Written in Blood

"Why is the commode door in shambles?" Countess Drago asked as she walked into the room.

"Alexandru believed a ghost might be attacking me. He broke the door to save my honor," I told her, flushing at the sight of her.

"Boy's go now. You will find a small snack, something superb and scrumptious, for you in the library," she said. As she spoke, the most wicked grins broke over their faces. "Go and enjoy. Oh, and Alexandru, I would appreciate you resisting the urge to destroy any more doors tonight."

The boys hurried out of the room. Alexandru closed the door behind him, leaving Valerie Drago and me alone in my bedroom. Several candles and a lamp provided a flickering light. The Countess had changed, explaining, she too had bathed and dressed for bed. The nightdress was brilliant red silk and clung to her every curve. Pinned, a little above her breast, a new, pale, yellow rose.

"What's wrong with them?"

"The boys?"

"Yes, the boys," I said.

"They all suffer from a delusion driven by the superstitious fervor in this land. Their idea is fed by the superstitious fears of the people of this backward country. They imagine they are, as do the people from their own towns and villages believe of them, the Children of the Night."

"What? They think they are wolves and owls?"

"No, no," she said. "They believe they are the kith and ken of Lilith's race."

"Lilith's race ...?"

"Yes, but the specifics of their obsession are unimportant. All which concerns me is I break these young men of said mania. I have given the boys a new fixation, taking them to a new destination. Once they are safe from the first delusion, I will wing them away from their new one. Their treatment is a long, arduous process but requires the use of only one intoxicant rather than the myriad of mind-numbing drugs used by others in our field. Neither do we lock them away from sight, gnashing their teeth and ripping their flesh from themselves as other, so-called experts in our profession. We treat them with dignity, counseling, some hypnotherapy, and some measure of freedom. Take your freedom from you, and let us see how long your sanity lasts."

"I'm eager to learn all," I told her as I stood, wandering about the room. A dozen red roses were in a vase, atop a small table, by the door of my room. I hadn't beheld them before now. As they caught my eye, I moved to the flowers.

Lifting one, I sniffed the sweet aroma. Returning the rose to the vase, I drug my knuckle over another rose stem, at which point, one of the thorns cut me at the fold of my finger. I let out a small, pained utterance, flinching my finger away.

When I turned away from the table, the Countess moved to stand beside me. Somewhat startled, I stepped back, bumping the table, the stand threatening to spill its contents on the floor.

"It was not my intent to frighten you," she said, smiling. Holding her hand out, she steadied the table. She moved closer, took my hand in hers, lifted my finger to her bent head. Her lips pressed against my bloody knuckle, causing a sense of euryopia to sweep through me.

She held my hand, her lips pressed to the bleeding wound, sucking the blood away. I quivered as she licked the wound, afterward, broke her kiss. On checking my finger, the cut seemed to have scabbed already. I gazed at her, light-headed as though I drank a healthy shot of bourbon. I was weary and supposed the reason was my long, arduous day catching up with me, at last.

"You have unusually, sweet blood. Cornelius did say you were a woman of style," the Countess said, her voice light and lyrical. I laughed with her at the witticism. Though blood being described as sweet struck me as, to some extent, creepy.

"Still, you should be careful not to cut yourself. In particular, avoid this around the boys," the Countess said.

"They're not brothers, are they?"

"They are not," she said. "And yet, they are of the same blood. They share the same affliction and the same cure. Hence, they are brothers of sorts. But enough of, what do you Americans say? Shoptalk?"

"Well, I did come here to work and learn," I said.

"But not tonight," she said. "Tell me, what do you think of my home?" Holding her arms upward, she walked about the room.

"It's a grand old place," I told her.

"Only a shadow remains." The Countess picked up the fireplace poker and stabbed the logs, sending the flames roaring in the hearth. The impression of a tremendous sadness overcame the woman as she spoke.

"This wondrous place constructed by a warrior princess. Who grew war-weary over 600 hundred years ago. She led her armies into battle, beating back the Turkish hordes. As an impartial judge, you, a successful, modern woman, must appreciate her accomplishments in those days. Having, yourself, suffered the slings and arrows of men whose delicate pride and self-worth battered simply because she was a strong woman.

