“Then . . . what’s with the car?”
“Oh. That. Do not think this vehicle representative of our heritage. It is just a temporary manifestation of our somewhat . . . er, reduced circumstances.” He wrestled with the non-power steering, trying to avoid a rut as we climbed into the Carpathians.
The mountains stood in sharp contrast to the Appalachians that rolled gently across Pennsylvania. Indeed, the Carpathians, steep, rocky, and jagged, shamed the Appalachians’ claim to mountain-hood. From time to time, the road would veer out over sheer, breath-snatching drops, then snake back into dense, shadowy forests, where Dorin assured me bears and wolves still prowled, only to emerge in brightness, cutting through small towns that seemed carved out of stone and fixed in the Middle Ages. Crooked cottages, snug little chapels, and busy taverns hugged narrow streets. I would glimpse these things, then, in the blink of an eye, we would plunge back into the wilderness.
I could see why Lucius had missed his homeland: the fairy-tale villages; the sense of time stopped; the pervasive impression that one was within a hidden mystery; a secret, wild enclave forgotten in a modern world.
“Hold on,” Dorin advised, turning off the main road from Bucharest and bumping onto an even narrower lane.
We jerked along, and my head thumped the Panda’s low ceiling. “Ouch.” I rubbed my curls. “Is this really the best we can afford?”
“Well, I’ve told you. The clan has hit some hard times in recent years. We sold the Mercedes years ago. The Fiat’s very reliable, though. I have no complaints. None at all.”
I had a few complaints. How was I supposed to assume my proper place as a vampire princess when my mode of transportation was the size of a golf cart, with an engine that sounded like it belonged to a tabletop fan?
We rode in silence for quite some time, until we crested a rise that revealed, below us in the distance, a large cluster of terra-cotta-colored roofs glowing in the sunset. “Sighişoara,” Dorin announced.
I leaned forward, staring out the windshield with eager eyes. So we had arrived, finally, in Lucius’s home territory. This was where he had grown up, become the man I’d grown to love. “Will we drive through?”
“Yes,” Dorin said. “Anything you wish.”
I had noticed that my uncle’s demeanor toward me had changed subtly since we’d landed in Bucharest. He had become more formal. More deferential. I considered telling him that he didn’t have to treat me like a princess just because we weren’t in the United States anymore. Then I realized, no, I would assume my rank. I would need deference; I would need to project authority if I was to achieve what I meant to achieve. I was in a Fiat Panda, but I was still a princess. “Please, show me,” I urged.
“Of course.” Dorin drove us into the heart of the city, and I gazed, enchanted, at arched stone passageways leading to twisting alleys, at cramped and crowded stores whose specialties—breads and cheeses and fruits and vegetables—spilled out onto the sidewalks, and at the seventeenth-century clock tower that served as the city’s heartbeat, striking the hour as we passed. Six o’clock.
At each spot that captured my notice, I wondered. Had Lucius strode this street? Made a purchase at that store? Listened to the deep tolling of the clock, realizing that he needed to be somewhere, ducking his tall frame beneath one of those stone arches to keep an appointment in a hidden byway? This—this was a place where Lucius would not seem out of place, even in his velvet coat, his fitted trousers.
“Are you hungry?” Dorin asked. “We could stop for a moment, before all of the merchants close for the day.”
“It’s just six,” I noted. “Is it, like, the local custom to shut down so early?”
Dorin pulled the car to the curb. “No. It is not always this way. But the people of this region have lived in the company of vampires for many generations. They keep the pulse of the clans. They have heard rumors of a coming war, and know that there will be thirsty, angry vampires about, seeking the fuel of blood—and recruits for our undead armies . . . They will not linger in the streets after dark without good reason.”
A shiver shook through me, too. Although I was now a member of the vampire clans myself, I could definitely sympathize with the local people’s fears. “So even the regular people are affected by the tension . . .”
“Indeed,” Dorin said. “They mourn the passing of nearly two decades of peace. For a time, we seemed to have reached a détente with the humans, too. That was largely the doing of Lucius. He was a good ambassador for us. So charming . . . Even those who would cross themselves at the name Vladescu could hardly dislike him. But now, of course, they know that he is changed . . .”
