LITMIR.BIZ

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      The study door opened, and Valeri entered, dragging the unconscious figure of a teenage girl behind him. Her head was starred with blood and the heels of her bare feet scraped noisily across the wooden floorboards as Valeri approached his master. The scent of the blood seeping from the girl’s head filled Dracula’s nostrils, and his pale blue eyes coloured a terrible dark red, the colour of madness, a colour that no sane person could have looked upon for more than a second or two.

      “An offering for you, master,” whispered Valeri, bowing deeply.

      “Thank you, Valeri,” replied Count Dracula, his voice like the scratch of a pencil on a sheet of paper.

      Valeri lowered the girl towards his master, then slit her throat with one of his fingernails. As the blood began to flow, Dracula clamped his mouth over the wound, sucking hungrily, like a baby at its mother’s breast. Valeri held the girl in place, but turned his head away; it would not be appropriate for him to watch his master feed in such a way. Instead, he let his gaze wander around the study, a room he had not set foot in for almost fifty years until the day after his master had been reborn.

      Château Dauncy had been the favourite place of his wife, Ana, her favourite place in the whole world. It had been the only thing, apart from Valeri himself, capable of soothing the madness that roared inside her. When she died, when she was taken from him, he had ordered the old building shuttered and boarded up, hoping to trap the worst of his grief inside the ancient walls. It was painful for him to be inside those walls now, far more painful than he had expected, but it was necessary; it was the one property he owned that no one else was aware of, the one place he was confident would not be under surveillance by Blacklight or one of its accursed counterparts. It was the place he could return his master to health, without interruption.

      The girl’s blood gushed into Dracula’s mouth, and he instantly felt strength flood through him. He knew it wouldn’t last, but he also knew that each passing day, each mouthful of warm, running blood, brought him closer to himself, and to his revenge.

      Taking advantage of the temporary rush of power, he spoke to Valeri, his voice booming through the study, rich and deep and momentarily full of the authority that had once commanded armies, and sent thousands to their deaths.

      “Where is your brother?” he asked. “Why is Valentin not here, assisting you? I would not have you shoulder this burden alone, old friend.”

      “Valentin is in America, master,” replied Valeri, a grimace of distaste flickering across his face as he spoke his brother’s name. “We do not concern ourselves with each other.”

      Dracula’s face twisted into a snarl, and for a moment, Valeri was afraid. The resurrection of his master had been the result of a quest that had taken him more than a hundred years to complete, a quest he had remained doggedly loyal to even as Alexandru had descended into madness and Valentin had turned his back on his family, sinking happily into his life of shameful indulgence in New York. Now that the quest was over and his master had been returned to life, Valeri’s position as Dracula’s favourite would forever be secure; he would follow his master once more, obediently, gladly and proudly. But in the century that had passed, as Dracula lay dormant deep below the Russian snow, Valeri had forgotten what it was to be afraid. He was reminded now, and he shivered in the cool air of his study.

      “Go to him,” said Dracula, the snarl vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “Tell him that his master orders him home. Tell him there is work to be done.”

      “Of course, master,” replied Valeri. “I will leave at once.”

      Dracula grunted with satisfaction.

      “Good,” he said, and fixed his eyes upon his subject. “You have always served me with distinction, Valeri. You have never sought to question me. When this world is mine, when I have piled high the bodies of the pathetic creatures that inhabit it and set them alight, when once again my enemies stare out at nothing from the highest poles, the place at my right hand will be yours, as it was before.”

      “You honour me, master.”

      “Leave me,” replied Dracula, waving a hand towards Valeri, who did as he was ordered, backing quietly out of the study and leaving the Count alone.

      Dracula watched him go, then rolled back on to the chaise longue and stared at the ornate, painted ceiling above him. Already he could feel his strength ebbing away, but he refused to let it anger him. Three months had passed since he had woken in the pulsing gore of the pit beneath the Rusmanov chapel, naked and screaming, his body little more than coloured blubber, held together only by the strength of his own will. He had not known himself as he was birthed violently back into the world, had not known himself until Valeri had knelt at the edge of the pit and said a single word.

      Master. When he called me master, I knew who I was.

      His journey from that blood-soaked beginning had been long, and hard, but it was getting easier, with each passing day. He knew that he could be patient, for a short while at least. And he knew that he could bear whatever pain might come his way. As agonising as his recovery had been so far, it did not even bear comparison to the night his second life had begun, more than five hundred years ago.

      5

      REBIRTH

      TELEORMAN FOREST, NEAR BUCHAREST, WALLACHIA 12TH DECEMBER 1476

      Vlad Tepes fled through the darkening forest, the din of the battle and the screams of his men fading behind him. He had torn his royal armour from his body and cast it aside, but he could still hear the shouts and running footsteps of his pursuers, getting closer with every minute that passed.

      Five Turkish soldiers at least; maybe six, maybe more. The Prince of Wallachia knew better than anyone the horrors that would await him in the Turkish camp if he was caught, and he redoubled his efforts, the soft forest floor thudding beneath his feet.

      I’ll die before I let them take me, he thought. I will bow to no one.

      The army that had advanced across his lands had outnumbered his own forces by five to one. Less than a year earlier, Stephen Bathory, the Prince of Transylvania, had helped Vlad to reclaim his throne; they had marched together into Wallachia, their forces combined, and Basarab, the foolish, cowardly old man who had succeeded Vlad’s brother Radu as ruler, had fled without a fight.

      But Stephen had refused to stay and help consolidate Vlad’s third reign, and his departure – betrayal, it was a betrayal – had left him vulnerable. He had received word within months that a Turkish army was moving north, and when it had been clear that no help was forthcoming, he had ridden out to meet it on the plains beside Bucharest, accompanied by his elite Moldavian guards and a little over four thousand men.

      They fought like they were forty thousand. Fought and died, as men should.

      Blood ran down Vlad’s arm from the sword blow that had knocked him from his horse, but he felt no pain. Instead, an ethereal calm had settled over him, bestowing upon him the clarity of a man who is running for his life. Somewhere behind him, either fleeing the battlefield or lying dead upon its blood-soaked earth, were his Generals, the brothers Rusmanov. When it had become clear that the battle was lost, that his brief third reign as the ruler of Wallachia was over, Vlad had fled, without a backward glance. He felt a momentary pang of guilt, but pushed it quickly aside.

      I never promised them immortality. They followed me with their eyes open, and took their share of the spoils of victory gladly.

      The sun had slipped below the horizon to the west, and darkness was gathering around Vlad as he ran. At the foot of an enormous white oak tree, he stopped and caught his breath, listening intently for the sounds of his pursuers.

      The forest was silent.

      Not the slightest noise could be heard, in any direction, and Vlad’s savage pleasure at the thought of having lost the Turkish soldiers was replaced with a sudden uneasiness. The trunk of the oak in front of him looked ancient, gnarled and twisted beyond anything he had seen before, and he had hunted and ridden

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