"Have they not likewise lashed out, trying to elevate themselves by gashing every single triumph you have achieved? You have overheard the whispers, 'She's only a woman.' I sensed envy in your old mentor, the envy of your youth, and fear, with the years ahead of you, he'd become, but a footnote in your biography, as your achievements surpass his.

"Imagine how they reacted to a woman warrior, who fought better than they, strategized more effectively, and conquered every man who opposed her. Blood became her life, for life is in the blood. Fighting and killing fulfilled a need inside her until war consumed the princess. In the end, all she desired was peace, but all she achieved was more bloodshed, and only carnage gave her life meaning.

"She built this castle, her only desire to live out her remaining years, occupying her time with the joy of raising her children in the solitude of this citadel. I think the deceptions brought about by her husband, a weak, deceitful rouge, who married her to steal her property. His precious pride, wounded by her refusal to take his name, the rascal turned on her and their children.

"Drago's be they, men or women, never abandon their name and never give a name to their offspring other than their own revered family name, Domini Draconum, Masters of Dragons is the ancient name of my family.

"So, it was for two millennia but reduced to simply Drago in recent years, though not so recent, for precious little in this family is recent. My name is her name - Draconus Valeriana. Changed over the years to the more mundane, Valerie Drago.

"Seeing her, old Georgiana would've died of shock," Valerie Drago said, "were it not for Valeriana's sword, which cut through his guts, held in the hand of his dead wife. I should say, presumed dead, wife."

She went on with her tale, pacing around the room. Speaking of this one woman as if she lived for centuries. Her wild eyes reflected the red of the fire as she voiced the princess's exploits. Her words rang with such passion you'd have thought she spoke of herself.

Then, without warning, her words stopped. She smoothed her gown, faced me where I sat next to the roses, and extended her hand.

"Come," she said. "Let us talk about you, for I have dominated the conversation, and I do so desire to know all I might learn about you."

I took her hand, she led me to bed, and we sat next to each other. I must explain, this held no intimate erotic overture, or at least, none I perceived. This was purely two women sitting close to one another and talking.

The Countess stared into my eyes. Her pale, blue eyes were brilliant, captivating, holding my attention. I spoke, telling her about my life. My grandparents' death, my school days, the passing of my father. My graduation from Yale medical school seven years before, and my studies as a doctor. My awkwardness in relationships as a child, a teen, and a young adult. My fitful starts at romances, followed in short order by the rapid decline into disastrous breakups. I ended up talking about the loss of my mother, finding Michael, and our two years of courtship.

"You, poor sweet, child," she said, embracing me, pulling me to her, "you are all alone now."

"I have Michael," I said.

"Yes, Michael, dear sweet Michael," Valerie Drago said. "Albeit, I don't sense any real passion in you for Michael." She added, I believe as an afterthought, "Perhaps I'm wrong, though."

I should have taken offense at her words. I should have shown righteous indignation at the implication. Yet, I offered neither words of praise nor my undying loyalty to my betrothed; instead, I turned my face from her, considering her words.

God forgive me. I let those words creep into my mind. The seed of doubt, once planted, is hard to weed out if watered, for uncertainty takes root and blooms. We continued our embrace of one another, my mind pondered this express matter, feeding my always present doubts, for I have never been confident or competent in affairs of the heart.

All the while, wild thoughts, unbridled passions, and sensual emotions crept into me. A yearning deep inside took hold of me. I tried to fight these desires but failed. After a minute or more, my hands dropped, and Countess Drago pulled back. I held fast to my sentiments for Michael and the stronghold my betrothed held on my heart, refusing to yield to this woman's inviting temptations. Though, I wasn't sure she tried to tempt me, not intentionally at least. But the nickering of my commitment to Michael took hold while desires considered unnatural were ready to bloom.

"You should sleep now," the Countess said. A strand of my auburn hair fell over my eyes, and she moved the strand, placing my hair behind my ear. Her sadness lifted, replaced by a smile spread, which spread over her beautiful face, and her head shifted toward me. Our lips touched; a light charge tingled over my lips as we kissed. Two emotions fought inside me, shame and an overwhelming desire for the Countess and the satisfaction our cuddling gave me. We broke apart, she moved to the door.

"I hope my goodnight kiss did not upset you. The customs of my land are not the same as those of your homeland. Now, come, Hanson Jane ... I meant to say ... Jane Hanson, lock the door, and in so doing, keep out bad dreams," she told me. "Sleep well, Doctor. We shall talk in the morning."

