Blood to Blood (10 page)

"Not just yet. Tell me about her. Are you as pleased now as when you began working for her?"

"I am. She's a marvel. Mrs. Proctor was a good mistress, bless the poor thing, but not like Mrs. Harker."

"Does she live alone?"

Essie looked at him, the hint of a smile on her lips as if she guessed why he asked. "She does, but she is married. I met her husband. Unexpectedly. He came by late one night." She described how she'd seen him in the garden and the scare he'd given her.

"You say he walked all that way? At that hour."

"He'd had a bad dream. And another later that night. Mrs. Harker is most concerned about them."

"Do you know what sort of nightmares they are?"

He'd asked too many questions, saw her retreat from the easy conversation into the natural discretion a servant should have for her mistress. "The reason's not important, really," she replied.

"It could be. I might be able to perhaps suggest something to help him sleep if I better understood the sort of nightmares he has."

That relaxed her, but only a bit. "She would be so thankful. Promise you won't tell her or anyone what I say?"

He nodded. "They'll be like patients to me."

"It's like old Varney."

"Varney?"

She explained, and as she did, he found himself remembering the tales he'd heard long ago of the rakshasas who stole the life from the living. "He dreamed of women like them," she concluded.

"Of demons? How strange."

She shook her head. "Not strange at all." He thought to question her further but decided against it. Besides, she'd told him more than enough already.

The woman was married but living apart from her husband, a man who just might be unbalanced.

Perhaps it was for the best. If he ever became involved with a woman, he would want one of his own race, someone who would understand him.

Reason wouldn't make the attraction for Mina Harker go away. But at the least he would never let on how he felt. And there was some logical rationale for courtly love. He might never declare himself, but being close would have its own pleasures.

When Mina took the doctor's hand and said good-bye, she'd felt a chill at her core. It wasn't really him who made her anxious, she decided after thinking it over. Rather, it was the magnitude of the task she was about to take on. That night she prayed that she would be capable of it.

Nonetheless, she could not help but feel wary of the doctor—his exotic looks, his long face and wide-set eyes more striking than handsome, smooth voice and the odd way he looked at her when she said she wanted to help.

It must be his race, she decided. There would be so many who would judge him inferior because of the color of his skin. Of course, that would make her offer of charity suspect.

A rational enough explanation, but the wariness stayed with her on her visit with Winnie, and bothered her through the night. It even extended into her meeting with him the following day.

She met him at his office. He had shed the white collarless shirt he'd been wearing in favor of a cream-colored coat and brown vest. The suit made his complexion look lighter, and he seemed more a businessman than the doctor of the day before.

And though she wondered at his intentions, he was every bit a gentleman as they took off in a cab. Yet she would sometimes glance in his direction and find him turning his head away too quickly. He was watching her and did not want her to know it.

Perhaps he wasn't so proper, or perhaps he'd heard rumors about her and Gance and wondered if they were true.

When they returned to his office, he asked her to wait a moment, then brought her a package wrapped in brown paper. "This is for you," he said, handing it over, then continuing to talk as she opened it, his voice gaining intensity with each unfolding of the wrapper. "It's something I found in a local bookstore I visited yesterday afternoon. As soon as I saw it, I immediately thought of you. Consider it a… my first assistance for your new endeavor."

Inside was a book covered in tooled leather. She opened it and saw that the pages were blank.

"It is to record your life, to try to find the balance in it, especially now, when your life has taken a new turn that will affect so many others."

That evening she sat in her garden and fingered the soft leather binding, the smooth vellum pages.

Such an appropriate gift
, she wrote.
Had Winnie mentioned to Dr. Rhys that I kept journals? Or did I merely look like a woman who would scribble down the intimate details of her life, including the most fantastic adventure a woman
—
or a man
—
could ever have
?

