Vampires: The Recent Undead (61 page)

During your military career, you also had occasion to meet and befriend Niccolò Machiavelli, a brilliant analyst, who resided at court for just over one year until you brought him, too, to an undead state. You wonder how many VICTIMS recognize that his seminal work
The Prince
is largely based on your military and political strategies?

In any event, it was the French King Louis XII aka the Duck of Orleans—he of The Crusades, and the defeated in the four decades of pointless wars with Italy—it was he who dubbed you Duke of Valentinois, hence your nickname Valentino. Is it possible that any VICTIM recalls your reinvention in the early part of the twentieth century as a fabulously famous film star of the silent screen? A mesmeric star, hypnotic, especially the eyes.
Si, bello,
the
vampiro
charm! Yes, you have gotten around.

Suffice it to say that you had always been a Prince of Darkness. Sadly, though, your body “died,” at least officially, yet you resurrected and your unnatural state became permanent during a siege at the age of thirty-one. Had you not been so near dissolution of mortality already suffering symptoms of third stage syphilis, you most certainly would have fought courageously to preserve not just the physical body, despite its pathetic condition, but also the anima
immortale
. But mortal death would have happened eventually. And logic was always your strong suit. Better to leave with a pleasing body intact, which is a state you bestow on your food sources. Live fast, die young, leave a corpse you would be proud of! But, as they say nowadays,
ciò è la vita
: such is life. Or, in your case, living death. One cannot predict nor do much to change Fate. You had always found acting out the role of undead to be a humorous enterprise.

But of course the VICTIMS are modern and bored with history and long explanations and want nothing more than to know the connections, for example, to sweet poisonous-ringed Lucrezia, your sister. She became your lover at an early age—relationships like that happened back then. She even birthed your child. And you birthed both of them to a new existence, an eternal life that the church fathers had not envisioned.

VICTIM Lucrezia entertains thoughts of being your lover. Perhaps she is your sister, now living incognito in Kalamazoo, Michigan, as her personal information states. She would like you to taste her blood and compare it with your darling sibling’s, trace memories of which still linger within you. Shared DNA. Sharing so much more! Blood is thicker than any important liquid. It travels through the centuries and finds its way to you again. Ah, but fantasy is everything is it not,
il mio amore Lucrezia
? Tantalizing fantasy, meshed with the reality of the
vampiro
. Come! We are
famiglia
. Take my hand,
sorella
! I desire to taste your blood. Again . . . 

VICTIMS:

Where’s Lucrezia?
Lisa

She hasn’t logged on in weeks!
Morticia

Maybe she finally got a life!
NoE

She’s probably busy.
Harry Lewis

Yeah, playing Vampire the Masquerade!
NoE

Perhaps she’s stepped over into the Other Realm?
Dark Angel

Is that not what you did? Sorry for my English, I’m Swiss.
Nosferatu

Of course not! I have not yet been called.
Dark Angel

You mean excuse you being Swiss!
NoE

That’s racist!
Harry Lewis

You mean nationalist, doofus!
NoE

Guys, chill!
Lisa

Hi! I’m new!
Sin-de

And oh-so-perky!
NoE

Leave her alone! Don’t listen to him, Sin-de. He’s our Resident Evil.
Morticia

Welcome!
Dark Angel

Welcome.
Harry Lewis

Wavin’—
Lisa

I’m new too.
Vampira

Hiya!
Harry Lewis

This place is so crowded!
Sin-de

We are the regular posters but there are others.
Dark Angel

So, who’s this guy posting this vampire stuff?
Vampira

It is all in the posts.
Dark Angel

It’s all in the Prozac.
NoE

What’s NoE? North of Erie?
Sin-de

Nightmare on Elm.
Lisa

Nightmare on Elm.
Harry Lewis

Nobody Owns Elvira.
Dark Angel

Wouldn’t you like to know?
NoE

Duh, that’s why she asked.
Vampira

Guys, chill!!
Lisa

We must be respectful of the blogger’s space. Or as Lucrezia would say: Why is it only girls are human?
Dark Angel

Hi. I’m Elizabeth. But you can call me Black Lily.
Black Lily

More females, yes!
Nosferatu

When’s the next post? I’m bored.
NoE

He posts on the full moon, as anyone intelligent could figure out.
Dark Angel

Hi Black Lily. Welcome to hell!
Vampira

Testament #3

So many
lány
, so very little time. I am amazed at how the gentler sex finds it way to me,
lepkék-hoz egy láng
or, as the English speakers say, moths to the flame. There! I have already tarnished my reputation as a high-born lady by littering this site with clichés. I am an educated woman, an exceptional creature for the place and time of my birth—Hungary, 1560. Destined to be a Countess or to carry some other high-born title, I learned at my mother’s knee to read and write four languages and a smattering of three others at a time when women received little or no education. But this damned English language! It stymies me now, so lacking as it is in innuendo. In any event, I am known to all of you already, I am quite sure. Countess Erzsébet Báthory, aka the Bloody Lady of Čachtice. And now you will hear the truth!

How can I convey my extraordinary life to you VICTIMS who speak with one another electronically and share but an image that may or may not reflect who you are? I can only tell each of you, my precious little ones, that four hundred and fifty years ago life was primitive by today’s standards, even for those of us of noble birth. Primitive and dangerous.

Luckily, I was somewhat protected. For the daughter of parents directly related to two distinguished
vivodes
, or warlords, of Transylvania, and niece of the King of Poland, how could it have been otherwise? In fact, I was next in line to be Queen of Poland, a task for which I was eminently suited and one which met my ambitions.

