Twenty minutes before sundown Dragan was back in the secret place. The piglet had regained consciousness but didn't yet have the strength to stand up. Wasting no time and wanting no distractions, Dragan knocked the struggling animal out again with a single blow of a KGB-issue cosh. Then he settled down, waited, smoked a cigarette, watched the light fading as the sun sank lower and lower. Here where the pines grew straight as spears in a ring about the ancient tomb, the only real light came down from directly overhead, and that was filtered down through an interlacing mesh of branches; but as night drew on so the first stars began to come out, visible in advance to Dragan, much as they would be to a man in a deep well.370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMxtSe2vvsI
And finally, as he ground out his cigarette and the gloom closed that much more tightly around him:
Ahhhh! Draaaaaagaaaaannnnnn!
The unseen presences were there as usual, springing up from nowhere, invisible wraiths whose fingers brushed Dragan's face as if seeking to know him, to be sure of his identity. He shivered and said: "Yes, it's me. And I've brought something for you. A gift."
Oh? And what is this---gift? And what would you have for me in return?
Now Dragan was eager and he made no effort to conceal it. "The gift is---a small tribute. You shall have it later, before I go. As for now:
"I've talked to you in this place, old dragon, many times---yet you never really told me anything. Oh, I'm not saying that you've deceived or misled me, just that I've learned very little from you. Now that may well have been my own fault, I may not have asked the right questions, but in any case it's something I want to put right. There are things you know which I desire to know. There once was a time when you had---powers! I suspect you've retained many of them, which I don't know about."
Powers? Oh, yes---many powers. Great powers....
"I want the secret of those powers. I want the powers themselves. All that you knew and know now, I want to know."
In short, you wish to be----Wamphyr!
The word and the way it was uttered in his mind were such that Dragan couldn't suppress a shudder. Even he, Dragan himself---necromancer, examiner of the dead---felt its unearthly awe, as if the word in itself conveyed something of the awful nature of the being(s) it named. "Wamphyr...." he repeated it, and then:
"Here in Romania," he quickly went on, "there have always been legends, and in the last hundred years they've spread abroad. Personally, I've known what you are for many years now, old demon. Here they call you vampir, and in the Western world they call you a vampire. There you're a creature in tales to be told at night by the fireside, stories to frighten the children in bed and stir the morbid imagination. But now I want to know what you really are. I want to separate fantasy from reality. I want to take the lies out of the legend."
He sensed a mental shrug.. Then, I say it again, you would be Wamphr. There is no other way to know it all.
"But you have a history," Dragan insisted. "Five hundred years you've lain here---yes, I know that---but what of the five hundred before you died?"
Died? But I did not die. They might have murdered me, yes, for it was in their power to do so. But they chose not to. The punishment they chose was greater far. They just buried me here, undead! But that aside---you want to know my history?
"Yes!"
It's a long and bloody one. It will take time.
"Old demon, all we have is time right now," said Dragan---but he sensed a restlessness, frustration in the unseen presences. It was as if something warned him not to try his luck too far. It was not in the undead thing's nature to be pressured.
But at last: I can tell you something of my history, yes. I can tell you what I did, but not how it was done. Not I so many words. Knowing my origins and my roots will not help you to be of the Wamphyri, nor even to understand them. I can no more explain to you how to be Wamphyri than a fish could explain how to be a fish---or a hawk how to be a hawk. If you tried to be a fish, you would drown. Launch yourself from the face of a cliff, like the mighty hawk, and you would fall and be crushed. And if the ways of simple creatures such as these are unknowable, how then the ways of the Wamphyri?
"May I learn nothing of your ways, then?" Dragan was growing angry. He shook his head. "Nothing of your powers? I don't think I believe you. You showed me how to speak to the dead, so why can't you show me the rest of it?"
Ah! No, you are mistaken, Dragan. I showed you how to be a necromancer, which is a human talent. It is in the main a forgotten art among men, to be sure, but nevertheless necromancy is an art old as the race itself. As for speaking to the dead, that is something else entirely. Very few men ever mastered that for a skill!
"But I talk to you!
