Written in Blood

Her speech had a lyrical cadence, while her accent was distinctive, but placing where she came from would be impossible by listening to her voice alone. Her teeth were pearl white, her incisors long and pointed, and her lips were a full, deep red, with a luscious sheen.

I stood, rooted to my spot, lost in her loveliness. I attempted to move, but my feet refused the order. An excitement gnawed amid a rush of conflicting emotions, which inundated me. I was enthusiastic about entering the dwelling, yet, unable to do so, my disquiet lingered. My agitation held me fixed to the spot where I stood. Was her beauty, or my fear, the reason for steadfastness. For whatever reason, my eyes widened, my heart ran wild whilst my mouth filled with a thick layer of cottony slickness.

The woman held out a hand and motioned for me to join her. Everything changed with this straightforward, friendly gesture. My legs relaxed, the muscles let go of their obstinate refusal, and I moved forward. With ease, I swept inside, gliding to my hostess, my symptoms of fear and anxiety eradicated at the wave of her hand. I enjoyed this lightness to my steps. As if drawn inside by an unseen hand, a force pulled me to her; I did not fear this woman.

The Countess still held her hand to me. Pressing my hand to her, I took her hand, we shook, the Countess dropped my hand, put her arms around me, and drew me to her, holding me against her for the briefest of moments.

When the woman's cheek grazed mine, I realized her touch was as cold as the night's frostiness I had left moments before; despite this, a thrilling sensation from her flesh rushed to my own.

I dare not abandon her welcome, first, for fear of offending her. My heart raced as my breathing threatened to become ragged. An unexpected flash of excitement rushed through every nerve. I wanted, desperately, to withdraw from her embrace. With this said, in truth, I did not wish to break our hug at all.

We broke apart. Quick as our caress was, my stomach tied in knots, cheeks flushed, embarrassed at the Countess's attention.

A warmth of longing I had not thought possible for another woman stunned me. I was aware the imaginings, which careened through my brain, regarding the Countess, were abnormal. I forced myself to concentrate on the image of my needy, sweet, loving Michael. He had yielded to my wishes to study here, and I shan't betray his trust.

The thought of Michael was all I required to quell the unnatural fancy, which pulsed hard and fast through my veins. Torrid and at odds with my nature, the sentiments fled in a single beat of my heart as I beheld Michael in my mind's eye.

Once, the Countess broke our embrace, backed from me one or two steps, still bearing her amicable smile. If she sensed my rakish yearnings, the woman showed no sign. Had she any idea what her touch inspired inside me? The heat on my cheeks told me I had become flush from embarrassment. I constrained my thoughts, still thinking of my beloved Michael, and stifled my blushing childishness. Though they were not childish thoughts, which overtook me at her embrace. My breathing slowed as I regained my composure.

At this point, I realized the outer door had shut. Who had shut the thing? Where were they? In a moment, I shook the questions from my mind and returned my attention to her.

What little light occupied the room danced in her crystal, blue eyes. For the briefest moment, through a trick of candlelight, her eyes shone red. As red as the rose pinned to her dress. The same red eyes I had seen twice before this same evening.

"You must be tired," the Countess said, "My coachwoman tells me you have had a long, tiring journey."

"Coachwoman?" I asked, confused. For a moment, I had thought them the same person. For in truth, other than a higher pitch, the Countess spoke like the coachwoman. The exact woman who had picked me up in the carriage. For a moment, I was uncertain, swimming in a loss of clarity and unsure why.

"Oh, yes, I am fatigued," I said. The weariness, which I had held at bay, now overcame me.

"I will have one of the boys take you to your rooms. Another will bring you some dinner, and I will join you in a short while."

"The boys?" I asked.

"Yes, three young brothers," the doctor said. "They are adults, mind you. But when you have reached my advanced age, 19, 22, and 25-year-olds are still mere children." She snapped her fingers. "Cristian," she called.

A young man appeared at the top of a long, curved, stone staircase. He seemed sheepish, shy, or mayhap frightened. He came down the stairs with swift but silent steps, his gaze lowered as he responded to her call. Standing inches from the Countess, the young man gazed at the granite floor in front of her feet, his head bowed, I would say, in awe. I studied him as he stood near me, taking in the shy, pale, close-to frail, young man.

