The Purest of the Breed (The Community) (17 page)

Elisabeth sat back and reached for her goblet, taking a sip of her
Glühwein
, German hot mulled wine. Although she was reigning Princess of Romania, Elisabeth was not born of this country, nor was her husband. Both were from Germany, and filled their home with many of their birth country’s traditions. A twelve-foot-tall fir Christmas tree, adorned with lit candles, glass balls, straw ornaments, dried fruit, and shiny-wrapped sweetmeats, lorded over one corner of the Florentine Room. Treats of
Plätzchen
, Christmas cookies made simply of butter, flour, sugar, and hazelnuts, the fancier
Lebkuchen
, richly spiced ginger cookies, along with the customary
Christstollen
, fruitcake covered with powdered sugar, sat on a sideboard.

The Advent wreath—with a candle to be lit each of the four Sundays before Christmas—was conspicuously absent, for the
Adventskranz
helped children count the days to Christmas, and Carol and Elisabeth’s only offspring, a girl child named Maria, had died three years ago at the age of four. Elisabeth had never fully recovered from the loss, and with so much maternal love still in her heart to give, the princess now lavished her doting regard on Pettrila. Only about five years separated the two women, but the orphaned Pettrila was happy enough to let Elisabeth treat her as an adopted daughter.

Elisabeth took another musing sip of
Glühwein
. “At least now that the war has turned our way, more attention can be put toward the problem of those vile Vârcolac.” The princess gave a delicate shudder.

“Aye, my lady,” Pettrila murmured, bowing her head over her embroidery.

Elisabeth was deathly afraid of vampires. She’d even tearfully begged her husband to let them spend Christmas at Peleş Castle this year, usually a summer getaway for the royal couple, although with its innovative centralized heating and electricity, the estate was always cozy. Elisabeth believed that she’d be safer from the “monsters” hidden away in the rugged Carpathian Mountains. Which was merely hysterical thinking.

Pettrila fingered the rim of her embroidery hoop. It was a dark time for her people.

Russian General Nikolai Pavlovich Kridener, in his determination to destroy the entire Vârcolac race, had instituted a campaign to incite the public against their breed. He’d created sensational stories of undead, soulless creatures who actively hunted people in order to transform unsuspecting innocents into their own fanged, godless kind with their bites. All lies, except the part, perhaps, of Vârcolac being godless. Their race believed in a Higher Power, aye, but not in a strictly Christian sense. They respected and revered nature, the pull of the moon, the richness and fertility of the earth, the force of the wind and seas, and the power of the moon and stars, to which they were so closely aligned. Did this make them evil?

Yea or nay, it mattered not. No one was willing to consider Vârcolac as people. Kridener’s lies had worked too well. In truth, he’d wrought too much hysteria. Open rioting and uncontrolled, widespread killing had begun to tear the country apart. Kridener had been forced to invent additional rumors in order to give the populace a means of protecting themselves from these bloodsucking creatures, lest more innocent citizens be harmed in the bedlam. Or more attention and resources be diverted from his war.

Pettrila peered covertly through her lashes at the garlands of garlic intertwined with the boughs of holly strung along the mantelpiece, then glanced at the large cross necklace which lay against Elisabeth’s snowy breast. Pettrila’s failure to cower before either had helped to keep the truth of her heritage safely hidden. But garlic and crosses?
Lună şi steluţă
, where did Kridener come up with such tripe? The fantastical stories would have been entertaining had they not proven so dangerous to her people.

Elisabeth set down her goblet and folded her hands in her lap. “Speaking of the Vârcolac. How goes your courtship with Ştefan Dragoş?”

Pettrila snapped her head up. “Goodness, my lady, how are those two subjects akin?”

Elisabeth leaned forward, her eyes bright with a sudden excitement. “Did you not know? Ştefan has taken over as leader of the Vârcolac Vânător.”

Pettrila felt her cheeks go numb as the blood drained from her face. She stared open-mouthed at the princess for two hard thumps of her heart before managing to lever her jaw back into place. The Vârcolac Vânător were organized bands of armed men who hunted and slaughtered her breed with frightening efficiency.
Vampire hunters
. They were fast becoming the heroes of the day.

