Dracul (9 page)

I open my eyes and give him a look.

“Oooh, so much exasperation.” This time, his smile is not so much a smirk, but honestly pleased.

Too cute for his own good, is what he is.

His face goes pale and he sits up straight. “I am a vampire,” he reminds me, leaning close and speaking in a whisper. “You know there can never be anything between us. Not,” he clears his throat, “anything.”

I can feel my eyes go wide as I fight back a blush and hurry to finish my burger so we can go.

Constantine smooths the concern off his face with one swipe of his hand. “Right. I know you know. I do not mean to suggest you were thinking anything. I just saw on your face—”

I roll my eyes and pop the last of my second burger into my mouth.

“Ah, I see.” He grins. “I’m not
that
cute.”

Again I close my eyes.

Working with Constantine is going to be dangerous on way too many levels.

After Constantine pays for dinner, he walks me home. “I’m sorry about your backpack. I will get some more blackjack books for you—if you are willing to accept my terms.”

It’s a big obligation to commit to. I want to be sure I’m making the right choice, so I let Constantine suffer through my silence as I weigh the pros and cons inside my head.

I’ve put a lot of thought into it, and while I know there will be some risks involved, I
need
that translation. I don’t just need it for the paper, but to appease the burning curiosity that drove me to research Dracula in the first place. For the first time, I actually have some hope of learning who Vlad Dracula really was and why they called him the son of a dragon.

More than just the Order of the Dragon explanation.

The reason
behind
that explanation.

Were there real dragons in the Order of the Dragon?

And was Vlad Dracul one of them?

Of all the sources I’ve encountered, Constantine seems the most likely to be able to answer that question. I’d come right out and ask him point-blank, but then he’d want to know why I believe dragons are real, and I’m not nearly prepared to answer that question, certainly not under the circumstances.

Besides, studying aside, my weekends have been boring and lonely of late. Hitting Vegas is as good a way as any to keep myself from wallowing in the fact that my entire family has moved on without me.

It will be good for me.

I just need to make sure the terms are favorable. “You will translate the entire book for me?”

“The entire book,” Constantine vows.

“And in a timely manner so I can write my paper on time?”

“I will translate according to your schedule. And if you have questions beyond the text, I will do my best to answer them.”

Bonus. I try not to let my excitement show on my face, because even though it’s dark and we’re walking back to my place side-by-side, not looking at one another, I’ve no doubt Constantine could read my happiness if he so much as glanced at me.

“Then I agree. I will learn blackjack and do my best to help you win whatever you can win.”

“That is all I ask. Do your best—I won’t require any dollar amount. Even when we count cards, we’re still gambling.”

That much decided, I pull my house key from the zipper pouch of my wallet where I keep it (yet another reason I’m glad Constantine found my wallet, or at least returned it to me—or the vampires would have the key to my place and I’d be locked out). As I unlock the door, I ask, “Am I going to be safe here? They keep attacking me.”

As Constantine makes a face, apparently weighing my question, I consider my options. Under any other circumstances, I’d ask one of my family members to come stay with me. But who can I ask? Two of my siblings have babies at home, a third is recently married and hoping to lay an egg before long. My parents are busy supporting the new parents and ruling their kingdom. Even my grandfather is a new father again.

That leaves only one person—my youngest brother, Felix.

But Felix has made gold. If these vampires are so desperate for information on how that’s done—no, I can’t. I can’t ask Felix to come. To do so would endanger him far more than the others. He’s the last person I’d want to come here.

I’ve no sooner made that resolution than Constantine sets his jaw in an expression that says he’s made his mind up, as well.

“You are not their target,” he assures me solemnly. “They’re after information. As long as they think they can steal the information from you, they won’t hurt you, not on purpose. What would that accomplish? They need you. I don’t think they will hurt you.”

“You don’t
think
—”

Constantine cuts off my words. “If I believed you were in real danger, I would not let you out of my sight.” His eyes lock on mine as we share the front stoop.

