Roseline Enescue races down the damp corridor; her hands skim the smooth stone as she throws herself around the corner. No sounds of footsteps follow her. No cry announces her escape…yet.
The sound of dripping grows louder. She must be close.
Bright aqua eyes scan the dark tunnel. A curtain of spider webs drapes from the low ceiling. Roseline slows, clawing her way through the silky strands.
She must be careful. The sunrise approaches swiftly and her family has returned not long ago. Too many ears might catch the sound of her escape, but there is only one person she fears the most: Vladimir Enescue.
The throbbing in her jaw makes it hard to forget her most recent punishment. Refusal to join in the night’s festivities has earned her a broken jaw, fractured sternum, and shattered femur. Vladimir made sure to leave his mark tonight.
Roseline was forced to wait long into the night for her bones to mend well enough for her to slip through the secret passage in her room.
Doubts plague her mind as she slides through a narrow part of the tunnel. Several feet of earth press against her chest as she wiggles through.
Can she really escape this time? Will she live through her punishment if Vladimir discovers her attempt to flee?
Death, how sweet the word sounds — an end to three lifetimes of misery. Yes, she welcomes death, if only it will reach out for her to grasp, but the chance for freedom beckons her forward. A year’s worth of planning culminates on this night. True, it’s a few months early. Winter has yet to set in, but she cannot stay any longer. She cannot endure another beating.
Her desperation pushes her to forego the warning signals that blare in her mind. She has no other choice. She will not suffer Vladimir’s brutal tyranny any longer.
As she draws near to the end of the tunnel, her feet stutter along the floor. Roseline’s limp will be a problem once she reaches open ground, but she will have to make do as she races against the sun. It is now or never.
A hint of light filters through the darkness a hundred feet ahead. Pale moonlight drifts down through the grate in the courtyard well. To her knowledge, no one knows of this passage’s existence, but if she is wrong…
Her pace slows as she approaches. The sweet aroma of early morning air calls to her as she inches forward. Fall has arrived and along with it the blanket of cool that soothes her hot skin. Gone are the sweltering days that trapped her within the walls of Bran Castle. This is her favorite time of year, but she will not be around to enjoy it.
It is fall in America, she reminds herself silently. Yes, Chicago should be lovely this time of year, but she will never reach the Windy City if she does not focus.
Tilting her head to the side, Roseline strains to hear any sounds through the grated wishing well in the center of the castle courtyard. The night sky brightens as pinpricks of dawn’s first light spread along the horizon.
All across the castle, mental alarm clocks alert her family to retire for the day. With any luck, most of them have already begun to slip into a drunken stupor, their bloodlust sated for the time being.
Roseline drapes her bag over her shoulder and stretches up to remove the grate covering the well. She yanks her hand back at the sound of a footstep on the flagstones overhead.
From her vantage point, she can make out a broad back and long flowing blond hair. She does not need to see his face to know who he is — her best friend, Fane Dalca.
Tiny rocks, plucked from between the stone slabs, rattle in Fane’s hand. He tosses them into the depths of the well. Gravel pings against the tunnel floor, coming to rest against her shoes.
“What troubles you, boy?” a gruff voice inquires.
Roseline cups her mouth to conceal her gasp. Why is her keeper, Vasile Serban, speaking to Fane? Their lengthy history together usually ends in bloodshed and threats of beheading. Why would Fane go to him now? It makes no sense.
“How is she?” Fane asks. Roseline drops her head as guilt swells in her chest. She is the reason he risks his life tonight.
Vasile shifts, digging the toe of his boot into the ground. “You know you shouldn’t ask.”
“All the same, I need to know,” Fane presses. He pushes off from the rim of the well, turning his back to Roseline as he leans against the circular stone. “How bad is it?”
She can picture Vasile’s wild mane of marble-streaked hair, obnoxiously large nose, and the left eyebrow that perpetually twitches when he is nervous. Roseline learned long ago that it is a mistake to assume Vasile’s disheveled appearance carries over into his duties. He is Vladimir’s lapdog, through and through.
He is certainly not the person Fane should be speaking to about his master’s wife. Especially with such emotion laid bare in his voice.
“She will be able to walk by dusk,” Vasile shrugs. Roseline’s fingers clench into fists beside her leg at his emotionless response. “It could have been a lot worse.”
A growl rises in Fane’s throat. “You speak as if you do not care.”
Vasile approaches, his eyebrows furrowed. “And you care far too much.” The warning edge to his tone only confirms her fear — her friend is walking a thin line.
Fane crosses his hands over his chest; his black leather jacket pulls tight across his back. Roseline stares up at him, wishing she could reassure her friend, to find some way to tell him she is safe, but her escape will have to suffice.
“Have you looked in on her?”
Vasile says nothing. His silence unnerves Roseline. Is he delaying? Has her escape been discovered and Vasile is buying time? She glances back down the tunnel, expecting to see Vladimir creeping silently toward her, but it remains empty.