I missed her presence in the room immediately. Alone, I removed my writing kit, placed the gear on a table near the fire, moved a tall candelabra near, and set down the day's events to Michael.

****

My Sweet, Dearest Michael,

I have come to the end of my journey and settled into this ancient castle. My room is warm and cozy but not at all small. My own living room would only occupy half the space I have to call my own.

I cannot say this old, worn bastion is cheery, though my private room is made far more bright by the three pictures of you, which I have added to the décor.

My first impression of the Countess, this woman is venerable, imposing, and quite severe, natheless, a happy person, her face creased with deep laugh lines. She smiles easily and has sparkling, bright eyes. I place her age somewhere older than Cornelius. Perhaps 65 or 70 years, even so, for her achievements, this is not enough. However, she appears much younger than she is.

A natural intelligence shined through her eyes, and they carried the wrinkles of wisdom, in fine weblike lines, about them. Still, she has lovely hair, streaked with much gray, beautiful, and quite thick. Her nose is aquiline, like the beak of a grand bird, and she has a noble bearing about her.

The last leg of the journey was the only tricky part of the trip. I traveled with seven or eight other passengers, though I spent the last half of today in the box. I must say, a more superstitious lot of people I have never encountered ...

In short, I thought I might never gain entry, then, as if by magic, the doors swung open, giving me access.

The hour grows late, my love, with reluctance, I close now. But I will write more soon. Before I retire for the night, I shall read all your letters which awaited my arrival. I also desire those opuses I sent you, with all those words of love I penned, found you, and brightened up your days.

With all my heart,

Jane

****

The first night passed in a slow, seemingly sleepless procession. Wolves howled in the night. Some wild cat creature yowled outside my window, and a roar, the likes of which I never heard in my life, bellowed in my ears.

Getting out of bed, I checked the locked door, ambled to the window, and closed the glass to shut out the sounds. Beyond the colored panes of glass, a bat fluttered leathery wings, hovering outside the closed window.

The little critter's eyes were red as fire. No doubt, they reflected some spark of light from inside or perhaps the moonlight. Only no moon shown, I belatedly realized. He's watching me from outside, I supposed, pushing the wild thought from my mind. He lunged toward the window.

I backed away, startled. Inches from the glass, the critter avoided the collision, turning downward, plunging from view. I fought a fright, which crept into my intellect, letting out a small gasp of tension.

Wandering back to my bed, returning to the safety it offered, I crawled under the covers, swaddling myself in their warmth and protection. The firelight from the hearth in the room danced on the floor. I was unable to tell how much of this was a dream and how much was reality.

Fear overtook me again, and I shut my eyes, telling myself to seek escape in slumber. Tossing and turning, I slept fitfully. In my dreams, a motorized coach plunged over a mountainside. In the wreckage, Michael's body lay, twisted in an unnatural contortion, fear, and pain, vivid on his face, his broken remains trapped in the carriage debris. His eyes flung open, and he hissed at me like a snake. In my nocturnal nightmare, I thrust a sword through his heart.

"Betrayer," I said, angry he survived the crash.

In sleep, an incomprehensible strangeness invades dreams or nightmares. They spring forth in our faculties, thrusting us into the middle of something, which cannot be real. Yet, still, we struggle to figure out what happens next, vexed as to what brought us to this place. And of this dream, I shrank from. For the lurid vision, put a thought in my head I found impossible to shake. I grasped, with all clarity, I wanted my cherished, loving fiancé, Michael, dead!

Awake, I lay panting, a sheen of sweat upon my skin. It was some time after two in the morning, and I turned in bed, attempting to get more comfortable. Gazing at the entry, what appeared to be vapor puffed between the door and floor. Creeping across the floor, the mist gathered into a thick fog in an open spot. The smoke plumed upward in the middle of the room, solidifying.

The Countess, in a red, translucent nightgown, moved from the mist. I glanced at the door lock, the key hanging from the hole. In addition, the bolt still closed on the locked door. How had she? The haze boiled red and swirled around her as she sauntered toward me. She sat on the bed. She lifted the sheet from my body, dropping yellow rose petals from her fingers. They fluttered against my skin.