His face might not be so familiar to me, but right now, his eyes are screaming with something I can almost read. What is that? Zeal? Determination? Something like that, but it’s almost more like…no, that can’t be.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” We make plans to meet tomorrow after my last class, assuming it snows as predicted, so he’s not out in the sunshine. Then I duck inside, closing the door behind me before leaning my back against it, pinching my eyes shut, and reviewing what I saw in Constantine’s dark brown eyes.

He’s the one who’s been so emphatic about there not being anything between us, though I never suggested otherwise. He’s the one who insists we’re two different species who can, at best, only be friends.

So why would he look at me with longing in his eyes?

Chapter Nine

My sleep is restless. Every whistle of the wind, every tree branch creaking in the night sends my uneasy dreams scrambling into nightmares of bats and blood and thirsty vampires.

At four in the morning, I’m shocked awake by a clattering noise that goes silent as my eyes snap open.

What was that?

Cautiously, I switch on a light, slip out of bed, and clutch my phone, ready to call Constantine at any sign of danger, but a quick tour of the house shows nothing out of place.

Not that I checked the attic.

What am I supposed to do? I have too much adrenaline in my system to fall asleep now. I don’t want to call Constantine—not again. We’ve been spending an awful lot of time together all of a sudden, and I don’t really trust him.

Besides, I don’t know what to think of the way he looked at me. Probably I was overtired or…something. I just don’t know.

But I do know it would be foolish of me to try to stick this out alone. I don’t dare go running home to Azerbaijan. Not only would I quite possibly lead the vampires back to my family, but I’m so close to graduating.
So close
.

I can’t leave now.

That leaves one option. It’s not a good option. I’m not proud of what I’m going to do, but every other option seems much worse.

“Hello? Rilla?” Dad answers his phone on the third ring. It may be the wee hours of the morning here, but it’s midafternoon in Azerbaijan. Of course, Dad’s well aware it’s not a common hour for me to call. “Are you all right?”

“I’m not sure.” I’ve already thought through what I dare tell him over the phone. We’ve always been extra careful not to give away too much about who we are, for fear someone might be listening in.

We’ve always had enemies.

Just never these enemies.

So I give him the explanation I’ve prepared. “Someone stole my backpack—twice. I got it back the first time, but now it’s gone, and I fought them for it, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Who are they? What do they want?”

“I have theories, but I’d prefer to tell you about them in person. Can you come stay with me for awhile? I don’t feel safe.” My breath catches in my throat. I don’t feel like a dragon when I’m asking for help. I feel like a coward. But better a live coward than a dead dragon.

“Oh, Rilla. I’ve been worried about you, over there all alone.” Dad’s voice sounds heavy with concern. Sure, he may be the dragon king and come off all brave and powerful most of the time, but even that’s mostly because he cares so deeply for his people and his family.

Especially his family.

“It will be a couple days before I can reach you.”

“I know.” It doesn’t matter whether we fly commercial airlines, or with our own wings. The earth is a big ball to fly around, either way. It takes time. Always. “I’ll be careful until then.”

“Do that. Please. I’ll do my best to reach you as soon as possible.” He swallows back what are probably a thousand questions, but we both know there’s no sense in him asking for more details. If someone can steal my backpack, they can listen in on my phone conversation. There’s nothing I need to tell my father that’s worth that risk. “Now I’ll let you go so I can make plans. Stay safe.”

“I’ll try.”

I turn out my light and keep the phone under my pillow. It’s the only way I can fall asleep.

*

I’m tired the next day, but I gulp enough coffee to keep me awake through my classes. As promised, Constantine is waiting for me in the freezing wind and pelting snow as I exit the building after my last class. He has a soft-sided cooler slung by a strap over his shoulder.

“What’s in the cooler?” I ask, wondering why he thinks he needs an insulated container to keep something cold when the temperature is already well below freezing.

“It’s a surprise. But I will give you a hint—it is one of the greatest inventions of the last century.”