There is even a balance scale tooled into the cover. I commented that it was the sign of Libra and most fitting, since I was born in September. Dr. Rhys said he hadn't thought of astrology at all. "One finds balance in the collection of thoughts, the sorting that comes before setting them down," he told me. "I kept a journal through my school years. I still consult it from time to time, to compare my ideas then with the ones I hold now. People's minds, like our species, evolve."

The doctor might say it was kismet that put this book in my hands at this time. I think it more his own inspiration. Now, as I sit with my pen and ink, I realize how much I've missed writing in my journals.

I think, too, on how helpful he was today and I believe I've misjudged him.

We visited with two local ministers, both of whom have a number of clients to refer to me. We spoke, too, with a pair of women Rhys knew. One was a native of Exeter who had lost her husband the year before and had a four-year-old boy. The second, in far more desperate straits, had recently arrived from London with two small children, fleeing an abusive husband who had sworn to lock her away as a lunatic if she tried to leave him.

She even confessed to me in a clandestine sort of whisper that she believed her daughter had stolen the money she'd used to ferret them out of London, since the story the child told about where it had come from was so implausible. I looked at her little girl, scarcely six and thin and ragged, and told the woman that no court that believed in justice would pass judgment on any of them.

Winnie would say we are no better than horses or land to some men, but it isn't true. Often we are less valued. I said as much to the woman, coaxing a quick, anxious smile.

This meeting reinforced something I have believed for some time. I am fortunate to have found a man like Jonathan to be my husband.

In the last days on their journey to England, Joanna began to dream of the past. It had been so long since she had recalled her youth. Perhaps it was the swaying of the boat in the choppy Mediterranean waters, the dry air blowing from the south, or the Arab passengers they took on during a stop in Tripoli and lodged in the cabin next to hers. In her long days half sleep and confinement, she would hear their whispers through the walls of her room and her box, soft syllables in a language similar to the one spoken in her grandfather's house. And so she dreamed.

Not unpleasantly. She cherished the memories, kept them with her during her waking hours. As they crossed into the Atlantic swells, she and Colleen often sat on the deck at night, and she would look up at the stars, remembering.

"What is it?" Colleen asked after she noticed a faraway look in Joanna's expression.

Joanna drew in a breath, and continued to stare out at the sea as she exhaled the words, "I was on a ship like this once before—a long time ago." She shut her eyes and fought down the urge to howl at the memory of all she had lost.

Colleen moved beside her and took her hand. The touch, willingly given, always excited Joanna. It had been centuries since any living person had ever known what she was and touched her without fear.

All the memories surfaced, glorious, bringing with them a bittersweet feeling akin to love. With Colleen's warm flesh pressed against hers, she fell into the happiest years of her past, relating part of the memories in quick, hushed breaths.

When Mezid-Bey received the news that his daughter had borne a child of his enemy then killed herself rather than face him, he guessed the truth. She had not been raped, or even seduced. She had loved the infidel and knew she could not keep this from him.

Her death had saved him the trouble of killing her himself.

He told that to Joanna years later, when she was old enough to understand. He said he might have killed her too, but when she was brought to him, he had looked past the tangled hair and ragged clothing and seen not his daughter but her mother—the wife Mezid-Bey had loved above all the others and who had died only months before Joanna had been brought to him.

"She would not have approved my killing a child as innocent as you were then," he explained to her.

So he had let her live with his own children in their private quarters in his home. There were no walls here; Mezid-Bey was no barbaric warlord in a dangerous country, nor did he have enemies among his own people. Instead there were gardens and fountains, tapestries lovingly created by his wives and favorite slaves.

They taught her deportment, how to act like a princess. Though she could never aspire to a noble marriage, her grandfather thought that perhaps he could find her a good match in spite of her tainted Western blood. "Perhaps it might even be an advantage," he told her one afternoon as they sat together.

"Advantage?" she asked, speaking with her eyelids half closed, looking at the flowers at her feet. The slaves had never taught her this, but she knew that the color of her eyes troubled him.