"Yes, mistress," he said. His voice was soft, not quite feminine, in pitch. All this lent an impression of some weakness, which lay inside. The lad's meek style offered an insight to me, and I surmised this young man, damaged as he was, broken by some past traumatic event. A patient, I wondered. I tactfully studied him further while the doctor addressed him.

"This young woman is Doctor Hanson," she said. "In all things, you will obey her as you do me, except if her wishes conflict with my will."

"Yes, mistress," he said.

"Accompany, Doctor Hanson, to her rooms," she told him. "Have Alexandru bring her food, and I'll have Boian prepare her a bath."

"They are your servants?" I asked.

"No, they are my, I mean our, patients," Countess Drago said.

"Oh, how many other patients do we have?" I asked.

"Only three," she said. Leaning to me, she whispered in my ear, "Believe me, these murderous young fellows are all the criminally insane you want around for a while. Oh, we will have more, but these are the first." She righted herself and stepped away from me.

"Cristian, you will do all Mistress Hanson asks. You will not touch her. Not one, single, solitary hair on her head, understand?" Her tone changed, growing, harsh, demanding, and much the attitude one expected from a person of a royal bloodline.

"Yes, Mistress Drago," he said.

The Countess strolled toward a door, and I thought my eyes deceived me as the door appeared to open of its own volition. She pivoted toward me, standing framed in the doorway. "I will be along in a few minutes. I must check on something first. If your meal arrives before I return, you're free to sup. I have already dined. If you wish to bathe first, I shall inform Boian. I am sure a warm soak will relax you after your arduous journey." Her voice returned to inviting and kind, with an expressive lilt.

"I'd love a bath," I said.

She turned, walked away, and such was her grace she appeared to glide, her movements fluid, without effort. The door closed behind her, sealing her from my view. Once more, no one shut the thing. Odd thing, her presence remained despite her absence in the room.

I perceived an air of superiority about her. No doubt, she was arrogant, leaving one with a somewhat inferior perception of themselves when in her presence, yet something else confounded me about the Countess. For a sensuality in her movements held a headedness, for something most seductive in her mannerisms drew me to the woman. The memory of her embrace lingered on my flesh, in my mind. I fought down a deep sense of yearning, which threatened to overpower me.

Those longings disturbed me. Never have I held any such sensitivity toward a fellow member of my own sex. For a moment, another emotion assailed me, dirtiness. A nastiness inhabited, for an instant, and a deep sense of anguish, of lurid wanting, stunned me. As though I had cheated on my dearest, Michael, guilt chided me.

How had Countess Drago forced those intense, impassioned cravings into me, igniting something unholy in me with her mere touch? I shook the irrational thoughts from my consciousness, for nothing is holy or unholy. Only science and facts exist, and they are morally ambivalent.

"Twaddle," I said, scolding myself.

"Mistress?" the boy asked.

I had forgotten he was in the room, so drawn into my own thoughts as I had been.

The young man stepped back one pace, raising his arms as if to protect himself. Head downcast, he lifted his eyes to me, with short darting glances, as though afraid to gaze at me. A terrible expression covered his countenance.

His reaction indicated he feared me, worried I directed my disappointment toward him. He appeared to be a delicate boy. Dressed in white, wearing loose-fitting clothing, he seemed borderline malnourished. His complexion was the palest white, as if the blood in his veins was insufficient to give him color.

"Nothing," I said, "I am upset with myself."

"I have not displeased you?"

"No, Cristian, not at all."

"Good, I should never wish to displease you," he told me, raising his face at last. "I will show you to your rooms. This way." He moved to the first step and started up the massive staircase. "Please watch your step and be most careful. This abode is old, and some of the stones are loose. I'd be broken-hearted, should you fall and harm yourself, and my Mistress would be most dissatisfied with me."

At the moment, as I kept my eyes on him, I realized he was barefoot. He moved to the door at the top of the stairs, holding the door for me. As I passed him, I saw how thin and boney his fingers and hands were. While he was handsome, he was also soft, approaching effeminate in a childish, sort of manner. I had a hard time visualizing him as a crazed killer, as the Countess had told me.