No, my son, I talk to you. Because you are one of mine. And remember, I am not dead, I am undead. Even I could not speak to the dead. Examine them, yes, but never talk to them. The difference lies in one's approach, in their acceptance of one, and in their willingness to converse. As for necromancy: there the corpse is unwilling, the necromancer extracts the information like a torturer, like a dentist drawing good teeth!
Suddenly Dragan felt that the conversation was going in circles. "Stop!" he cried. "You are deliberately obscuring the issue!"
I am answering your questions as best I might.
"Very well. Then don't tell me how to be a Wamphyr, but tell me what a Wamphyr is. Tell me your history. Tell me what you did in your life, if now how you did it. Tell me of your origins...."
After a moment:
As you wish. But first----first tell me what you know---or think you know---of the Wamphyri. Tell me about these "myths," these "old wives' tales" which you've heard, on which you appear to be something of an authority. Then, as you say, we shall separate the lies from the legend.
Dragan sighed, leaned back against a slab, lit another cigarette. He still felt he was getting the runaround, but there seemed to be little he could do about it. It was dark now, but his eyes were used to the gloom; anyway, he knew every twisted root and broken slab. At his feet the piglet snorted fitfully, then lay still again. "We'll take it step by step," he growled.
A mental shrug.
"All right, let's start with this: A vampire is a thing of darkness, a loyal subject of Satan."
Hahahahahah! Shaitan was first of all the Wamphyri---in our legends, you understand. Things of darkness, yes, in that night is our element. We are ----different. But there is a saying: that at night all cats are gray! Thus, at night, our differences are not so great----or are not seen to be so great. And before you ask it, let me tell you this: that because of our proclivity for darkness, the sun is harmful to us.
"Harmful? Why, it would destroy you, turn you to dust!"
What? That is a myth! No, nothing so terrible---but even weak sunlight will sicken us, just as strong sunlight sickens you.
"You fear the cross, symbol of Christianity."
I hate the cross! To me it is the symbol of all lies, all treachery. But fear it? No....
"Are you telling me that if a cross were held against you---a holy crucifix---it wouldn't burn your flesh?"
My flesh might burn with loathing----in the moment before I struck dead the one who held the cross!
Dragan took a deep breath. "You wouldn't deceive me?"
Your doubts tax my patience, Dragan.
Crusting under his breath for a moment, finally Dragan continued: "You cast no reflection. Neither in a mirror, nor in water. Similarly, you have no shadow."
Ah! A simple misconception---but not without its sources. The reflection that I cast is not always the same, and my shadow does not always conform to my shape.
Dragan frowned. (He remembered the leprous tentacle from that time almost twenty years ago.) "Do you mean that you are fluid, unsolid? That you can change your shape?"
No.
"Then explain what you did say."
Now it was the turn of the old one in the ground to sight. Will you leave nothing of mystery, Dragan? No, I'm sure you will not...
But now Dragan was doing some thinking for himself. "I believe this may answer two questions in one," he said while the other pondered. "Your ability to change into a bat or a wolf, for example. That's part of the legend, too. If it is a legend. Are you a shape-changer?"
He sensed the other's amusement. No, but I might seem to be such a creature. In fact there is no such thing as a shape-changer, not that I ever encountered.....
Then----it seemed that the old one had come to a decision. Very well, I shall tell you: what do you know of the power of hypnotism?
"Hypnotism?" Dragan repeated, continued to frown. But then his jaw fell open as he saw the truth, or what might be the truth, in a sudden flash of realization. "Hypnotism!" he gasped. "Mass hypnotism! That's how you did it!"
Of course. But while it fools the mind it cannot fool a mirror. And while I might appear to be a fluttering bat or loping wolf, still my shadow is that of a man. Ah! The mystique falls away, eh, Dragan?
Dragan remembered the leprous tentacle again but said nothing. He'd long ago decided that dead (or undead) things which talked in men's mind might also be masters of deception. Anyway, he had other questions to ask:
"You can't cross running water. It drowns you."
Hmmmm! I may have an answer for that one, too. In my life was a mercenary Veoevod. And aye, I would not cross running water! It was my strategy. When the invader came I waited and let him cross the water---and slaughtered him on my side. Maybe this is where this legend arose, on the banks of the Dunarea, the Motrul and the Siretul. And I have seen those rivers run red, Dragan.....
