The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood Read online

  This same rule did not apply to Dracula. He learned he could only enter a holy place if his feet did not touch the ground. Even then, it gave him headaches and the odd nosebleed. For that reason, he made it a rare occasion when he did.

  The latest of these fell in the late summer of 1484. He came to Rome again after a short time in France. In the court of Lorenzo de’ Medici in Florence, he heard news of Charlotte’s continued sickness and failing health. He made his way to Amboise, where Charlotte had resided for several months as a widow. She died the day after seeing him again, leaving him deeply saddened. Only then had he realised the true extent of his affection for her. Despite the monster he was, he felt deep guilt knowing her illness had resulted from his bite. She had survived it, but only for a time. The virus in his saliva had not acted with its usual speed, but it killed her nonetheless. The reason for this remained a mystery to him. He waited around a few days until after her burial at the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Cléry in Cléry-Saint-André.

  Rome was a great place to visit and an even better one to hunt in. He loved to swoop down into the narrow streets and carry his prey off to a higher location. This he did often.

  The main reason for his return to the city was to see the pope. For years he had despised Sixtus IV. Before the end of his mortal life, Sixtus had ordered a series of crusades against the Turks. Dracula won back his throne in 1475 on one of these. He fought hard to preserve the faith and halt the spread of Islam. Yet he received no recognition for it from Rome. On the other hand, Sixtus gave to his cousin, Stephen, the most revered of accolades. He awarded him the coveted “Athlete of Christ”. The resentment Dracula felt over that remained with him still.

  Yet it did not anger him as much as the events of the night of his death. He had no idea his actions, as a mortal, would deny him his place in Heaven. It pained him still any occasion he thought about it. He believed all along he was doing God’s work in resisting the spread of Islam. Few had ever shown such dedication in trying to preserve their faith, as he had. Then, in the hour of his death, they abandoned him to Lucifer. For that he would make the Church, and Sixtus, pay dearly.

  He entered the chamber of the pontiff. There, he found Sixtus sound asleep in his bed. Dracula hovered in the air above him. He wanted so badly to kill him, like he had done the abbot at Snagov. Sixtus dreamt of the farm he grew up on, and of a girl he may have loved. He had no idea of the danger he was in, but Dracula resisted the urge to harm him. The vampire shook him hard to awaken him instead.

  Sixtus stirred in his bed. “Who is it?” he asked.

  In his long tenure as Pope no one had ever disturbed his sleep.

  “Wake up, you snake.”

  Sixtus sat up at once. He squinted his eyes to see in the dark. “Who is there?”

  Dracula lit a lamp. He was still too high up for the other man to see him.

  The pope felt confused. “Is this a jest?” he asked, still looking around.

  “Look up, you fool.”

  He looked up to see a man suspended there in the air with arms folded. His lower lip trembled, and he blessed himself with the Sign of the Cross.

  “That shall not help you.”

  “Who are you? A demon?”

  “You do not know me?”

  “No, of course not. How could I?”

  “I led one of your crusades. Does that not tell you?”

  Sixtus racked his brain. He was too scared to think, and his memory a blank.

  “I fought the Turks for you. Yet you gave your precious award to my cousin.”

  Those words helped jog the pope’s memory. He had made an award to Stephen Musatin of Moldavia. That could mean only one thing. Is this Vlad Dracula? It cannot be. He died at Snagov more than seven years past. But then, living men do not have the power of flight.

  He tried to recall the report he had read so long ago. The monks at Snagov wrote it all down. They claimed Dracula became a demon before their very eyes. A monster who had killed the abbot there and some of his men.

  Of course, he believed none of it at the time. He thought it likely one of the monks had killed the abbot. To cover up the crime, they invented this outlandish tale. At the time, he neither cared nor had the resources to investigate it. The report was accepted and filed away in the vaults.

  Yet here he was. Sixtus still refused to believe his eyes. In all his time at the Vatican, he had never encountered a demon of any kind. As God’s spokesman on earth, he was as likely to have done so as anyone. There is no such thing. “I am dreaming,” he said, though with little conviction.

