Again I slipped an arm round her waist, but stared ahead at the trembling wooden door.
“To hell with him,” I said slowly. “To hell with him.”
4
The Diary of Zsuzsanna Dracul
5 MAY 1893. I woke from a sweet dream to the sound of my dear dead mother’s voice calling softly:
Wake up, Zsuzsanna. Wake up, child, it’s almost midday.…
I opened my eyes, not to my mother’s worn face, but to the exquisite and youthful countenance of Elisabeth. This time she wore a fetching gown of cream-coloured moire, with a narrow standup collar of stiff lace that fringed a more daring décolletage.
I smiled at the sight of her; but then my expression turned to wide-eyed awe at the realisation that beyond her, a yellow shaft of sunlight was streaming in through the unshuttered window.
And it did not pain me. Nor did I feel in any way weakened by it.
Those revelations widened my eyes even further, and I emerged once more from my grim resting-place with a bound and hurried over to the window to gaze unblinking out at the beautiful day. Above, in a blue, blue sky, the sun blazed.
“It is mid-day!” I cried, and whirled round, slack-jawed yet smiling, to stare in tearful gratefulness at Elisabeth. “How is this possible?”
She returned my gaping grin and, rather than reply to the posed question, said instead: “Will you accompany me for some fresh air?” At my hesitance, she added, “Vlad is sleeping, as you know. I have made sure he will hear nothing. We can meet now during the day—every day, if you wish—and he shall never know.”
I believed her gladly, for I remembered that yesterday night, he had not perceived my beauty. In answer, I grabbed her arm and together we ran giggling down the winding staircase through the grand hall and out the great spiked door into the blessed outdoors.
Elisabeth slowed upon the steps and let go my hand. I scrambled down them onto the grounds and pulled off my slippers. The instant my bare feet touched the soft, cool grass, I could no longer resist: I spread my arms like wings and spun round in circles like a frenzied child who has been closeted for a long bleak winter.
Such an intoxicating spring! The plum trees were fragrant with blossom, and the open lawn was scattered with wildflowers: bluebells, crimson poppies, daisies, snowy alyssum. The air echoed with the cheerful calls of birds—larks and robins, not the melancholy song of the nightingale nor the mournful cry of the owl, the only birdsong I have heard for half a century.
And as I spun in joyful delirium, I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sky—to the sun, whose warm, soothing light upon my face seemed at that moment more delicious, more precious, than anything I had experienced as an immortal.
When at last I fell, dizzy and laughing, onto the cool ground beside a patch of intricately delicate Jack-in-the-pulpit, I rolled over onto my back to stare at the clouds in the turquoise sky, and called out to my benefactress:
“Elisabeth! You have been so good to me! You have returned my beauty, my strength—and now you have returned to me the whole world!” For that is how I felt: that I had been confined to the night, living only half an existence. And now the other half of life had been restored to me. “Can I do nothing for you in return?”
“You can share with me the young gentleman guest.”
“A guest?” I sat suddenly, pressing my fingers behind me into the grass, into the damp soil, and stared at her. She had sat upon a step, as heedless of propriety as a young boy—knees spread wide, an elbow resting atop one of them, chin supported by a palm. Caressed by the warm breeze, the shining cream skirt billowed out onto the dirty stone, its wearer apparently fearless of its being soiled. Her expression signalled that she did not share my wild enthusiasm for the scenery; to her, it was something commonplace. What entertained her was my joy, for her gaze was fixed solely on me, and she wore the slight, delighted smile of an owner watching her puppy gambol unawares.
All this I perceived in an instant before I demanded, “When did a guest arrive?” The thought provoked a thrill of desire, and the realisation that I was indeed hungry, very hungry.
“Last evening.”
“And how did we fail to hear them?”
Elisabeth sighed. “My fault, I’m afraid. Vlad must have put a glamour upon us so that we heard nothing when he arrived with his visitor; I confess I was so intoxicated by your beauty yesterday night that my vigilance lapsed, else I would have detected his pitiful attempt at sorcery and neutralised it at once. But there is indeed a guest, my darling: he lies snoring within his chambers now. I heard the noise and went to investigate. He is rather handsome, and quite healthy and strong. Shall we visit him?” Her tone turned coy and teasing. “I see appetite in your eyes, Zsuzsanna.”