We made our way upward, three flights of stairs. After several corridors, with more turns than is possible to keep track of, finally, he opened a door. Extending his hand inside the room, he bowed. I walked inside the enormous bedroom, taking sight of my lodgings for the first time.

On the outer wall, an oversized window gave a view of the forest. A fireplace stood next to the window, complete with a small table and chairs, arranged in a cozy setting for warmth and conversation. A fire blazed in the hearth. The side to the left had a massive four-poster bed. In the middle of the room were several chairs with small tables and lamps next to them, arranged toward each other to ease the exchange of thoughts and ideas.

In the right wall, another door, I made out, a sizeable claw-footed tub, inside this other room. Standing next to the tub was a man, who I took for one of the brothers. What had she called him? Boian, yes, Boian was the lad's name. He poured water from a galvanized bucket into the bath. Steam rose from the grand tub, and my tired body longed for the relaxation the hot tub offered. Turning from his duty, the young man glanced in my direction, smiling. His high cheekbones caused his thin face to appear gaunt.

This man-child appeared as unhealthy as Cristian. While as thin as his brother, he was a touch taller and only a shade fuller than his younger sibling. His flame-red hair set him apart from his brother. The lad, still smiling at me, moved to the outer room. Bowing in a graceful sweep, he righted himself.

"I am Boian, Mistress," he said, pressing his right hand to his chest.

The clothing hung from his fame as lose as his brothers, though in truth, you would be hard-pressed to find any family resemblance betwixt the two. But in one area, they were the same. His complexion appeared as bloodless as Cristian's. The whiteness of the lad's flesh seemed as bleached out as his clothing.

"Your bath is ready, Mistress Hanson."

He wasn't as androgynous as his brother. All the same, his appearance was closer to fetchingly feminine than handsome. With stoic acceptance, he stood immobile, like a thin, charming marble statute.

I bobbed my head to him and approached the room, speculated where my luggage was, so I might change after my bath.

"Um, where," I said.

"In the dresser drawers, armoire, and hanging in the water closet," Boian answered, knowing what I asked. "The suitcase is on the top shelf of the armoire.

"Thank you, dear boys. You can leave now."

Instead, they did not leave, rather remained riveted in place, occupying positions on either side of my water closet door. I pointed to the exit, emphasizing my order. The boys refused to comply. Impatient now, I again pointed my finger to the door.

"GO."

"Ma'am, to do so would be a direct violation of the Countess' orders. She commanded we stay until she arrives," Boian said.

Unnerved, I did not wish to undress and take my bath with the two of them gawking. Entering the bathroom, I turned to the door, closed it, and moved to lock the bolt. Finding no latch, I pulled a chair over, taking care to not make noise, and tucked the back under the knob to secure the door.

More satisfied with my privacy, I turned to the room and eyed the tub, still steaming. This water closet had only one tap, a cold one. Hence, water had to be heated on a potbellied stove standing on the room's outer wall. Testing the water with my hand, I found the temperature a tad warmer than I would wish. Nevertheless, I longed to soak in the water's warm embrace. I undress, placing my clothing upon a second chair in the room.

Proceeding into the inviting bath, lowering my body a little, deep, as I grew accustomed to the heat, sank deeper. Soaking my tension and fears away into a watery grave. A warm soak works wonders on one's disposition. Indeed, my immersion into the warm water melted all the strangeness of the journey and arrival away from me. I weighed the mysteries of the day without distress or nervousness.

Reviewing all the events, which happened during the day, I realized a mild dread had invaded my mind. This is how things are with irrational fears, which pester one's mentality. They creep inside and begin to pile up until, without realizing why imagination runs wild.

Things went awry at lunch, with the curious reaction of the passengers upon discovery of my destination. Talking with the coachman had further eroded my excitement, replacing my enthusiasm with mild yet, distinct distress. The final leg along the twisting mountain road heaped up the trepidation in my psyche. The last tenuous thread, in this unfathomable buildup of anxiety, came with the Drago Castle itself. The formidable structure, ancient and decaying both outside and in, scared me, and an unreasoning fear took the place of reason and logic.

All would be better now; my mind relaxed at the cordial welcome of my lovely hostess. Her strange patients weren't a concern. They were meek, mild lunatics with some malady, which made them unable to fit into society. This doubtlessly coupled with an eating disorder was either a symptom of said mental malady or, more than likely, a particular affliction of their mind.

