NOTES
The names of the three brides are Brunhilde and Hereswith, both of Germanic origin, and Zlata, a name of Slavic origin.
THE CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS (Castle Dracula)
The crypt air hung heavy and cold, thick with the scent of dust, decay, and the coppery tang of blood. Brunhilde descended the worn stone steps, torchlight flickering across the crumbling sarcophagi and weathered effigies. The shadows danced along the ancient walls as though mocking her resolve. Below, Zlata and Hereswith waited, their expressions a mixture of impatience and veiled concern.
Hereswith, her fiery red hair a stark contrast to the gloom of the crypt, paced restlessly, the hem of her dark dress brushing the stone floor. Her every movement was restless energy barely contained. Zlata, in contrast, stood motionless. Her dark hair was pulled back severely, her expression neutral save for the faint smear of crimson clinging to the corner of her lip—a telltale sign of her recent hunt. The torchlight cast her features in sharp relief, making her appear almost statuesque, a predator biding its time.
As Brunhilde approached, their questioning looks deepened. Zlata broke the silence, her voice carrying an edge of reproach. "Brunhilde, what were you doing with that young man? If the Master finds out—"
"He won't," Brunhilde interrupted sharply, her tone defensive. Her steps faltered for just a moment before she continued forward. "And I would never—"
"Never what?" Hereswith snapped, stopping her pacing abruptly to glare at Brunhilde. Her voice was venomous, but there was something more beneath it—curiosity tinged with jealousy. "Never feed on him? Don't think we haven't noticed how you linger near his room, how you watch him—" Her lips twisted into a cruel smile. "We missed you on the hunt, by the way. Those Turkish brigands were surprisingly… robust. Their fear, almost as intoxicating as their blood."
"I would never do that to Jonathan!" Brunhilde's voice rose in defiance, her gaze locking with Hereswith's. Her fingers clenched around the folds of her gown, but the confidence in her tone wavered. "You know why, Hereswith. You, of all people, should know better than anyone."
Hereswith raised an eyebrow, her stance challenging but intrigued. Before she could retort, Brunhilde stepped forward, pulling a small, rectangular object from the folds of her dress. The flickering torchlight glinted off its surface. "Do you think I'm the only one who's found… echoes of the past?" Her voice dropped, tinged with vulnerability. She offered it to Hereswith. "I… I don't know what it is. Some modern science, perhaps. I… I took it from his belongings while he was in the library."
Hereswith hesitated, her brow furrowed as she reached for the object. It was smooth and cold to the touch, unlike anything she had ever held. She turned it over carefully, then froze. Her breath hitched. A young woman stared back at her, dark hair framing gentle eyes that were hauntingly familiar. The features, so vivid and lifelike, struck a chord deep within her—a memory buried so far in the past it felt almost like a dream.
"That's… she's…" Hereswith whispered, her voice thick with grief that spanned centuries. She clutched the object to her chest as though it were a talisman. Her mask of disdain cracked, revealing a sorrow so raw it took Brunhilde aback. A single tear traced a path down Hereswith's cheek, carving through the dust that clung to her pale skin.
"Can I… keep this?" Hereswith's voice was barely audible, trembling with longing.
"No," Brunhilde said gently but firmly, her hand outstretched to reclaim the object.
"Please," Hereswith pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of centuries of grief. "You have your Jonathan close, here, in this cursed castle. All I have is… this." Her gaze dropped to the photograph, her trembling fingers brushing over the edges of the woman's face as though the touch could bridge the impossible gap of time and death. "She was the only light in my life, Brunhilde. The only one who ever truly saw me, before… before I became this." Her voice faltered, and for a moment, the predator in her seemed entirely gone, replaced by a fleeting glimpse of the living, breathing woman she had once been.
Brunhilde faltered, her resolve wavering as she saw the anguish etched into Hereswith's features. The weight of centuries of pain hung between them, palpable in the silence. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, she relented. "Keep it safe."
Hereswith's grip tightened on the object, holding it close to her heart as if the image could somehow mend the jagged scars of her past. Zlata watched them both, a flicker of something akin to warmth in her usually cold eyes. "I am… pleased for you both," she said, her voice softer than usual. "To find… connections to the world we lost." Her expression turned somber. "But remember what we are now." She looked pointedly at Brunhilde. "Does he know? Does he know what we are? What the Master is?"