My desire warred with fear. “Vlad would never forgive it! He would destroy me if he found my mark upon his guest’s neck!”
“Then he shall not find it. Regardless, I would not permit him to harm you.”
“How is either possible?”
She gestured smugly at me amidst the springtime glory. “How can this be possible? All things are, my darling, if you trust me.”
I drew in a long, yearning breath as I rose to my feet. “Then let us go greet our young guest at once!”
I picked up my slippers and hurried barefoot up the steps, where she, too, had risen and awaited me. We linked arms and once again ran laughing like mischievous schoolgirls through the great hallway, up a different set of winding stairs until at last we arrived in front of the carved wooden door that led to one of the guest chambers.
Elisabeth was right: from within emerged the sound of stertorous snoring, so loud that I was surprised the heavy door did not rattle. I clapped a hand over my mouth to suppress a giggle and, when I could manage to speak, whispered to my companion: “His poor wife!”
“You need not be so quiet,” she replied, in a normal voice. “As you can hear, he is sleeping soundly.” And at that, we both laughed softly as she swung open the door. “He is yours, my darling; take him as you wish. I shall watch, and indulge myself a bit afterwards. One caveat only: that you leave him alive and strong enough so neither he nor Vlad will be able to detect a change. I will take care that he has no wound; you must take care that he is not pale enough to arouse suspicion.”
Had I been thinking clearly, I would have asked her why she could not deal with the problem of his colour, if she could cause the wound to instantly heal. At that moment, I was too intrigued by what her “indulgence” might be—and then, instantly, all thought was blotted out when my nose caught the gentleman’s scent.
I smelled warm blood and skin, overlaid by the cloying smell of two or three days’ sweat. Elisabeth must have detected it, too, for she whispered to me: “He has obviously been travelling for some time,” and held her nose.
Smelly or not, the young man lying on his back, arms and legs spread wide in imitation of da Vinci’s naked man, was a handsome sight—if one ignored his gaping, drooling mouth and the way it sputtered each time he released a window-pane-rattling snore.
But snoring or not, he had neatly hung a wool suit and hat upon a nearby chair; their quality indicated the owner was an up-and-coming, if drab, young gentleman. And he himself was of sufficient quality to suit me, for his uncovered arms (flung out atop the blankets at a ninety-degree angle to his torso) and upper chest were strong and muscular enough, neither too fat nor too thin. His brown curls were a perfect match for his face, which had slightly plump pink cheeks and a short turned-up nose; overall, the impression was that of a man whose boyish features would always make him appear five years younger than his actual age.
“He needs a bath,” whispered Elisabeth; but in truth, I did not care. So great was my hunger and eagerness to press my lips to the man’s throat-but first, to take advantage of other attributes, so that his blood might taste all the sweeter—that I would not have cared had he been wallowing in fresh manure. Indeed, I scarcely noticed when Elisabeth crept away, and felt no concern over it. My attent
ion was riveted on the man; and slowly, delicately, that I might not rouse him, I lifted sheet and blankets from his chest. He wore a plain white nightshirt, but had left the top three buttons undone so that it gaped open to reveal more of his chest and its thick pelt of more brown curls. Carefully, I drew the bedclothes downward to his feet, to disclose further delights—for the nightshirt had ridden up and become twisted, entirely exposing him and another cluster of chestnut hair … from whence emerged an undeniably erect member.
Now, I have long believed myself damned; and early in my immortalhood, I vowed that I would deny myself no pleasure now, in case I should ever be destroyed and have to endure the eternal agonies of Hell. For I had lived life as a crippled, homely spinster, doomed never to experience the attentions of a lover. Very soon after my Change, I discovered the most wonderful of secrets: that the blood of a man in the throes of passionate release tastes more heavenly than any nectar, and that my pleasuring him increases my own ecstasy (from the act and from drinking his affected blood) tenfold.
