw it. The strigoi." His hand went to the silver cross again, clutching it tightly.
"What… what did it look like?" Quincey asked, his voice barely audible above the creaking of the ship.
"Like a man… but… not," Chayton replied, his brow furrowing as he struggled to find the words. "Its skin was pale, almost translucent. Eyes… open… but glassy… like a corpse's. But the flesh… there was no decay. None. And…" he hesitated, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "...there was blood. Fresh blood… at the corners of its mouth."
Elijah leaned forward, his usual stoicism cracking. "Blood?" he echoed, his voice hushed.
Chayton nodded grimly. "The villagers… they knew what to do. The leader… he had a sharpened stake of hawthorn… blessed, the translator said, by a village priest. He drove it… through the heart." Chayton closed his eyes, a silent prayer escaping his lips in his native Lakota tongue. "Even now… I can still hear it… the sound… when the stake pierced the flesh… a sound… like a man… screaming in pain."
Chayton fell silent, his gaze distant, lost in the memory of that night in the Hungarian village. Quincey and Elijah remained silent as well, the weight of the tale hanging heavy in the air. The rhythmic creaking of the ship and the sloshing of the waves seemed to amplify the stillness in the cabin, a stillness broken only by the faint crackling of the fireplace.
After a long moment, Quincey, his voice barely above a whisper, urged Chayton to continue. "What happened… after?"
"This… this is the first time I've spoken of it… to anyone… since that night," he admitted, his voice trembling slightly. "There was… an unspoken agreement… among us… the performers… We didn't talk about it. Not then… not ever."
He paused, then continued, his voice regaining some of its steadiness. "But… things changed after that. For Buffalo Bill, especially. He… he became… cautious. Superstitious, almost. In the remaining tours, in every town, in every hotel… he insisted on… precautions. Crucifixes… placed in every room. And…" he hesitated, a faint smile touching his lips, "…garlic. Hung from the doorways… tucked beneath our pillows." He shook his head slowly. "A man of the West… afraid of old European superstitions."
Quincey, though still unsettled by the tale, couldn't help but let out a nervous chuckle. The image of the flamboyant Buffalo Bill, surrounded by garlic and clutching a crucifix, was a stark and unexpected contrast to the showman's larger-than-life persona. He glanced at Elijah, who met his gaze with a subtle nod, a silent acknowledgment of the shared unease.
"Well," Quincey said, rising from his chair and forcing a smile, "it's late. And we're due in port tomorrow. A good night's sleep is in order. We'll need our wits about us in… England." The last word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.