Brunhilde shook her head, a shadow crossing her face. "No. He suspects... something. He still believes we are... breathing, living people. But he grows wary."
Zlata sighed, her gaze distant. "He will learn the truth eventually, Brunhilde. Be prepared for how he will react. The knowledge... it changes everything."
"I know," Brunhilde replied, her voice tinged with sadness. She turned away, her gaze sweeping over the cold, oppressive stone of the crypt. The flickering torchlight painted shadows across her face, accentuating the sorrow in her eyes. "For all our sakes," she murmured, more to herself than to the others, "and for Jonathan's... I must stay away from him. I can't risk the Master's wrath."
Hereswith, still gazing at the photograph with a mixture of sorrow and tenderness, suddenly stiffened. A thought struck her like a thunderclap, and her head shot up. "Brunhilde," she asked, her voice low and urgent, "The Master's plan… it involves going to that land… Jonathan's land… doesn't it?"
Brunhilde froze, the unspoken truth hanging between them like a noose. Slowly, she nodded, the weight of the admission pressing down on her shoulders. A chill crept down her spine as she spoke. "Yes."
Hereswith's eyes flicked back to the photograph, her expression shifting. The sorrow remained, but now it mingled with a flicker of fierce protectiveness, an ember catching flame. Brunhilde followed her gaze, a terrible understanding dawning in her own eyes.
"No," Hereswith breathed, the word laced with cold fury. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "He will not touch her. I will defy him. I will move heaven and earth to stop him."
The silence between the three women grew heavy, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing in the crypt. Finally, Zlata stepped forward, her voice low and steady. "There is something I must confess," she said, her dark eyes locking with Brunhilde's. "For centuries… I have longed for revenge."
Hereswith and Brunhilde turned to her in surprise. Zlata's features, usually composed and cold, softened with something akin to vulnerability, though her voice remained firm. "This… this living death… it was forced upon us. A violation I have never forgiven. I have waited, watched, and endured, but no more. If you truly mean to defy him, I will stand with you."
Brunhilde stared at her for a moment, the weight of Zlata's words sinking in. Her mind raced. "We cannot do this alone," she murmured, pacing as she began to think aloud. "The Master is too powerful. Too cunning. We'll need allies."
"The gypsies?" Hereswith suggested hesitantly, her gaze still fixed on the photograph.
Brunhilde nodded slowly. "Some of them are discontent. They chafe under his control. If we can gain their trust…" She trailed off, the enormity of their task settling over her.
The grey light filtering through the cracks in the crypt walls heralded the arrival of dawn. A subtle weariness settled over the three women, their undead bodies already feeling the pull of enforced slumber.
Hereswith lingered near her tomb, clutching the photograph tightly. Her lips brushed the image in a soft, lingering kiss, a tear slipping down her cheek as she whispered, "I'll see you again."
Brunhilde watched silently from the shadows, her own resolve hardening. Jonathan's life, the fate of the woman in the photograph, and their own tortured existences—they were all worth fighting for.
"We will defy him," Brunhilde murmured, her voice firm. "But we must tread carefully." Only then did Brunhilde seek the cold embrace of her own tomb, the approaching dawn pulling her down into the oblivion of enforced sleep.
ENGLAND (Whitby)
The chill wind whipped off the North Sea, carrying the scent of salt and something faintly, unsettlingly metallic. A sliver of moon peeked through the churning clouds above Whitby, casting an ethereal glow on the ancient gravestones that clustered near the cliffs. Inside the cozy confines of the Westenra estate, Mina stirred, a blush warming her cheeks even in sleep. A dream, vivid and achingly intimate, held her in its thrall.
She was standing in a shadowed grove, the air thick with the scent of earth and wildflowers. The light was dim, suffused with an amber glow, as though the sun was setting on a world long forgotten. Then she felt her—an undeniable presence before she ever saw her. A figure emerged from the shadows, her fiery red hair cascading like molten fire over her shoulders, her eyes green and piercing, filled with an emotion Mina couldn't name. She was beautiful, otherworldly, and terrifying all at once.