"The wars continue west of here. Some might think that a woman with the enemy's blood would perhaps have some insight into their thinking."

"Will the fighting come here?" she asked, glancing at him for some reassurance.

He pulled her close. She inhaled the scent of his perfume as he held her and whispered, "Of course not, child. We live far away from it all. But perhaps if you were to listen to the slaves from the West, you might learn something of value."

And with that briefest suggestion, she became a spy for her family. She was nine years old.

Slaves from the Western wars who proved to be trustworthy were allowed to tend their captors. Among them were a handful from her father's house. She could still recall the few words of the language she'd acquired. They taught her more, and through them she learned something of her father as well.

She feared him. To the child, it seemed that by sending her mother away, he had killed her as surely as if he had plunged a knife into her heart. Years later, when she thought of it, she realized that, in truth, he had.

But though her father frightened her, her brothers did not. Radu she despised, because everyone who knew him seemed to. He was overly fastidious, fawning over his captors and making it clear to anyone who would listen that had no desire to ever return to the barbarity of his father's house. In a land where blood ties were so important, his opinions were seen not as a triumph for his captors but as a flaw, strong enough that he was not trusted.

Vlad was a different story. Joanna would sometimes see him walking through the palace, always guarded, as if his captors were afraid to leave him alone. She was too young to guess that they feared him. She only saw the worn clothes, the oily hair, the frequently bruised face of a slave.

They might never have met had it not been for a night when she attended a state banquet. She sat near the back of the hall with the other children, aunts and uncles who were often far younger than she. At the start of the meal, Vlad and his brother were brought in and introduced to visitors from the West. Vlad was dressed well for the occasion, but had men surrounding him. She recognized them as palace guards, though they tried to look inconspicuous as they led him to the visitors.

She watched a quick exchange between the guests and her half brother, then listened in amazement as Mezid-Bey asked the boy to share his table. Vlad looked as starved as the lowest beggar, but declined. She watched as he left the hall so quickly that the guards who tried not to look like guards had to struggle to keep up with him.

Curious, she slipped away from her family and followed the group, keeping to the shadows along the walls, darting out the door as quickly as a mouse. Once in the hall, she stood behind a post and listened to the exchange—her eavesdropping made all the more difficult by the sudden shift between Turkish and Romanian.

"Did he really think I would share food with him?" Vlad responded to the youngest guard's whispered comment.

"Keep your voice down, fool!" the head guard said, grabbing his arm as Vlad tried to walk away.

Vlad wrenched it free. "I've half a mind to go back inside and—"

She would have heard more, but his angry words were cut short by the sight of the head guard's sword. "I would not think that wise for yourself or our guests, young prince," he said, his voice low and lethal.

As they walked down the hall, she noticed the youngest of the guards pull one of the small meat pies served at the banquet out of his pocket and slip it into Vlad's hand. As it disappeared into his robe, Vlad responded to the kindness with a quick nod.

Joanna began to understand why he looked so lean, so tattered. Did her grandfather know that they starved him? Would she dare to ask about it and discover that he had ordered it as punishment?

She followed the group, keeping well behind them and in the shadows, where the flickering lamplight did not touch. Under normal circumstances, she would not have tried to meet him, but tonight it seemed that she could at least find out where they kept him, then return to her group without ever being missed.

So she went on, down turns in the hall and up a twisting, narrow flight of stairs to a plainer section of the castle, one where the most trusted guards of the family were lodged in comfort but not extravagance.

She peeked around the final turn in the hall and saw the far room open and her brother step inside.

She prayed that luck would stay with her, and it did. The chief guard and two of his men continued down the hall, leaving the kind guard and another behind.

She had not intended to do anything more than what she had already done, but this seemed too fortunate an opportunity. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into their sight and walked confidently toward the pair.

"And what brings you here on such a night, young princess?" the kind one asked.

"I should like to see Vlad Tepes, please," she replied.