Elisabeth tilted her chin. “
Blitz und donnerwetter
, Pettrila, you appear unwell of a sudden.” The princess’s face fell into a frown. “Does your affection for Ştefan wane? Don’t tell me you’ve taken a fancy for…that Grigore?” Her frown deepened. Elisabeth had put a great deal of matchmaking effort into Ştefan and Pettrila’s relationship, and she’d be dreadfully disappointed if wedding bells didn’t come of that.

Truth be told, Pettrila secretly harbored the same dream, all the while knowing it was unlikely to come to pass. Any future she and Ştefan could ever hope to have together was contingent upon Ştefan accepting who she was in truth, and if he was a Vârcolac Vânător that made his opinion of vampires painfully clear. A cold feeling caught in her throat as the last pieces of the cherished fantasy blew away like groats of wheat in the wind. Heartsick as she was, she couldn’t bring herself to hate Ştefan for it. Oddly, she loved him even more for undertaking this endeavor, as it epitomized the noble, brave character that had captured her very soul.

“Now don’t mishear me, Pettrila.” Elisabeth picked up her embroidery again, the small hoop in one hand and a needle in her other. “Grigore Nichita is a handsome enough man, to be sure, and he’s of the boyar class of nobles. He’s just so…intimidating, is he not? Especially those strange eyes of his.”

Intimidating, dangerous, uncouth and boorish at times, aye, but of impeccable bloodlines, like Elisabeth said—the Nichitas were some of the purest of the breed. Most important, though, Grigore was one of her own kind. He could understand her on a level that a human like Ştefan never could. Verily, the two men were opposites in every way: appearance, race, personality. Where Ştefan filled a room with a vibrant masculine energy, Grigore ripped the air out of any space he occupied. But then, one man was Vârcolac, and the other was not.

“I suppose,” Elisabeth exhaled in resignation, “if your interest truly lies with a man other than Ştefan, I can press myself to—”

“What is this I hear? By all that is holy, shall I be called upon to fight a duel?”

Pettrila turned her head in a sharp movement to look at the doorway, the pins in her bun stabbing the back of her neck.

Ştefan Dragoş lounged against the jamb, one broad shoulder braced against the towering bronze doors and his muscular arms folded across his wide chest. Eyes as blue as a summer sky crackled with a fierce heat, belying his relaxed pose. “Confess, my lady. Who’s this gammy toke I must vanquish?”

A shiver curled through Pettrila’s belly. The man was not best pleased. “No duels shall be necessary, Ştefan. You’re the only man who holds my regard.” She swept her lashes low. “Although I daresay the deer has no doubt given away too much to her pursuer.”

Elisabeth giggled.

Pettrila peeked at Ştefan, relieved to see his gaze had warmed, smile lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes. In the next breath, she cursed herself. Confessing that she was moon-addled for this man wouldn’t help her to free herself of him when the time came. Bother,
this very night
she must set him aside. Her heart shrank at the thought of never seeing him again. Why did he have to be a blasted Vampire hunter?

“Well, then,” Ştefan drawled, “best I take full advantage of my little doe’s misstep.” Pushing off the doorframe, he came toward her, setting her aching heart aflutter. He cut such a dashing figure in his
tschepken
, this particular Romanian gentleman’s jacket of mauve velvet with intricate gold embroidery at the hem and cuff. The rest of his attire was just as urbane: a dark waistcoat, starched white shirt, and black cravat, where a ruby pin winked at her. Snug black trousers outlined the impressive musculature of his thighs, and shiny black boots encased him snugly from foot to knee. His long blond hair was tied back in a neat queue.

Passing beneath the elegant chandelier of Italian Murano glass, he stopped at her chair, his nearness creating a clamor in her chest and a distinct curling sensation in her toes. Not many gentlemen could claim both towering height and magnificence of form, but Ştefan was one of those few. His face was the embodiment of attractiveness, although for all his beauty, he didn’t lack masculinity. His features were cut into hard, sculpted angles, and the hint of ruthlessness tracing the line of his jaw warned that, as pretty as he might be, he was not a man to be trifled with.

Pettrila managed to pull a tight breath in just as he offered her his hand.

“Would you take a turn with me in the garden, my lady?”

