Blood of the Impaler (31 page)

NO . . . NO . . . NO SUCH THOUGHTS . . . STOP IT . . .

He drove the unwanted ideas from his mind and concentrated on the beautiful woman who was lying beside him. She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it away as he reached behind her and unsnapped her bra. He buried his face between her breasts and kissed them and licked them and sucked on them . . . it was just like . . . just like . . .

JERRY AND LUCY . . .
JERRY
AND LUCY . . . NO NO. . . STOP. . .

She dropped her skirt to the floor and then opened his belt buckle. In a few moments they were naked, pressed together in an embrace of rapidly deepening passion, their hands running up and down each other's body, their tongues and lips exploring each other gently. Malcolm moved above her and began to kiss her as she spread her knees apart beneath him and closed her eyes in a brief spasm of anticipatory pleasure. He kissed her lips as she took his erect organ in her hands and began to guide it into her, and his kisses moved down from her lips to her chin and from her lips to her throat, to her throat, and his erection shriveled to nothing as he kissed her throat, as he tasted the sweet sweat on her throat, as he heard the blood pounding through the veins and the arteries in her throat—and her throat was white and long and rich and filled with blood. His blood called to him to taste her blood, to drink her rich, sweet, red blood, and his blood told him where to strike, and his blood cried out for more blood, for blood, for blood. She was cattle, she was food, she was redolent of blood, she was filled with blood, she was nothing to him but a cow with blood in her udder, a cow to be milked for her blood, for her life-giving blood. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back, and it was as if he could see the blood coursing through the channels just beneath the skin of her throat; just there, just there, in that spot, the white spot, just there, and that was where he was to strike, that was where his teeth would sink into her warm, living flesh and suck out the warm, living blood. He wanted her blood, he needed her blood, and his own blood cried out to him to kill her, to kill her, to kill her . . .

Malcolm pushed Holly away from him as he jumped backward away from the bed and stared at her in abject terror and self-loathing. She returned his gaze with one of confusion. "Honey, what is it? What's wrong?" He grabbed his pants and shirt and pulled on his clothes and his shoes and ran for the door. "Malcolm!" she cried. "What is it? Malcolm? Malcolm!"

He slammed the door behind him.

M
alcolm wandered the streets of Rome through the dark hours after midnight, terrified at the sounds and smells around him. Much as he fought against the sensation, each person whom he passed smelled like food, and the smell of food was the smell of blood, and the blood that ran through his own veins was calling out to him in a voice that he could not still.

It was the dust of the Count
, he reasoned madly as he ran wildly down the Roman streets.
My blood came into contact with the remains, and I've awakened the blood, I've awakened it! I came to Europe seeking to end this curse, this bastard inheritance, and all I've done is worsen it. I've delivered the only hope of my salvation into the hands of a creature more deeply cursed than I. Damn her, damn her!

The need was overpowering him, and the smell of blood was so thick around each person he passed that he was scarcely able to keep his hands from reaching out and grasping them by their necks. Their warm, rich flesh called out to him. The blood surging through the veins in their throats called out to him.

He ran and ran for what seemed to be hours, until at last he collapsed, exhausted and barely able to breathe. He crawled over to an alleyway and sat back against the hard stone wall of one of the buildings bordering on the alley. Malcolm began to weep and pray, sobbing incoherently.
All I had to do was just go to church and take the sacrament
, he thought in his misery.
That's all I had to do, just listen to my grandfather. And now I've awakened an evil within me; I've inflicted it upon my best friend and nearly killed the girl I love. I've released a murdering monster . . .

Malcolm was so deeply lost in his self-recriminations that he did not hear the clicking of the high heels as they approached him. He looked up when he heard the soft, inviting voice addressing him in melodious Italian.

A girl of no more than twenty stood over him, smiling down at him and speaking words which he could not understand. She was dark haired and pale in the dim street lighting, long-legged and malnourished beneath her excessive makeup. She wore a very skimpy halter top through which the points of her nipples were clearly visible, and the tone of her voice and the smile of feigned lasciviousness told him that she was a streetwalker hoping to roll what she assumed to be a drunk.