  “Who are you trying to fool? Yourself, or me?”

  “You are not real.”

  “Oh, I am real.”

  “Then I have lost my mind.”

  Dracula did not want to remain any longer. The man was a buffoon, and a waste of his time. A pain in his head gave a warning that he had best leave soon. The pope followed him with his eyes, and watched the vampire ease down onto the bed right before him. “I came to give you something to remember me by.”

  Sixtus tried to dismiss him. “When I awaken, I shall have no recollection of this. It is but a dream.”

  Dracula grabbed him hard by the chin. “A dream, you say?”

  He almost spat the words. The pressure he exerted with his grip soon dispelled any such notion. “Think on it, holy man. This is no dream.”

  “You are hurting me,” he managed to blurt out.

  “Many good men died fighting your crusades. Many of them my men.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Sixtus gasped, when Dracula removed his hand. “They are all in paradise as we speak, at God’s side.”

  “Not all of them, holy man! I am condemned to walk the earth for an eternity. Where is my place in paradise?”

  He did not answer. What could he say?

  “They did not fight for God. There is no God,” Dracula said with fire in his eyes. “Not one who is loyal to those who serve Him. They died for you. And to what end? You are an ignorant fool. You have no idea of anything in the real world.”

  He delivered his speech with real menace in his tone. It scared the elderly man so much that his face turned white. But Dracula was in no mood to stop there. “I shall have my vengeance!” he warned. “I shall destroy this Church that you are meant to represent. It reeks from the inside out. A foul stench that comes from corrupt men such as you!”

  Words were beyond the pope. He was too terrified to even speak, never having known true evil. But he felt it now, as he gazed into Dracula’s eyes.

  “Your God smiles down on men like you. This He does while good men I have known have fallen on the field and died. They died fighting wars that your kind created. Yet here you lie in your cosy bed without a care in the world.”

  Dracula stopped for a moment when his temples began to throb. A first drop of blood trickled from his nose. Despite that, he caught a whiff of an acrid scent. He looked down to see a wet patch forming on the blanket that rested on the pontiff’s lap.

  He pointed a threatening finger at Sixtus. “I shall bring this Church of yours crumbling down. As you are its head, then I must begin with you.”

  Dracula grabbed Sixtus by the collar of his gown. He held him there so that only a few inches separated their faces. The pope tried to close his eyes, but Dracula pinched his cheek hard to ensure he did not. When their eyes met again, he opened his mouth wide and hissed. His lower jaw extended a good six or eight inches. With it, his lips curled back to reveal his fangs.

  Sixtus gasped in horror. It was the most gruesome sight. Wide-eyed, he observed as Dracula stretched out his long black tongue to meet his lower lip. His fangs glistened against the light of the lamp as they grew to a full three inches in length.

  The vampire’s eyes transfixed him. To emphasise his intent, they glowed a bright green. The tiny veins in the whites of his orbs rippled a dark red.

  Sixtus could not look away. A sharp pain tugged at his left shoulder and arm. Dracula sensed the old man’s heart
slowing. The pope gasped a second time, though louder than before. His breath caught in his throat, as his chest tightened.

  The vampire heard ba-bump ba-bump baaaaaa-bump. He released his hold on the pontiff. Sixtus fell back against his pillow, his face contorting with pain. He clutched at his chest with his right hand. His left arm had gone numb.

  Dracula pulled away. A steady stream of blood now trickled from his nose. He rose into the air and looked down on his victim, feeling nothing for him; neither pity nor hate.

  Sixtus continued to fight to hang onto the last strands of life. His face darkened to a purplish hue as very little oxygen passed through to his lungs. As well as his heart attack, a stroke now had him in its clutches. It compounded his fate.

  The whole left side of his body tensed. His head throbbed so badly his tongue flopped down over his lower lip. The muscles in his neck tightened and slowly choked the life out of him. Another shock rippled through his body. His jaws clamped together and locked so tight, he bit straight through his tongue.