At the tender age of eleven, I was were already betrothed for political reasons to a rather rough soldier named Ferenc Nádasdy who stank of garlic morning, noon and night. My parents sent me to Nádasdy Castle in Sárvár. It was not against my will. Perhaps you cannot grasp the concept of an arranged marriage. Such unions were the practice everywhere among the wealthy and this one spoke to the goals of my parents as well as my own. Betrothal is not marriage, and even as a young girl I was keenly aware of the difference. A charming peasant in the village—a blacksmith as I recall—took my maidenhead—oh did I bleed! My first enrapture with blood! From that union I suffered a stillborn daughter. The gods owed me!

You must indulge me. I love talking about myself. So much has been written about me, and I think you should all know the truth. And where better to hear it than from my own, perfect lips!

Yes, you guessed it, I was an exquisite girl, my beauty legendary, and the times were such that four years later Nadasdy, smitten with me, forgave my indiscretions and married me anyway. Perhaps the best part of the marriage was his wedding gift to me, his home Čachtice Castle, situated in the Carpathian Mountains near Trenčín, together with the Čachtice country house and seventeen adjacent villages.

Ferenc was reasonable for a man, but a soldier to the core, and a beautiful, young, intelligent wife could not hold the attention for long of a man who longed for battle. Three years after the nuptials he was appointed chief commander of the Hungarian troops and off to war for much of the remainder of the marriage. I’ll just say that I was not heart-broken.

Managing such a vast estate and being charged with protecting our lands, especially during more than a decade of war, took up much of my time, yes, but not all. There were servants, many, to be managed. The role of Countess is exhausting, yet I fulfilled my responsibilities, even intervening in the causes of peasant women who needed help for one thing or another.

Then, one day, I had a rude awakening. In my silvered hand mirror I found a shocking sight. My flawless porcelain skin, famous in four countries, showed signs of aging. A wrinkle here, a sag there . . . How had I not noticed before? But I did now, and the awareness hit deep in my chest. At that very moment a
szolga
or servant girl had been brushing my hair and allowed the boar’s bristles to tangle in my dark tresses, yanking my head back sharply. Instinctively, I slapped her, hard enough that a drop of blood splattered onto my cheek. Mesmerized, I stared in the mirror, watching the vitae drip down my skin. Impulsively, I rubbed the glistening ruby liquid into my cheek. And it seemed to me then that the flesh on that side of my face took on a new hue, a glow of vitality.

This discovery led to musing and long discussions with several of my most trusted and loyal servants, including Dorka who was closer to me than the others. We came to the conclusion that the blood produced an alchemical transformation. Blood was the answer, the elixir guaranteed to stave off the ravages of time.

One thing, as they say, led to another. At first, with Dorka’s help, I drew blood from the servants, but the stupid girls resisted my humane methods and quickly we resorted to the whip. Dorka used the hide liberally and I admit that from time to time I took a turn flailing. The blood of the screaming peasant girls who unfortunately often perished in the experiment was gathered and applied to my face and, astonished, I immediately saw the change occur. Suddenly I looked younger, as if I had discovered the Spanish explorer Juan Ponce de León’s Fountain of Youth.

I acknowledge to you all now that perhaps I allowed Dorka and the others to go too far. They not only whipped but they burned, froze, starved and bit girls, needles under the fingernails, and mutilation of faces and genitalia, all in an effort to, as they assured me, “excite the vér and render it more potent” which, at the time, seemed a reasonable avenue to pursue.

Several years passed and it occurred to me that what worked magic on the face and the neck would transform just as well skin on the entire body. I knew that in order to achieve the desired effect I needed a constant supply of girls. Too quickly I ran out of expendable servants and was forced to bring in female peasant from the villages, lured to the castle with the promise of well-paid work as maidservants. The job required living at the castle full-time, no days off as you modern workers are offered. Consequently these girls never returned home. No one missed them. They were hung upside down, their veins sliced open, their precious offerings caught in my bath. My skin stayed lovely and fresh as the day I’d wed Ferenc. For a time, all was well.

Then, on another fateful day, I stared in my damned mirror lamenting that I was no longer the fairest in the land, despite daily treatments with the magic potent. I became furious and threw the mirror against the wall, shattering it to bits. Dorka, as always, comforted me. She brought me to the realization that it was some basic coarseness in the blood of these
paraszt
that left my skin unnourished. Dorka insisted that I required refined blood, and the only way to have that would be to acquire refined donors.

Through my many contacts I was able to invite the daughters of nobles to my home, ostensibly to be trained in the ways of the aristocracy. I generously offered to be their mentor, assuring these young women would possess the manners, skills and intelligence needed to function at the level of society to which they aspired—one level up. I was overwhelmed with requests to take in these well-born girls and tutor them. You can see that I had little choice in the matter. Fate called me to preservation.

I procured a house in Bucharest on a small street that has today come to be called Blood Alley. This is where I met these refined girls as they came to the city. With the help of a German clockmaker, I created a design, ingenious if I say so myself, and far ahead of its time. I called it the Iron Virgin—a later design which imitated my own was known as the Iron Maiden. But I named this Virgin for I had realized rather early on the exquisite and dramatic effects of virgin blood which far outweighed that of non-virgins. Anyway, the device allowed me to imprison a girl in a sarcophagus then hoist the apparatus to the ceiling. Within this iron structure with its painted blue eyes, the yellow hair of one of my prettier princesses and the white perfect teeth of another, were long spikes that, as the door slammed shut and automatically locked, pierced the flesh in such a manner and in so many places that the blood was permitted to flow freely down to a tub below in which I was immersed. With a small leap of the imagination I am certain you can envision my ecstasy. Any woman could.