He got to his feet, swaying slightly upon his tired, rubbery legs, and he inhaled deeply of the sweet smell of blood that she exuded. She continued to speak to him in her soft, seductive voice as she ran her fingers enticingly over his body, seeking his wallet. He ignored her hands, he ignored her voice. All he was aware of was the smell of the young woman, a smell of food. He gazed at her for a few moments as the predatory urge welled up in him with overpowering force. He fought against the urge. He resisted it. And then be surrendered to it.

And he felt himself swept up and away once again by the enveloping mists of time, and the sense of emptiness returned as he was cast into the black maelstrom of evil remembrance. Malcolm shook his head and rubbed his face, grateful that he had feeling and presence of mind; but then he noticed that his hair was much thicker and much longer than it should have been; that his upper lip was covered by a thick mustache; that he was wearing chain-mail armor over a caftan of purest silk; that he was standing alone in the dark, silent room, his left hand resting upon the hilt of the sword which hung from the leather belt that encircled his waist. He knew that it was the year 1459, and that he, Vlad Tepes, Voivode of Wallachia, was about to take a dangerous gamble, one which might lead to his death—or to more power than he had ever dreamed of possessing. if he failed, the sultan would have him skinned and raise his hide from a flagpole above the citadel at Stambul; if he succeeded, he would have the armies of the Hapsburgs and their European allies beside him in a war to destroy the Turks; and if
that
enterprise were to prosper, he, Vlad IV of Wallachia, might well become Vlad I, Emperor of a restored Byzantine realm.

"Ordogh," he whispered. "Come to me."

A few long moments passed, then the voice said, "I am here, Little Dragon."

"I need your advice, Ordogh," the Voivode said. "Do you know of my intentions?"

"They are obvious, Little Dragon. I see a great feast beginning in the courtyard of your fortress. I see fifty sharpened stakes implanted in a large circle around the tables. I see the banners of Corvinus, the Hungarian king, flying from the poles above the battlements, and I see no banners bearing the crescent of the Turks."

The Voivode laughed, but there was no amusement in his laughter. "I do not need you to tell me that which any ignorant peasant can surmise, Ordogh. I need you to tell me if the path I am turning toward will lead me to imperial purple or to a traitor's death. You can pierce the veil of the future, Ordogh, this I know. Tell me what is to be."

The voice seemed to sigh as it replied, "And have you been my servant for so long and yet do not understand, Little Dragon? I am no Gypsy fortune-teller. Turn down whatever path you choose. All paths of all men lead to the grave and the dust of death."

"Yes," the Voivode said irritably, "but one may die tomorrow or in fifty years. Time is meaningless to you, Ordogh, but not to me."

"And would you have it be meaningless to you also, Little Dragon?" the voice asked. "Would you like to be as unconcerned about the turning of the wheel of time as I?"

The Voivode frowned. "What are you talking about, Ordogh?"

The voice did not reply at first. After a long silence, it said, "No, Little Dragon, the time is not yet. Later, many years from now, we shall discuss this again."

"Many years from now?" the Voivode asked, smiling. "Then I shall triumph, shall I not, Ordogh?"

"That have I not said, Little Dragon," the voice replied. "But I can tell you that, win or lose, this risk will not lead to death."

The Voivode paused, reflecting upon this. "A man may risk all, knowing that death does not await him. Only death can make a man irresolute." He laughed. "I thank you, Ordogh, for your speech. I go now unto my allies and my enemies."

"You please me greatly, Little Dragon," the voice said, fading away even as it whispered in his ear. "I await the cries of agony and the howls of pain." And then the voice was gone.

The Voivode strode out of the dark, silent room and walked in contemplative silence through the corridors of the castle, making his way toward the huge oaken doors which led to the great courtyard without.
I shall not see death because of this
, he thought.
Then it is worth the risk
.