He knew why she had come alone. Would he dare to help? She waited while the men looked at each other, saying nothing. "Do you order this, young princess?" he finally asked.

She had never ordered anything and did not know if he were joking. "I understand that he is my brother. I would only like to meet him."

The look that passed between them was longer this time. "Do you suppose he'll strangle her?" the second guard said.

"He has not survived so long in this place by being a fool." The younger guard slipped the bolt, glanced into the room, then let her pass.

A single candle lit the space, and there was a stench to the room that told her it was rarely cleaned or aired. He sat at a bare table, lit by a single candle. As soon as he saw her, he relaxed and casually finished the small meal he had been given.

"Welcome, Princess Joanna," he finally said, his eyes glittering in the light, intense with interest. "Come closer so I can see you better."

She did as he ordered. Thinking of the guard's comment, she stood out of reach. He opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a scrap of parchment. It flared as he held it over the candle flame, then closer to her face, letting it fall to the floor when it burned too close to his fingers. She stepped back quickly to keep from being burned, watching as the ashes died on the bare wood.

"I'd heard that we looked much alike. Close up, it's more obvious." he said, commenting no further.

She stared at him, trying to see what he saw. The long silence grew oppressive, and when he took a sudden step toward her, she cried out and jumped back.

"Features mean nothing," he said and laughed. "You may look like me, but you've no more strength than Radu."

"I'm so much smaller than you are," she retorted, her chin starting to quiver.

"I understand that your mother was eaten by wolves. Do you dream of them?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she admitted. "But they don't frighten me."

"They should. They're the strongest army of my land, protecting what is theirs. Perhaps they let you live because you are one of us."

She looked at the bare stone walls, the tiny window near the ceiling, the small hinged door within the door. This was not his chamber, but his cell.

"I came to see if I could help you," she said.

"Help?" He laughed. "I've been beyond help since I set foot in this cursed place." He paused, then added, "But if you do wish to do me a favor, I can think of one. I'd like a knife."

"To escape?"

"Escape! Now, where could I go?" He'd moved closer to her again, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek as he whispered, "No, small sister, I want to kill a man—two, if I can manage."

"The punishment for murder is—"

He cut her off with a quick laugh. "If Mezid-Bey intended to kill me, he would have done so long ago. He can't because he needs me. There's no one else to take the Wallacian throne but a Hunyadi, and he's wise to fear them."

She understood only half of what he said. "Why do you want to kill someone?" she asked.

"For justice."

"Justice." She frowned, considered, answered finally, "For that there is my grandfather's court."

"Yes, he would have some interest." He smiled, his lips pressed together, his eyes oddly out of focus as if he were watching the deed. "But it's not the same as holding the knife my… self."

She knew that other boys his age did not speak of such things. And though she wanted to understand, she still had a hundred questions, all unformed. She was about to speak when they were interrupted by a quick knock, the door flung open. "Child, someone's coming!"

Vlad jumped backward, away from her, lost his footing and caught himself against the stone wall. "Crimes," he mumbled and shut his eyes.

The guard who had helped her pulled her into the hall and thrust her into an open doorway across from her brother's room. "Stay there until I come for you," he said, closing the door to hide her.

She put her ear to the wood and listened to someone walking down the hall, a new set of voices. She recognized the head guard's, then another, even more familiar one.

She was certain she heard her uncle, her mother's brother.

He had no position in the castle save that of a lesser relation, and certainly no reason to be visiting her half brother. Now more curious than frightened, she lay down on the floor and placed her ear close to the crack at the bottom of the door. Though she struggled to hear, the voices were too soft, stopping altogether as the door to her brother's room opened and shut behind them.

When she'd listened awhile longer and heard nothing, she risked opening the door. The hallway was empty. Certain she would be missed by her family, if she had not been already, she decided to leave while the hall was clear. But before she could bolt to the stairs and safety, the door to her brother's room opened.