Dorin led me toward a small restaurant, opening the door and ushering me into a cramped, narrow room. The décor was simple—a few scarred old tables scattered about a wooden floor—but the smell was amazing. “Here. We will buy papanaşi: cheese dumplings rolled in sugar. A local delicacy.”
“Sugared cheese?” I was skeptical.
“I ate the vegan birthday cake,” Dorin noted. “Trust me, this will be a treat by any comparison.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
We stepped up to the counter, and the elderly proprietor rose from a stool with effort, greeting Dorin. “Bună.”
“Bună.” Dorin nodded. He held up two fingers. “Doi papanaşi.”
“Da, da,”the old man said, beginning to shuffle away.
Then he noticed me and stopped abruptly, his swarthy, weathered face growing visibly pale. He pointed at me with a shaking hand, wide eyes darting to Dorin. “Ea e o fantoma . . .”
“Nu e!” Dorin shook his head. “Not a ghost!”
“Ea e Dragomir!” the old man insisted. “Mihaela!”
I understood the words Mihaela Dragomir—and the gist of the conversation, however unfamiliar the language.
“Da, da,” Dorin agreed, seeming to grow impatient with the man, waving him off. “Comanda, vă rog. Our food, please.”
The man hobbled away, but continued to glance over his shoulder at me as he prepared our papanaşi.
“He recalls your mother,” Dorin whispered to me. “He thinks you are her ghost. Her fantoma. You should get used to that.”
I was both flattered and vaguely uneasy to be mistaken for my birth mother. I realized, with a jolt, that this man believed, beyond a doubt, that I was a vampire. He had been raised with the reality of vampires. He had been alive when my parents had been destroyed. Perhaps he had taken part. . . . Now, standing in his shop, I knew from the old man’s suspicious eyes that I was not just a curiosity; I was a potential threat. I felt vulnerable suddenly, high in the Carpathians, beyond the protection of Mom and Dad, alone in a claustrophobic shop with an uncle I barely knew and a stranger who considered me a bloodsucking fiend, possibly fit for destruction.
The old man handed Dorin our food, and my uncle paid, handing over a few coins. The proprietor continued to eye me warily.
“Come along,” Dorin said, guiding me toward the door. “Try not to be shaken by this. Of course some of the older people will recognize you. You look exactly like her. It will take a while for them to understand that you are her daughter and have returned home.”
We left the shop, and I stared at the street, trying to think of this unfamiliar place as “home.”
“We should go,” Dorin gently urged. “It is growing dark, and the road is dangerous.”
I folded myself into the little car and tried the papanaşi, biting down on the crisp sugared dumpling to release the warm, gooey cheese. “Mmm . . .” I closed my eyes and savored the treat, braver and comforted with warm food in my stomach.
“Good?” Dorin seemed pleased. He put the car in gear and pulled out into the street, which was nearly empty now.
“Very good,” I said, reaching into the paper sack for another. “Much better than vegan cake.”
“That is Lucius’s favorite, you know,” Dorin said. “He likes them from that particular shop best.”
I slowly licked the sugar from my fingers, watching the city pass by my window. Lucius could have been there. I could have walked into that shop and seen the man I’d been mourning alive and well. “Does Lucius live very near here?” I ventured. “How close are we, exactly? Minutes? A half hour?”
“Very close,” Dorin said, glancing at me. He sounded a bit nervous. “You . . . you’re not thinking of swinging by, are you?”
“Just to see his home . . .” A sudden apprehension gripped me. Apprehension and excitement. “Will he be there, do you think?” Do I want him to be there? Am I ready?
“I don’t believe so,” Dorin guessed, and I felt a little wave of relief. As much as I desperately wanted to see Lucius, I knew I should get ready first. Not only did I need to clean up from the plane ride, but I had to prepare mentally. To brace myself to face the Lucius whom Dorin had described on the plane. The Lucius who had destroyed his uncle, who was precipitating a war and scaring the local townspeople. The Lucius who was believed capable of “obliterating” my family, without mercy.
“He’s been out with his troops a lot lately,” Dorin added. “In the field.”