And so I crawled beside him on the bed, using my ability to hypnotise to keep him from waking. I intended to take him at once, swiftly, before Elisabeth returned, for the truth was that I felt oddly shy at doing so in front of her. It had never slowed me before—I had never been shy in front of Vlad or Dunya or my poor dead brother- and I had taken two and three men at a time, upon occasion. But in Elisabeth’s case, I felt oddly guilty … as though I were being somehow unfaithful.
But before I could lift my skirts and roll onto my beloved victim, Elisabeth hurried back into the room. “Come, bring him,” she whispered, gesturing, her sapphire eyes aglitter with anticipation. “Dorka is preparing a bath.”
“You need not whisper,” I told her. “He is entranced.” I opened my mouth to tell her that I did not believe myself patient enough to wait for him to bathe; I was resolved at that point to simply drink his blood. But ere I could speak, she interrupted:
“A pity.” Her features suddenly resolved themselves into an impish grin. “Let us have a bit of fun with him first, shall we?”
She simply stared at the sleeping man, and inclined her chin towards him. He groaned and at once stirred; immediately, I leapt up from the bed.
He opened his eyes-kindly, light brown eyes they were—and for a moment, clearly could not remember where he was. But then memory dawned, and he emerged more fully from slumber; at that point, his gaze fell upon us two women, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position with a start. At first those kindly brown eyes registered wild surprise at the sight of strangers in his room; and then he looked down at his exposed privates, and that surprise metamorphosed into such intense and pitiful dismay that I thought I should explode with contained laughter.
“Dear God!” he swore in a cultured English baritone and, moving swift as the undead, pulled the blankets up to his chin and held them there, eyes bulging, face and ears flushed impossibly scarlet. “Ladies, you have me at a dreadful disadvantage!”
I could bear no more; I clapped my hand over my mouth and shuddered with soft laughter. Before I could recover enough to reply, Elisabeth said, in excellent English (which should not have surprised me any more than her facility with Roumanian, for the mortal Hungarians routinely master ten or twenty languages before they are grown):
“Our apologies, good sir, for the intrusion!” And she gave a sweeping curtsy, her expression as solemn as mine was gleeful. “But we tried to rouse you by knocking, and could not. The master”—and here I shot her a gaze both astounded and merry, which she utterly ignored—“gave us strict orders yesterday that we were to draw you a bath no later than one o’clock this afternoon, and see that you enjoyed it. I have come to tell you that it is ready. The water will not remain hot for long. Will you kindly come with us, sir?”
He hesitated, glancing from me to Elisabeth, unlikely servants, either of us: me with my dark hair flowing unbound to my waist, in my grey Viennese gown of watered silk, twenty years outdated and worn nearly to tatters, and Elisabeth in the beautiful cream gown.
And both of us unworldly beautiful.
I saw that he was on the verge of refusing, but Elisabeth detected his reluctance and said at once: “Please, good sir! Our master is stern, and given to outbursts of temper; if he finds that you have refused, he will surely beat us both until we bleed!”
That caused him to blink rapidly and stammer, desperately searching for an appropriate excuse; but all he could think to say was “How barbaric!”
Elisabeth grew bolder now, and gave a gentle tug upon his wool-sleeved arm, her voice distraught with feigned terror (whilst I bit both my lips and struggled to maintain a sober expression; this was becoming easier, as my glee was quickly being overwhelmed by hunger). “Please, sir. Come with me!”
His discomfort was complete, but the kindness reflected in his eyes won out. “Very well, miss,” said he. “But please wait outside the door until I fetch my smoking-jacket.”
To this she acquiesced, and we both withdrew to give the man his privacy; but behind the closed door, we grabbed each other’s arms and rested our head each upon the other’s shoulder, and shook hard with silent laughter.
Presently, we heard the stranger approach the door; by the time he opened it, we were once again poker-faced servants. He was dressed discreetly now, in long pants, leather slippers, and the smoking-jacket of plum wool with a black velvet collar and velvet belt at the waist. The brown curls were damp and neatly combed, but his cheeks were still flushed bright as he told Elisabeth and me, “Very well, ladies. Lead on to the bath.”
We did so, walking towards Elisabeth’s quarters in silence until at last our mortal companion spoke.