  The organ dropped onto the blanket and blood spilled out from his mouth. More of it passed down his throat. His eyes bulged so hard, they almost popped from their sockets.

  Dracula glided over to the window. He had seen enough. One last look indicated it was all over.

  Sixtus fell still. His soul rose up from his body almost at once and looked across at the vampire. The hollow eyes offered Dracula a telling glance. They then turned away to face the light.

  Dracula noticed a faint white glow around the body. It let him know that Sixtus was going up, not down. He jumped from the ledge into the night. Rome no longer had any appeal for him.

  TUSCANY. THE OUTSKIRTS OF FLORENCE.

  JULY, 1489.

  Dracula went home after leaving Rome, having not seen the green fields of Wallachia in three years. Most of what he missed about his former life, he could find here.

  He had engaged in a bitter war for the last year and a half of his mortal life. To do this, he had to leave his wife, Ilona, and never saw her again after leaving Buda. She remained there at the court of her cousin, King Matthias. He missed her very much, along with their two sons. A night did not pass when he did not think of them.

  Both boys were infants at the time of his death at Snagov. The younger of them fell ill in 1482 and did not survive. Dracula could only sense it at the time, but that was enough to confirm it for him. The whole year he spent in hiding after his burning, he mourned him. His older boy he knew nothing about.

  Much had changed in Wallachia in the time he was gone. Vlad Calugarul, his half-brother, now sat on the throne. The people knew him as Vlad the Monk. He had once tried to steal the throne from Dracula. For that, the vampire despised him still. He knew he could kill the Monk at any time. But at least he carried his father’s blood. Even that was better than the Turks controlling the throne.

  His main interest at home was with his eldest son. Mihnea was the sole product of his first marriage. Now in his mid-thirties, he had grown into a fine warrior. Dracula watched him up close for a time, though he kept himself hidden. He saw that his son had ambitions to rule, and it filled him with real pride.

  He also checked on a second son. This one was born outside of wedlock, and he had named him Varkal. The last time he had seen him was early in 1462. The next thirteen years he had spent under house arrest at Buda. He did still provide for the boy and left a hefty endowment for him and his mother. His care he had entrusted to Gabrul, who married the mother and gave the boy his name. Varkal grew up knowing nothing of his true father or of his lineage. Gabrul had been careful to see to that. Now, Varkal had also grown into a fine swordsman. His living he earned serving a powerful boyar in Brasov.

  On seeing his elder sons were thriving, Dracula moved on to Buda. He found the grave of his infant son. For hours, he sat by it and talked to his boy. He spoke of the old days in Wallachia. It was something he could never do now face-to-face.

  His need to see Ilona grew stronger than ever. Before dawn, he stole into her bedchamber, though he did not wake her. Instead, he sat on her bed and watched her sleep. The sound of her breathing brought back so many good memories. He longed for her touch again, to feel her lips brush against his.

  For a whole month, he sat by her while she slept. Seeing her like this only added to his loneliness. The ache inside him grew stronger each night, but she was out of his reach. He knew it best that she did not know of him now.

  They had one surviving son, also named Vlad. Dracula despaired of him from what he saw. Ilona and King Matthias wanted the Wallachian throne for him. Now in his first years of manhood, such a prize did not interest him at all. He cared more for the pleasures of the flesh than for glory and honour.

  It was seeing this that made Dracula decide to leave. He had expected to find comfort here so close to those he loved. Instead, it brought him only misery, and he had to go. The only place he felt truly relaxed was in Florence, and it was to there he headed next.

  He loved to spend time with Lorenzo de’ Medici. The Florentine had the most lavish lifestyle of anyone he knew. Lorenzo liked him too, and he shared with Dracula his love of the arts. It was something that had never interested Dracula before now. But this was Florence, the centre of the Italian Renaissance and the world.