“Are we preparing?” I asked, concerned by this latest revelation.
“Somewhat . . .” Dorin drifted off. “No, not really. Not in an organized way like Lucius. He is a warrior creating an army. We are more like your American colonists: earnest, if ill-prepared, vampires forming informal militias.”
I gazed out at the rugged landscape. The deeper we drew into the Carpathians, the more profoundly I recognized the mountains as my dreamscape. I could hear my birth mother’s voice in my mind, singing to me. Being silenced. This was a beautiful place. But a severe, untamed place, too. “We will need more than ‘informal militias,’” I muttered, staring out the passenger side window into the gathering darkness. “We will need to prepare, too.” If only I knew what that meant. If only I’d been raised as a warrior, not a vegan in a farm overrun with stray kittens. Can I really help my Dragomir kin?
“Look this way,” Dorin urged, letting the Fiat drift to a halt on the side of the road.
I turned in my seat and sucked in my breath, confronted—assaulted—by a towering stone building. The phantasmagoric edifice where Lucius had been raised, schooled with violence, reared on tales of his vampire lineage, and made fiercely aware of the Vladescus’ proud place in the world.
“Wow.”
We were parked on the edge of a precipice, overlooking a valley so steep, deep, and narrow that it looked as if a giant had created it with one sharp whack from a mile-long cleaver. Lucius’s castle, black against the orange sunset, clung to the far escarpment, rising out of the hillside and seeming to claw up at the sky. Sharply pitched eaves, turrets like enormous spikes to jab the clouds, pinched and vaulted Gothic windows. It was an angry house. A house at war with the universe.
Did Lucius really live there?
We parked the car and stepped out to the very edge of the cliff, the better to examine this snaggle-toothed architectural expression of rage.
“Impressive, eh?” Dorin asked.
“Yes.” But the word was thick in my throat. Looking at that house, I was scared. It was ridiculous to be scared of a building, and yet the sight of that castle struck a chord of raw fear in me.
Am I scared of the house—or the person who can stand to inhabit it?
As Dorin and I watched, a light went on behind one of the windows. One single light, in a high window.
My uncle and I exchanged glances.
“Could be the servants,” Dorin surmised. “Or, then again, maybe the boy came home for the night.”
“Let’s go,” I urged, grabbing my uncle’s arm. Go, before I did something stupid. Like run right up to that castle and bang on the doors. Or run right home to Lebanon County and never look back. “Please. I want to go.”
“Right behind you,” Dorin agreed, hurrying for the car.
Chapter 61
THE GOOD NEWS was the Dragomir clan actually did have its own fairly impressive estate. The bad news was it was open to tourists four days a week. This was yet another manifestation of our “reduced circumstances,” as Dorin liked to call what was, quite apparently, real economic distress.
“The tours don’t start until ten A.M.,” Dorin reassured me, helping me lug my suitcase into our musty mansion. He sidestepped a metal sign that instructed visitors: “NO SMOKING! NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY!” in about seven languages. “We’re very popular this year,” Dorin added, like that was a great thing. “The Romanian tourism authority really stepped up the advertising. Motor coach traffic is up sixty-seven percent.”
Good grief.
“Of course, there are private living areas,” Dorin added, seeing my disappointment. “The bedrooms and bathrooms are mostly off-limits. Although the occasional American finds his way to the private toilets. I suppose it’s the unfamiliar foods. . . . At any rate, don’t be alarmed if you open a door and find one of your countrymen perched there. It’s embarrassing for everyone, yes. But not harmful, really. It’s hardly an inconvenience, even. They’re very good about flushing. For the most part.”
Tourists? Pooping in my castle? I bet nobody pooped, unauthorized, at the Vladescu estate. . . .
“Dorin?”
“Hmm?” He was dragging my suitcase up a tall, curving, stone staircase. The bulb in a fake, electrified torch flickered on the wall, a cheap imitation of the actual fire that I was fairly certain blazed in Lucius’s home. He would suffer no less than the real thing. I once again stroked the bloodstone at my throat, and the word unacceptable flashed through my mind. This was unacceptable. If things went as I hoped, and I really did come to lead this family, I would reclaim our castle for the Dragomirs—not tourists. The idea excited me to a surprising degree. As we reached the highest landing, I surveyed the vaulted ceilings, the once majestic corridors. Yes, we could do better.