My curiosity is definitely piqued. We walk at a brisk pace back to my place. The blasting wind makes conversation difficult, and Constantine doesn’t strike me as the type to give away a secret before the appointed time, so I don’t bother to beg him for hints.

“Okay!” I stomp the snow from my boots before hurrying inside my house and dumping my bag (my spare backpack, obviously) on one of the dining room chairs. “What’s in the cooler?”

Constantine unzips the lid and starts pulling out plastic containers with a flourish. “I brought you food.” He stacks four whole roasted chickens on the table.

Pleased as I am by the prospect of food, I’m confused. “Chicken is not an invention of the last century.”

“
Rotisserie
chicken, made by electric roaster with uniform results,” Constantine corrects me as I head to the kitchen for ice water. “Do you know how difficult it is to roast a bird without making it too dry, or worse yet, undercooked in the middle? Everyone takes these chickens for granted. If you had lived as long as I have lived, you would understand. This is like a miracle.”

“If you say so.” I return to the dining room and set the drinks next to the chickens. “Let’s eat this miracle chicken, then you can teach me how to play blackjack so we can get to translating the book.”

The chicken is quite tasty, and, as advertised, not too dry. Constantine washes his hands before pulling out decks of cards while I finish eating.

“I will be the dealer.” He lays out the dining room table like a blackjack table, even going so far as to enlist the plastic deli trays of our discarded chicken bones to stand in for other players. “Henrietta,” he names one pile of bones. “And Mister Cluckins.”

“I’m going to feel really stupid if I lose to Mister Cluckins.”

“I will be playing for Mister Cluckins and Henrietta.”

“I’m going to lose to Mister Cluckins,” I predict as I finish off the last of the chicken meat, resisting the urge to crunch down the bones. Chicken bones are quite tasty, and a good source of calcium, but I don’t want Constantine to see me eating them or he might ask questions, because last I checked, normal people do not eat chicken bones. Dragons eat chicken bones.

But I don’t want Constantine to suspect anything.

I add the bones to Henrietta’s tray, wash my hands, and refill our drinks before announcing I’m ready to play.

“You have no blackjack experience?” Constantine confirms.

“None.”

“Then don’t worry about counting cards yet. Today, we will work on learning to play the game.”

For the next few hours, Constantine deals the cards and makes betting and playing decisions on behalf of the chicken bones, both of which end up with higher winnings than I do. Several times, Constantine has to refresh my dwindling pile of chips (they’re not even potato chips or tortilla chips, but plastic betting chips similar to those used in real casinos).

“I’m sorry I’m not any good,” I apologize when Constantine announces we’ve played enough blackjack for one day.

“You are improving. Besides, it is not your job to win. It is your job to count. Don’t confuse the two.”

While Constantine excuses himself to the restroom, I carry the chicken bones to the kitchen, and gobble up some of the crunchy spine pieces before I toss the rest in the trash.

Mmm, those are so good. Seriously, it’s like I get some kind of vitamin deficiency when I don’t eat enough real dragon food.

“Ready for translation?” Constantine asks from the kitchen doorway, way sooner than I expected him to return.

“Re—dcck.” I cough on the chicken spines.

Constantine grabs my water glass from the table and hands it over to me.

I’m still coughing too hard to hold the glass, so when I wrap my fingers around it, he’s still holding on.

His fingers are so cold where they touch mine.

Almost ice cold.

But that’s part of the vampire mythology, too, isn’t it?

Clearing my throat is made more complicated by the fact that I don’t want Constantine to see what I had in my mouth, but I get enough control over my hacking to manage a sip of water. Once that goes down without stirring anything up, I drink again.

“All better?”

“Better. Thanks.” I set the glass on the counter and wash my hands. “Let’s get to that translation.”

As I’d hoped, Constantine doesn’t waste any time, but opens the book and picks up right where we left off, with Mircea, Vlad, and Radu Dracula. He tells me the three sons of Vlad Dracul were raised to be military leaders, learning from a young age how to ride horses, fight with swords, and use a lance—a javelin-like spear most commonly used in the warfare of the day.