While the other offered his explanation, Dragan had been building up to the big one. Now, without pause, he threw it in: "You drink the blood of the living! It is a lust in you, which drives you on. Without blood you die. Your utterly evil nature demands that you feed on the lives of others. The blood is the life."
Ridiculous! As for evil: it is a state of mind. If you accept evil you must accept good. Maybe I am out of touch with your world, Dragan, but in mine there was very little of good! And as for drinking blood: do you take meat? And wine? Of course you do! You devour the flesh of beasts and the blood of the grape. And is that evil? Show me a creature which lives, which does not devour lesser lives. This legend springs from my cruelties, which I admit, and from all the blood I spilled in my lifetime. As to why I was so cruel: it seemed to me that if my enemies believed I was a monster, then they would be reluctant to come against me. And so I was a monster! If my legend had lasted so long and grown so fraught with terror, who may said I was wrong?
"That doesn't answer my question. I....."
And I----am tired now. Do you know what it takes from me, this kind of inquisition? And do you think I am one of your one of your corpses, Dragan? A suitable case for necromantic examination?
At that a thought came into Dragan's mind---but he suppressed it at once. "One final question," he said darkly.
Very well, if you must.
"The legend has it that the vampire's bit turns ordinary men into vampires. If you were to draw my blood, old one, would I become as you---undead?"
A long pause, through which Dragan sensed something of confusion, a mental scrabbling for an answer. And finally:
There was a time in the world's youth when the forests were alive with great bats, as they were with all kind of creatures. Diseased destroyed most of them---a specific disease, and horrible---but some learned to live with it. In my day a species existed which drew the blood of other animals, men included. Since the bats were carriers of the disease, they passed it on to those they bit, and the infected victims were seen to take on certain characteristics which....
"Stop!" said Dragan. "You mean the vampire bat, which still exists in Central and South America even today? Obviously you do. The disease is rabies, but..... I don't see the connection."
The thing in the ground chose to ignore his skepticism, said: America?
"A new land," Dragan explained. "They hadn't found it in your day. It's vast and rich and---very, very powerful!"
Ah? You say so? Well! And you must describe this entire new world of your in more detail---but on some other occasion. As for now---I am tired and.....
"Not so fast!" cried Dragan, aware that the conversation had strayed. "Are you saying I wouldn't become a vampire if you bit me? Are you trying to say that the legend is unfounded, except on this supposed connection with vampire bats? That won't wash, old demon! No, for that bat was named after you, not the other way around!"
Another pause----but not so long as to give the other two much time to think over what he'd said----and Dragan quickly continued: "You asked me if I desired to be of the Wamphyri. And how would you make me a Wamphyr if not in tis way? Could I be 'invested' with it, then, as you were once infested with the Order of the Dragon? Hah! No more lies, old demon. I want only the truth. And if you really are my 'father,' why do you hold the truth back? What do you fear?"
Dragan felt the disapproval of the unseen presences, sensed them drawing back from him. In his mind the other's voice was indeed tired now---and accusing. You promised me a gift, a small tribute, and brought to me only weariness and torment. I am a spark that grows dim, my son, an ember that expires. You have kept the flickering flame alive, and would you now snuff it out? Let me sleep me now, if you would not----exhaust-----me----utterly-----Draaaaggggaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnn.....
Dragan clenched his teeth, growled his frustration low in his throat, snatched up the piglet by its hind legs. He jumped to his feet, took out a switchblade and snapped it open. The blade glittered sharp as a razor. "Your gift!" he snapped.
The piglet struggled, squealed once. Dragan slit its throat, let the scarlet blood spray out, then drain onto the dark earth. A wind at once sprang up that sighed in the pines with a voice not unlike that of the thing in the ground: Ahhhh!
Dragan tossed the piglet's corpse down in tangled rootlets, stepped back from it, took out a handkerchief and cleaned his hands. The unseen presences crept forward.
"Back!" Dragan snapped, turning on his heel to leave. "Back you ghosts of men. It's for him, not you."
Descending through the pines in total darkness, Dragan was sure-footed as a cat. In his way, he too was a creature of the night, albeit a live one. And thinking of life, death, underneath, he smiled an emotionless smile into the darkness as he considered again the one question he hadn't asked: How might one kill a vampire? Kill it dead.