“What happens next?” I asked Dorin, following him down the hallway and into a cavernous bedroom.
Dorin dropped the suitcase with a thud. “Why, you need to meet the family. Everyone’s very excited to dine with you. They’ll be here soon.”
Images of Lucius’s “family” flashed through my mind.
“How many are coming?” I asked, hoping that I wouldn’t have to confront too many of my vampire kin all at once.
“Oh, just twenty or so of our closest kin. We did not think it wise to overwhelm you on your first day here, but of course everyone is curious to see our long-awaited heiress. I suppose you’ll want to clean up a little? Change clothes?” Dorin hinted.
“Yes,” I said, grasping the opportunity to be alone for a moment. To reflect. To pull myself together. This was all happening so fast. I needed to think.
Dorin moved through the room, snapping on lights. The space was dusty, dated, and drafty, but livable. It was not too far gone from its former glory. Yet. “I hope you are comfortable here,” Dorin said, tossing my bag on the four-poster bed. “I’ll come back for you in about an hour. Take a nap if you like.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh! I almost forgot.” Dorin trotted to a large wardrobe, opened the door, and pulled down a gown on a hanger. It was a bit faded but still beautiful. Silk that had no doubt once blazed bright crimson had mellowed to a richer, deeper red. “This was your mother’s. I thought you might want to wear it for dinner. It is a big occasion, and I’m afraid we left so hurriedly that I gave you no chance to pack something formal.”
As if in a trance, I moved to Dorin and ran my fingertips across the fabric. “I recognize this. From her photograph.”
“Ah, yes, her portrait.” Dorin smiled. “Mihaela had many gowns, but this was her favorite. She loved the intense color—so like her personality. She wore this to so many lovely gatherings, in a different time, before the purge . . .” He looked for a moment as if he might cry, then brightened. “You will do it justice, Antanasia, and usher in a new era for us. Perhaps we will all be happy again soon. Perhaps your mo
ther’s fondest dream—peace for the Vladescus and Dragomirs—will be made manifest after all.”
I stroked the fabric again. “Are you sure it’s okay? To wear it?”
“Not just ‘okay,’” Dorin promised. “Appropriate. Perfect.”
He left me alone then, and I gently laid the dress on the bed. I wore her necklace, I was about to slip into her gown, and I stood in her home. But could I live up to the legacy of Mihaela Dragomir? Was I a real princess, as I hoped, or just a ghost—a pale, insubstantial shadow of her—like the old man in the restaurant had believed?
Doubts won’t help now, Jess. Lucius believed you were just like her, in every way. . . .
Locating the bathroom, I stripped off the jeans and shirt I’d worn on the plane and took a long, hot shower. Toweling off, I carefully removed the dress from the hanger, undid a row of seed-pearl buttons that ran down the back, and stepped into the gown, drawing it up around my body like an embrace from the past. A leftover hug from my mother.
It fit perfectly. As if it had been designed for me.
I gazed into a gilt mirror that stood in the corner of the room, watching my reflection by the light of a full, clear moon that shone like a quavery searchlight through a long bank of warped, leaded windows.
Is this how Mihaela had regarded herself? By the light of this moon? In this same mirror?
The collar of the dress was high, rising almost to brush my jaw, but the neckline plunged deep, showcasing the bloodstone at my throat. The gown curved over my breasts, then fell as sharply and abruptly as a waterfall cascading over a Carpathian cliff, ending in a sweep of silken train that swished like a whisper when I walked. Like the whispers that no doubt followed any woman who dared to wear this spellbinding dress.
This was a gown that made a statement about the woman who wore it. It told everyone who saw her, “I am powerful, and beautiful, and just try to look away from me. I will be noticed.”
I had no silver coronet, so I gathered my curls loosely behind my neck and allowed them to tumble freely down my back, glossy black hair upon glossy red fabric, staking my own more youthful, but still dramatic, claim to the gown.