“
Heiligsblechle
!” Elisabeth exclaimed. “’Tis full dark and cold as death’s hand out of doors.” The princess’s tone turned disapproving as she added, “And ’tis not meet for an unwedded woman to go about without a chaperone.”

Ştefan bestowed a smile of devastating charm on the princess. “By the cross, Highness, how can I steal a kiss from the Lady Pettrila with a chaperone dogging my every footstep?”

Elisabeth’s eyes flared for a moment, but then her romantic nature got the better of her and her lips tugged upward. “Wicked, ill-bred man,” she scolded in a teasing tone, “
dummkopf
.” She waved them off. “Go, then. But see that ’tis only a kiss you steal and no more, Ştefan Dragoş.”

He bowed low. “You have my solemn vow.”

The soaring turrets and conical towers of Peleş Castle rose majestically into the star-cast sky, the peaks of the Bucegi Mountains creating a serrated backdrop for the fairytale-like residence. A few finely spun clouds curled around the upmost towers of the castle like wispy fingers, and a crescent moon smiled from its bed atop the Carpathians, casting a bluish light over the thick layer of crystalline snow blanketing the landscape and weighting down tree boughs.

Pettrila clutched her fur-lined cloak closer under her chin. She and Ştefan strolled past a fountain lined with marble statues of lounging personages, then made their way between twin crouching lions into the garden of manicured hedgerows, everything shimmering with hoarfrost.

Ştefan suddenly side-stepped into her path and turned to face her.

She was forced to stop and peer up at him.

“God’s bones,” he breathed, “but I mislike it when you wear your hair pulled back like some stuffy matron. It suits you not.” He gently tugged a few strands of hair free by her ear, his hand grazing her cheek, then sifted the tresses through his fingers. Moonbeams sparkled off the glossy midnight locks, and his gaze darkened.

Against her will, a giddy anticipation leapt in her belly.

He shifted his fingertips to caress the soft edge of her jaw, his touch moving in a steady path toward her mouth. His eyes deepened to a darker shade of desire.

Pettrila swallowed painfully and pressed her lids closed, unable to bear the look in his eyes when she knew she couldn’t allow Ştefan to kiss her. No matter how much she wanted him to, no matter how much a kiss, if permitted to go too far, posed the threat of pain to an unbonded Vârcolac. No matter…she wanted his lips on hers.

She stepped away from him, calling on every ounce of discipline she owned to do so. “There’ll be no stealing a kiss this night, Ştefan. Nay, nor any other.”

“Indeed?” He arched his blond brows at her, an expression of curiosity rather than one of a man grievously cast down. “And pray tell me why not, my lady?”

Because I’m one of the monsters you hunt and kill
. Her voice scraped in her dry throat. “Because we must part, dear Ştefan. I am most terribly sorry, but…but I must allow you to return to the war unencumbered by obligations of—”

“You’ve heard that I’m the leader of the Vârcolac Vânător, haven’t you?”

She stilled, a sudden cold seeping into her bones that was entirely more icy than the weather. Unconsciously, she took another step back from him, her nerves prickling. “Why should that matter to me?”

A cloud scudded across the sickle of moon, casting Ştefan’s features in shadow. It was only his voice that reached her, a deep, barrel sound from darkness. “I know that you’re a vampire, Pettrila.”

Her breath spilled out of her on a rush, her heart tolling frantically. “No, I…” Panic shriveled her voice down to no more than a small croak. “I-I—” By all the stars in heaven, how had he discovered it? She’d been so careful to conceal her true self!

He moved to grab her, a black glove stretching out of the shadows.

Primal terror roared up her spine and shut off her breathing. She whirled and ran, knowing only the animal instinct to escape. Before she could accelerate to full Vârcolac speed, a hand on her shoulder spun her back around.

She slipped in the snow, lurching into Ştefan’s arms. Teeth gritted, she moved to push him off, using her Vârcolac strength, but…couldn’t. His own strength was beyond human. She gave voice to a strangled cry. “Unhand me, Ştefan! Or I’ll…I’ll…” What? Scream, and bring the entire estate down on them so that Ştefan could expose her as a bloodsucking monster? Horribly, she began to weep.