Before Mina could speak or move, the woman closed the distance between them. Strong arms encircled her, pulling her into an embrace that felt both commanding and protective. Mina gasped, her heart racing, not with fear but with an intoxicating mix of exhilaration and longing. The woman's hands moved gently yet possessively, caressing Mina's back as though tracing the outline of something she had once known intimately. The scent of her—a mix of roses and something richer, darker—made Mina's head spin.
"You will always be mine," the woman whispered, her lips grazing Mina's ear, the husky timbre of her voice sending a shiver down Mina's spine. "I will always protect you." There was a fierce tenderness in her tone, an unspoken vow that resonated deep within Mina's soul, stirring an ancient familiarity that defied explanation. It was as if they had been here before, in another time, in another life. The thought should have frightened her, but instead, it filled her with a strange, aching sense of belonging.
Mina's breath quickened as the woman's lips trailed along her neck, leaving a searing heat in their wake. The world around them seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of them. When the woman's mouth found hers, Mina didn't resist. Instead, she surrendered, her arms rising to encircle the woman's neck, pulling her closer. The kiss was unlike anything she had ever known—deep, consuming, and electric, as though it unlocked a part of her she had long forgotten. She felt herself melting into the woman, her body responding with an urgency that left her breathless.
And yet, beneath the intensity of the embrace, there was an unshakable familiarity, a sense of inevitability. Mina couldn't deny it—this wasn't the first time. Somehow, impossibly, she knew this woman, knew the touch of her hands, the sound of her voice, the way she held her as though she were something infinitely precious. It felt like coming home, like reclaiming a piece of herself she hadn't known was missing.
Suddenly, Mina awoke with a gasp, her body trembling and her lips tingling as though the kiss had been real. Her heart thundered in her chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed the chaos in her mind. For a moment, she stared at the ceiling, her breathing ragged, before turning her head toward the other bed in the room. Lucy lay there, bathed in moonlight, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She looked peaceful, serene, untouched by the strange disquiet that now gripped Mina.
Mina slipped out of bed as quietly as she could, careful not to disturb Lucy. Pulling on a robe, she stepped onto the small balcony overlooking the Westenra estate. The wind tugged at her hair, its chill a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered on her skin. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath to calm herself, but her thoughts remained in turmoil.
A pang of guilt stabbed at her. Jonathan. Her twin, her other half. They had shared everything since the moment they were born—dreams, fears, secrets. Even now, miles away in the wilds of Transylvania, she felt their connection, a thread of shared experience that spanned the distance. But now… now she felt as though something was fraying, as though a distance was growing between them. His letters, once warm and full of life and affection, had become infrequent, their contents strangely vague, each one ostensibly reassuring her of his safety. And yet, the gnawing unease in her chest wouldn't subside. Something wasn't right—she felt it in her bones, the way only a twin could. How could she be preoccupied with this strange, unsettling dream, with these confusing, forbidden feelings, when her brother was so far away, his letters hinting at an unspoken disquiet, a hidden plea for help she couldn't decipher? The shame intensified, a bitter counterpoint to the worry that gnawed at her, twisting the knot of anxiety in her chest.
And yet, the dream refused to release its hold on her. The red-haired woman, her touch, her voice—they felt as real as any memory, as if they had been etched into her soul. Who was she? Why did Mina feel as though she had known her, loved her, in some distant, unreachable life? The thought should have repelled her, but instead, it stirred something deep within—a longing, ancient and inescapable.
Shivering, Mina wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze fixed on the turbulent sky. The unease she had felt since Jonathan's letters grew sparse now mingled with the strange, forbidden desire left by the dream. It felt wrong—sinful. As a devout woman, she told herself to cast it aside, to pray for forgiveness. And yet, she couldn't ignore the thrill it had awakened in her, the way it had made her feel seen, cherished in a way she had never known.
With a final, troubled glance at the moonlit grounds, Mina retreated to the room. Lucy's peaceful slumber remained undisturbed, her breath soft and steady. Mina slipped into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin as she stared at the ceiling. She whispered a quiet prayer, her voice trembling. But even as she sought solace, the image of the red-haired woman lingered—vivid, unshakable—like a flame flickering at the edges of her soul.