“Leave her be, Fane. You know what will happen if Vladimir finds out you have been to see her.” Vasile’s hand comes to rest on Fane’s shoulder. Fane and Roseline stiffen at the same time. “I will check on her when we wake. I am sure she will have healed by then.”
His grip tightens as Vasile steers Fane away. Roseline commands her lungs to hold fast until the door slams behind them. Still she waits. Precious minutes pass, but she cannot risk exposure.
One wrong move and her dreams of escape will come crashing down.
She reaches for the grate, praying Fane has made it to his room on the far side of the castle. Even then, he might hear her. His hearing is the best among her brethren.
Careful not to draw blood, she bites her lip as she inches the grate up onto the path. The groan of shifting metal makes her cringe. Her muscles coil as she waits for the inevitable sounding of the alarm but none comes.
She lifts her duffle bag up through the opening and quickly follows it. Kneeling on the rocks, she wipes away any trace of her presence. She tightens the strap over her shoulder and darts across the courtyard and out into the garden grounds.
Roseline flies over the grassy hills, past blooming fall flowers still damp with morning dew. She picks her way through rocky paths until she reaches the perimeter wall.
Without any hesitation, she leaps into the air. Her feet plant firmly on the wall and race upward. Pushing from the balls of her feet, she leaps to a nearby tree, grasps the worn branch, and swings back and forth. Her fingers release and propel herself easily over the top of the wall.
The landing is far from graceful as her right leg buckles under. She goes with it, rolling back to her feet before bounding across the road. She dives behind a tree and clutches her leg, wincing at the shifting bones. It is too early to move. She needs at least another hour before her femur will heal completely, but she does not have an hour.
Someone will eventually discover her empty room. It will not take long before Vladimir rouses her brethren to search for her. Roseline glances toward the human town, cringing at the thought of entering it, but she knows she cannot just sit here.
Digging through her bag, she pulls out her most recent wardrobe addition: a black trench coat. She tucks her lon
g bronze braid into the collar and adds a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses to the outfit. They might help to mask her unusual eyes, but they can do little to hide her beauty. She and her family are well known in these parts. Her reputation, by association, is not the most appealing throughout the country and will only make her escape that much harder.
Over the years, Roseline has been called many things. A witch. A sorceress. Even a demon. The only name that has endured for over three centuries is a vampire.
A fabricated name, as incorrect as it is vile, created to describe Vladimir’s insatiable thirst for blood. Now all immortals carry the tainted name, both the good ones and the evil, but vampires exist only in nightmares and on Hollywood screens.
She cannot really blame the humans for this mistake; even she struggles to find the good in some of her family. Apart from Fane, there are few in Romania who can pass for good. Most of her immortal brethren easily live up to the vampire lie.
Roseline keeps her face tilted away as she hurries into the town center. Small shops have begun to open. The baker whistles as he prepares his tables with mouthwatering baked goods. A butcher calls out harshly as a delivery boy stumbles over the curb, spilling an assortment of meats onto the street.
A young boy rides past on his bike, tossing newspapers with wild abandon. Most land well out of range. A handsome teen with vivid green eyes and unruly dark hair glances her way from the bus stop as she disappears around the corner. All around her, Brasov is waking.
The hunch of her shoulders becomes more pronounced as she forces herself to move at a human pace along the city streets. It is infuriatingly slow.
The train station sits about two miles outside of town. She picks up speed as she moves to the city outskirts and spans the distance in less than a minute, even with a limp.
Without acknowledging the sparse crowd that lingers in front of the station, Roseline hurries for the ticket booth. “One ticket to Bucharest, please,” she requests, working to make her voice sound grittier than it normally does.
The train attendant’s muddy brown eyes give her a once over. Roseline turns her chin, fearing the man’s scrutiny. “You running away from something, Miss?”
She shrugs noncommittally and pulls the collar of her coat higher under her chin. He frowns, tapping the counter as she passes over her money. He stares at her for a moment longer before shrugging. He stamps her ticket and passes it through the narrow slot with her change. “Good luck to you.”
With her ticket in hand, Roseline slinks out of the room. A young couple sits nearby, sipping from steaming coffee cups, immersed in their morning paper. They pay no attention to Roseline as she sinks down onto a bench at the far end of the platform.
Her knees bounce anxiously as she waits for the train to arrive. She absently peels at the chipped blue paint on the wooden slats as she darts glances at the people lounging about the platform. Her nerves fray as the hands of the clock overhead slowly tick past.
The 6:58 AM train arrives five minutes early, much to Roseline’s delight. She boards and rushes into a vacant bathroom, locking the door behind. Roseline drops her duffle onto the sink and leans back against the wall.
Her fingers steady her as the train lurches away from the station, but she does not relax until the train has moved a fair distance from Brasov.
She has made it. Within twenty-four hours, she will be in a new country, with a new start to life.
She is finally free.
Two