Her cold hand touched me, gently toying with the petals upon my belly. A fire erupted inside me, and I gasped, fully awake as the flames of craving her consumed me. I am not drawn to women. Her touch sent wicked-wild thoughts through my inner self while a hot passion passed from her, erupting into my body.

I strove to concentrate on Michael, but Countess Valarie Drago pushed the thoughts of him from my consciousness. As she invaded my subconscious, Michael fled from me in fear of his existence. Without Michael to hold in my mind, the Countess took my affections. All the while, a white, hot lustful fire of desire spread throughout my body, my mind. Arching my back, I let out a long hiss as my loins ached for her attention.

Her mouth brushed my lips. She pressed her hot, wet mouth to mine, kissing me deeper and deeper. Her hands caressed me, and fires of lust ran over my flesh, consuming me. The Countess touched me in ways no woman or man ever had. The need for her welled a goatish, ruttishness no one ever instilled in me. My body throbbed, aching for more.

As if she read my inner thoughts, we entwined, and our bodies twisting into one. I pulled her closer, and her face dropped to my neck, where I felt a sharp pricking. An extraordinary ecstasy washed over my soul. Something flowed out of me while white-hot desire overwhelmed me. She kissed me, and the exquisite feel of her firm, moist lips filled me with bliss and contentment. I never wanted to wake. Any thought of Michael nauseated me.

Chapter 4

Bolting upright in my bed, sunlight streamed through the window. I tried to clear my mind, weakened from my restless night. Thinking took effort. And with a swift torrent, the dream came back to me, burning vivid in my thoughts. A clammy, fine mist clung to my body, my sheets soaked, and my nightgown lay on the floor in a heap. The vision stuck in my mind. The night's sensual congress, after all, only a tepid dream, though, I theorized, was it? Nastiness crawled across my skin.

Shaking, controlling my breathing, and pushing all emotions away, I struggled to suppress the lust lingering into my waking state. I reached up to where she had been. I touched my neck, touched two fresh scratches upon my throat, which hurt a bit. I must have scratched myself with my fingernails in my fitful sleep.

Guilt overwhelmed me over Michael. I had betrayed him. Despite only dreaming this, I deceived my love. Thoughts annoyed me, risqué emotions troubled me, unable to ignore the vision in my mind, these unwanted longings the night cultivated. I sat in bed, thinking, brooding over the possible meanings of my sleeping fantasies. Part of me wished I had never learned of Countess Valerie Drago. What had I come to?

What wild place had I journeyed to? And what was debauchery, which tempted my soul? Soul, yes, I had a soul. The other part of me, the scientific side, brushed the irrational thoughts from my head. I reminded myself I am a scientist. Each of us has subconscious thoughts, which appear in our dreams, but this does not mean we act upon them. I calmed my fears, slaying my 'personal' boogeyman with the same nonexistent sword I had killed Michael within my dream. For those are the only demons, which exist, the ones our own minds manufacture.

A soft knock intruded the solitude of my sanctum. Jumping from my bed, I pulled the gown from the floor, and flung it over my head, worked the fabric down my body, smoothing out the wrinkles. I took a few shaky steps to the door. The wicked, wild dream appeared to have sapped me of my potency. Stopping, I put my hand on my chest, willing my heart to slow, my breath to calm.

"Yes?" I asked.

"It's me," Countess Drago said. "Breakfast awaits you in the room across the hall. I hope the repast is to your liking."

Unlocking the door, I opened the door and smiled at my hostess. She entered the room, covered in a virginal, white dress with a plunging U-shaped neckline, revealing much of her upper breasts and gathered tight around her waist. A new rose adorned her outfit, pinned next to her heart, and the flower's color -- black, as black as midnight. I didn't know black roses existed. Perhaps this color, no doubt, was accomplished from some type of dye.

"You have slept late," she said. "I'm afraid the boys are in treatment today and won't be around to serve you. They will return shortly after sunset."

"Oh, what is the treatment?" I asked.

"Deprivation."

"I haven't heard of this. What do you withhold from the lads?"

"The treatment was all the rage ten years ago, but now, fallen from grace, replaced by medications which pollute the blood. I believe one can accomplish more without narcotics than with them. The blood must always be pure. After all, life is in the blood. As to my sweet boys, I'm withholding everything from them. Light, warmth, the experience of touching something or being touched, sound, and human companionship."