“A skilled warrior,” Constantine notes, “would not just knock his enemies from their horses, but could actually impale them as he rode past. Vlad, in particular, became quite skilled with the lance.”

This tidbit is unique to the rest. “His obsession with impaling began at a very young age?” I clarify, adding the words to my notes.

“Ah, yes.” Constantine nods soberly. “He felt frustrated by the limitations to his power. He lived under constant reminders of the Ottoman threat, and when practicing the joust, he would boast about how many of the enemy he could impale. But it would be many long years before he could make good those claims—and by then, it was no longer a game.”

For a moment, Constantine’s face bears a far-away look. Then he launches back into the translation.

It’s a complicated story with many players. Not only did Vlad Dracul have to constantly assuage his powerful neighbors far away, but he also had to keep the peace among the various parties near to home. For the next hour, I’m jotting names, places, dates—so many I can barely keep them all straight, even with my baseline familiarity after all the research I’ve done.

Finally, in the midst of this saga, Constantine reaches the part of the story that was a major turning point in Vlad Dracula’s life—the great betrayal.

I know the story well.

In 1443, Vlad Dracul was caught between political promises and embroiled in skirmishes on every side. Though the oath he pledged to the Order of the Dragon required him to protect Christendom against the Turks, nonetheless, he was obliged to pay homage to the Ottoman Empire. Summoned to Gallipoli by the sultan, Dracul had little choice but to go, or risk provoking the Turks.

Having been lied to many times already, and perhaps suspecting a trap, Vlad Dracul left his oldest son, Mircea (then about 15 years old), in charge of his kingdom, and traveled with his two younger sons, Vlad and Radu. Technically he was expected to bring all of his sons, but he sent a rumor ahead that Mircea had been killed in battle.

No sooner had Vlad and his sons reached the city, than the sultan had the three of them seized and held prisoner. It wasn’t until Vlad swore to pay a yearly tribute of both gold and boys for the sultan’s army, that Vlad Dracul was released, alone, to return home—on the condition that he not engage in any aggression against the Turks. His two sons were held as a kind of collateral, binding him to his agreement in exchange for their continued survival.

For Vlad Dracula, who was then merely 12 years old, the experience was more than terrifying. A veritable prisoner in a hostile, foreign land, his life at risk at every moment, he learned he could trust no one. He was subject to, and witness to, horrific acts of torture, the details of which I will spare you because I can’t stand thinking about them.

And though he learned quickly to obey his captors, during the long years of his imprisonment, Vlad Dracula dreamed of his revenge.

He got his chance in the most awful of ways.

Dracula’s father, Vlad Dracul, had returned home to rule, but the continued pressures from without and within did not make life easy for him. Dracul was fully aware that any perceived aggression against the Turks could result in death for his two sons who were still being held captive. However, the locals were not nearly so invested in keeping the sultan happy.

By November of 1447, Dracul’s rivals at home could no longer be contained. They’d spread unrest among the populace and hatched a plan to lure Vlad Dracul and his eldest son, Mircea, into their hands, to overthrow them, and to rule in their place. After a series of complicated intrigues, the usurpers managed to separate the two, trapping Mircea, torturing him, and ultimately burying him alive.

Vlad Dracul was chased to the marshes, where he was assassinated. And though his faithful followers claimed to have given his body proper burial, its resting place has never been officially identified.

Vlad Dracul’s end was a tragic one, but it was only the beginning for his son, Vlad Dracula. Part of the sultan’s long gamble in keeping Vlad and Radu prisoner was not just to have sway over the current leader, but to impose his values upon the future leader.

As his father’s heir, Vlad Dracula was released and sent home to rule with the support of the sultan.

“He had many injustices he wanted to avenge,” Constantine laments. “But those had to wait until he could establish himself in power. He needed the support of the sultan and the power of the Turkish threat behind him in order to rule his own people. And that is another very long story, for another day.”