Having slain my fears, I set out to enjoy my soak. Contemplating why some women, who are as thin as a rail, agonize about being overweight, gorging themselves with food, only to forcibly regurgitate the cuisine, in the aspirations of losing weight they can ill afford to drop.

My meditation shattered when such a clamor erupted, my heart raced, my head spun. The uproar drew my attention to the door. A loud thump accompanied the bowing of the door. As the door bent, a fuming shouting resounded from the outer room.

"Why is this door locked?" an angry voice demanded. The door returned to the customary shape. Again, the door bowed and returned. A loud shout, like a man running into battle, while a thumping, cracking, and creaking invaded the space, followed instantly by the door being splintered into a dozen smaller pieces of wood, and the chair exploded into kindling.

An enormous dark-haired, wild-eyed young man crashed through the door. His hands clenched into fists, his eyes lit up with his anger, the menacing, hulking giant turned his glowering eyes in my direction. My heart nigh upon stopped from the fright. I was helpless, naked, lying in a bath of warm water, faced with an ominous, angry giant ready to destroy me.

Chapter 3

"Are you unhurt, Mistress?" the giant of a man asked, shutting his eyes tight to ensure he did not see me naked. "Has one of the ghosts bothered you?" the man asked. He stood there, looking in my direction. Still, he held his eyes shut. I covered myself as best I may, in case he cheated, spied me through nearly closed eyes.

"I put the chair on the door to ensure my privacy," I said, my voice rising in indignation.

"You do not trust us?" he questioned me. His voice held a hurt, which touched my heart.

"No," I said, "this isn't a lack of trust at all. Please leave the room while I finish my bath."

"I'll guard your bathing," he said. Alexandru (I assumed) turned away, with his eyes still closed, stood stationary, and folded his enormous, muscled arms over his massive chest.

"No," I said, "You can wait in the other room."

"I shall guard your bath here," Alexandru said. "When you have completed your toiletry, I shall close my eyes, assist you from the tub and cover you with a towel. After which, I shall leave. My Mistress, Countess Drago, would insist. I promise I shall not glance at you until you are again clothed."

The thought dawned on me, further argument would be fruitless. Part of the boy's problems, or mayhaps, their cure, lay in unswerving devotion to the Countess. Racking my brain, I evaluated the possibility where the Countess bent these men to her will through the sheer force of her personality. Possibly, left to their own devices, they were a trio of dangerous men.

In a moment of deep contemplation, I thought the younger brothers were perhaps frail by design? They reminded me of those wealthy, anorectic patients I had previously tried to help. Well, the younger fellows did. Alexandru was a fine specimen of manhood. Enormous, well-built, and faithful as a beagle.

In truth, they did not appear like siblings at all. Their noses, eyes, hair color, and physical builds, differed, right down to their height. Their accents varied from one to another, as if they were from the same country but different regions. I began to imagine they all committed separate crimes. Perhaps one or another had been with the Countess longer than the others.

True to his word, Alexandru assisted me without casting his eyes on me. Once I was fully clothed, he opened his eyes, giving me a small smile. I thought he appreciated my form, remembering himself, cast his eyes to the floor, and escorted me to my meal. The stew was a roasted goat's leg and vegetable brew. I realized this only because Alexandru told me with pride how he prepared the meal for me from an old family recipe.

Unaware, how famished I was, until the moment I sampled the cookery, I consumed the meal with a passion. The food was a delectable feast, and the meat's flavoring, so different than any other I had eaten. The potatoes and other vegetables were tender and moist.

I'm tempted to use the old, trite saying, "Melts in your mouth," though the cuisine doesn't literally dissolve in my mouth. All in all, the meal was marvelous. The boys, true to form, stood in a line, eyes studying the stones of the floor. Perhaps, they contemplated how the stones held in place and didn't crash to the room beneath them.

I remained amazed at how any of this ancient structure held together at all. Its immense age showed everywhere. All the same, the beauty of its former opulence bore evidence in the precision of its stonework, every dust-coated painting, in each worn yet elegant piece of furniture. This palace must have been a grand old home forty years before, perhaps further into the past. Many signs of neglect were visible, and the castle was a mere shadow of its former glory.