Final preparations for the feast had been finished as he stood in the empty room communing with the dark spirit, and his wives, Magda and Katarina, who had supervised the arrangements, curtsied to him as he walked out into the courtyard. He shot each a curt bow. They withdrew as soon as he entered the courtyard, for the feast was to be for men alone. He took his seat in the large chair upon the dais and nodded to his chamberlain.

As his servant went to summon the guests, the Voivode sat back and surveyed the scene before him. His soldiers, clad in full battle gear, stood in tightly packed lines against all four walls enclosing the courtyard. The long rectangular tables, some thirty in number, were set with golden plates and golden wine goblets, bowls of fruit and generous hunks of bread and cheese. The roasts would be brought in by the servants once his guests were seated. In the center of the courtyard, a fire was burning upon an iron platform designed for the purpose, and torches flickered from their holders along the walls.

And fluttering above the battlements of the castle were the banners bearing the crimson dragon that was the heraldic symbol of his house, and the two-headed eagle of the King of Hungary Matthias Corvinus. The star and crescent of the Sultan Mohammed II, the Voivode's supposed master, were nowhere to be seen.

His guests, their retainers, and their pitiful handful of personal guards entered the courtyard warily. Leading the entering procession was Kemal Pasha, the cousin of the Sultan. The pasha was a wiry; olive-skinned man with eyes of an oriental cast. His scarred face and slight limp proclaimed him a fearsome warrior, not a soft sycophant from Istanbul. With him was his youngest son, Mustafa, and behind them came his guards, each attired in Ottoman battle gear, each with his hand nervously clasping the hilt of his scimitar.

"Voivode!" Kemal Pasha shouted as he strode imperiously forward. "I demand a reply! I'll not feast and make merry with you until you declare yourself and remove those insulting banners!"

The Voivode rose and made an obsequious bow. "Beloved of Allah, I beg that you have patience! I did not know that the Magyar king would send his esteemed representatives to me at the same time that your illustrious self chose to honor me with your presence!"

"You lie, Voivode!" the pasha said bitterly. The soldiers glanced at each other with amusement, knowing that it was not safe to speak thus to the Voivode in his own fortress. "My eldest son, Orkhan, came to you two weeks ago and told you I would be here on this day!"

"And yet he did not arrive, Illustrious One," the Voivode replied, his voice dripping with honest concern. "Nor did any messengers from Corvinus! It was a surprise to me—a great honor, but a surprise—when you arrived in the morning and Duke Stephan arrived in the afternoon. My women have been all the day trying to make ready the . . . ah"—he paused—"here is Duke Stephan now." The Voivode bowed low to the Hungarian nobleman, the trusted adviser to King Matthias Corvinus the Just.

Duke Stephan was only slightly older than the Voivode, for Vlad had not yet reached thirty and Stephan had only recently passed it. Stephan could not accurately be described as a dandy—for no such creature would have survived life among the warrior aristocracy—but there was an air of precision about him. His beard was just a bit too carefully clipped, boot thongs just a bit too carefully tied, fingernails just slightly too long. Kemal Pasha despised him for his appearance, his nationality, and his religion; and he deeply resented the presence of an ally of Corvinus here in the fortress of a vassal of the sultan.

"Hail, Vlad, My Lord," Stephan said cheerfully as he
walked forward and clasped the Voivode's hand fraternally. He ignored Kemal completely.

"Your Grace," the Voivode said with equal good humor. "Allow me to present to you Kemal Pasha, trusted servant of His Islamic Majesty."

Duke Stephan and Kemal Pasha exchanged curt bows. The Turk then turned to the Voivode and said, "Enough of this, Voivode. I demand an answer and an explanation."

The Voivode raised his hand and said, "Please, Illustrious One! The amenities! We must dine. All will be made clear."

Kemal Pasha would have protested further, but everyone began to take seats at the tables. Amid the loud bustle of voices that ensued, he thought the better of it. He sat down disgruntledly at the table beside the Voivode, noticing with irritation that the Hungarian seated himself on the other side of the sultan's mercurial vassal.