“I must confess, ladies—you are hardly dressed like serving-girls.”
At that, I smiled, but Elisabeth said quite seriously, “Well, sir, our master can be quite cruel at times; but he can also be quite generous.” Again, I had to swallow my laughter.
The gentleman accepted this with a nod, and we continued on without further conversation until we arrived at Elisabeth’s room.
Dorka waited within with several large towels draped over her arm, and told her mistress in Hungarian: “I have prepared the bath.”
Elisabeth nodded as she took the towels, then turned to gesture at the guest. “In here, if you would, sir.”
He followed, his expression one of increasing awkwardness, and when we arrived inside the bedchamber—in whose center awaited a round, claw-footed iron tub filled with steaming water—he called us to a stop. “Ladies, I thank you for your help. That will be all, please.” He nodded in dismissal.
Elisabeth gazed at him, stricken. “But, sir—if I do not follow my master’s orders exactly … He told us that we should make sure of your enjoyment.”
With wicked glee, I picked up her cue, and moved over to him; with a single pull, I loosed the belt of his smoking jacket, which opened to reveal the long nightshirt, tucked into his pants.
Are all men of this era such prudes? He scrambled to pull the jacket closed and said huffily, “See here! This is quite improper, and I am engaged to be married!”
Then Elisabeth moved in and, over his indignant protests, pulled off the jacket the instant I pried it open again. The jacketless Englishman struggled to free himself, but we were stronger and held him fast.
“Do not be so modest, sir!” Elisabeth told him, with such sincerity that I was almost convinced she was a servant, acting on Vlad’s orders. “It is the custom in our country for women to assist men in bathing.”
And as she pinned his arms behind him, he yelping softly in dismay, I knelt, unbuttoned his trousers, and pulled them off. Beneath was a knee-length pair of men’s silk under-trousers. These I pulled off swiftly while the Englishman shrieked in horror; then off came the leather slippers, one at a time.
But a final challenge remained: the long nightshirt. Elisabeth released first one arm, then the next, as I quickly pulled the nightshirt up over his now-aubergine face to
reveal at last his nakedness. At once he doubled over with embarrassment and dismay in a pathetic attempt to hide his body from our view; had his hands been free, he would undoubtedly have shielded his privates.
Elisabeth clicked her tongue in disapproval and addressed me in Roumanian. “These Victorians. Too many clothes. It’s unhealthy.” To the guest, she said in English, “Into the tub with you, sir!”
He made no move to comply. And so, still grasping his arms behind him, she lifted him straight up off his feet and deposited him into the steaming water.
He entered it with a small cry at the scalding heat, and at first remained standing tiptoe in water up to his thighs. But propriety soon overcame fear, and he let go a gasp as he squatted low in the tub. Soon water covered all but his head and neck; these were veiled by rising steam. He moved close to the side near us, which effectively hid the rest of him from our view.
From the tub’s rim, Elisabeth lifted a cake of soap—fine, French-milled soap redolent with her perfume—and pointedly handed it to him. “Wash yourself, sir.”
Still squatting, he extended a dripping arm and took it. A comical moment of indecision followed, one in which his expression telegraphed every thought: How should he accomplish the task in front of these feminine guards? Common sense dictated that he should rise in order to make best use of the soap—but once again, modesty prevailed. He remained squatting in water up to his neck, and thus ran the soap over his entirety.
“I am finished,” he announced. “I should like a towel.”
“You are not quite done,” I told him, as I began to unfasten my bodice. The pewter silk parted to reveal my white breasts—unfettered by Victorian undergarments.
He gasped and averted his eyes in dutiful and gentlemanly fashion, his expression warring between horror and furtive desire. As the silk rustled to a heap on the stone and I stepped forward from it in my naked glory, lovelier than any vision of Venus emerging from the sea, he peered sly and sidewise at me.
I climbed into the great iron tub and knelt beside him, the liquid catching my waist-length indigo hair and setting it afloat like lazily drifting seaweed. Beneath the wavering water, my skin shimmered, phosphorescent white beside his darker, drabber skin. The warmth was delightful.