  In return, Dracula taught him the art of fighting with the sword, and they often duelled for hours. Lorenzo did not care that he was no match for his friend. He was always eager to practise, and to learn. In time, he grew into quite a talent. Dracula drew a lot from this relationship, and was keen for it to continue.

  It was the height of summer, and the air was hot and humid. Dracula arrived later each evening to visit Lorenzo. When he called on this house, he always used the main entrance. He afforded Lorenzo that respect. It made his presence known to others, but of this, he did not care.

  On this night, he found Lorenzo arguing with a much younger man. They engaged in their heated debate in their native Tuscan dialect. Lorenzo had only ever spoken with Dracula in Italian. The men fell silent when he walked into the room.

  His friend smiled a greeting to him. “It is good to see you, Vlad.”

  Dracula smiled and bowed his head a touch. “Good evening, Lorenzo.”

  Lorenzo turned to the younger man already in the room with him. “Niccolo, this is Vlad Romanos. He is a native of Wallachia, to the east.”

  Romanos was the name Dracula used. The young man bowed out of courtesy.

  “Vlad, I would like you to meet Niccolo Machiavelli.”

  Dracula offered his arm in friendship, which the young Florentine took in his.

  “It is good to meet you, Vlad,” he said, though without a smile. He turned again to his host. “Forgive me, Signor de’ Medici, if I take my leave. I have another matter to attend to before I retire for the night.”

  “Good night, Niccolo. I shall speak with you soon. Ciao.”

  Dracula did not speak until the younger man had left. “That was a quite heated debate you two were engaged in.”

  “Yes,” Lorenzo said, looking troubled. “Niccolo is a headstrong young man.”

  “He says you have reneged on an old promise?”

  Lorenzo looked surprised. “I did not know you could speak Tuscan.”

  “I have a natural flair for dialects. I hear it often here in the city. It is not so difficult for me to understand any longer.”

  Lorenzo smiled. “You are a man of many talents, Vlad. Every time I see you, I am more impressed.”

  “So, who is he?”

  “You mean young Niccolo? His father and I were friends. They come from an old Florentine family.”

  “I am not familiar with them.”

  “Their money is gone, but they had much influence at one time. His father made a career in law.”

  “Why was he so aggrieved?”

  Lorenzo did not answer at once. Dracula could see he did not want to discuss the matter.

  “I am sorry for prying. I know it is n
ot my business to ask. But I feel we are good friends, and I sensed a threatening tone in his voice.”

  Lorenzo laughed. “From Niccolo? No. He is a decent young man. I like him, and he knows it.”

  “Then why was he so angry? You do not have to say if you do not want to.”

  “I made a promise to his father once that I would help young Niccolo.”

  “And you cannot honour this promise?”

  “I can, but it is a delicate situation.”

  “A man should always keep his word, Lorenzo. You strike me as one who does.”

  He let out a long sigh. “Of course, and I do, but it is an awkward situation with young Niccolo.”

  “In what way?”

  “He is looking for a position as an official within the government.”

  “You are the head of the Republic. The request is not a difficult one for you to honour.”

  “I fear that it is. He is still quite young, for one thing.”

  “And the other?”

  “His ideas are too radical. If I give him what he asks, it shall only lead to conflict with other officials.”

  “Well, you know best of all.”

  “I shall try and help him. I feel he is not quite ready for such a position yet.”

  “Are you game for a spot of fencing tonight?”

  “No, my friend, I am sorry. It is late, and I am tired.”

  Dracula nodded. He enjoyed the sessions with Lorenzo, as it kept him sharp too. Not that he needed it. In life, he had not met an opponent that could match him. In death, he knew it would be even less likely to meet any such man.

  “You should come earlier,” Lorenzo said. “As you do in the winter.”

  “I would like to,” Dracula said. “But the long days do not agree with me. As you know, my skin does not react well to the sun.”

  “Forgive me if I retire. I have a head that throbs so much, I fear I might go mad.”

  “Go and rest then, good friend. I might see Niccolo home safely, if I make haste and find the path he is walking.”