No, he had no asked the thing in the ground that question---not in a place like this, during the witching hours. For who could gauge what the reaction might or might not be? It could be a very dangerous question indeed.
And anyway, Dragan believed he already knew the answer.370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt8WCq6t5vi
The next day was Thursday. Dragan had spent a poor night with very little sleep, and he was up early. Looking out of his window, he said Zsa-Zsa Rudolf feeding chickens where they had wandered out of the farmyard and on to the grass verge of the country road. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his movement at the window and turned her face up to him.
Dragan had thrown the windows wide, was breathing the morning air deeply into his lungs. Leaning on the sill, leaning out into the light, his flesh was pale as snow. Zsa-Zsa looked at his naked chest. When he breathed in deeply like that, the muscles under his arms where they V-ed down into his back seemed to swell out like air sacs. He was deceptive, this one. She suspected he would be very powerful. "Good morning!" she called up.
For an answer he nodded, and staring at her knew now why he'd slept so badly. She was the reason.....
"Is that good?" she asked, her teeth white where she deliberately licked them.
"What?" he went on the defensive again---and at once quietly cursed himself for an immature child. Yes, him, Dragan!
"The air on your skin like that. Does it feel good? But look at you, so pale! You could use some sunlight, too, Herr Dragan."
"Yes, you could----be right," he stuttered, and withdrew from the window to get dressed. Angrily tugging his clothes on, he thought: women, females, sex! So----ugly? Is it? So un-natural! And so---necessary? Is this what I lack?"
Well, there was a way to find out. Tonight. It would have to be tonight, for tomorrow the British were coming. He made up his mind and went back to the window.
Zsa-Zsa had gone back to feeding her chickens. Hearing his cough, she looked up to see him buttoning his shirt, staring down at her. For a long moment their eyes met; then, stumblingly, he said:
"Zsa-Zsa, does it get chilly still? Er, in the night, I'm mean...."
She frowned, wondering what he was getting at. "Cold? Why, no, it's summer."
"Then tonight," he blurted. "I believe I'll leave my window--and my curtains---open."
Her frown lifted. She tossed her hair and laughed. "That's very healthy," she answered after a moment. "I'm sure you'll feel better for it."
Embarrassed now, Dragan once more withdrew, closed the window and finished dressing. For a moment or two he regretted what he'd done---this rendezvous so simply arranged, which in fact seemed to have been arranged for him---but finally he shrugged the feeling off. It was done now. What would be would be. And anyway, it was time he lost his virginity.
Lost his virginity, indeed! It made him sound like a young girl! And yet there was a touching naivety about that phrase, unlike the blunt delivery of his undead mentor. How had the old demon in the ground put it that time? "A mere pup who never breached a bitch....."
Yes! That was it! And he'd been referring to Dragan's father. His true father. And so I got into his mind---and I bequeathed the night to them!
He got into his mind---to show him how to do it....
Dragan stared at a pebble, clattered it against his window. He'd been sitting on his bed, lost in thought. Now he got up, opened the window again. It was Zsa-Zsa.
"Breakfast in your room, Herr Dragan?" she called up, "or will you eat with us?" The emphasis she put on "in your room" was unmistakable, but Dragan ignored it. No, for first he must speak to the old dragon.
"I'll come down," he answered, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully at the disappointment which instantly registered in her face. Oh, yes, he would need assistance with this one, this time, the first time. She'd know exactly what he was all about, and he knew nothing. But---the Wamphyr knew everything. And Dragan suspected that there were certain secrets which even that devious old one wouldn't mind divulging. No, not at all....370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWd4Z0IqzAN
Dragan's sexual problem----rather, the mental block which had until now checked his psychological development in this area---had been implanted in puberty, at a time when other boys went on to snatch their first kisses and explore their first soft bodies with hot, groping, inexperienced fingers. It had happened during his third years in Bucharest while he was boarding at the college there.370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ875M2Ccfqq
He'd been thirteen and looking forward to the summer break. Then his step-father's letter had arrived telling him not to come home. There was a disease on the farm; the animals were being slaughtered; visitors were forbidden and even Vladimir would not be allowed onto the estate. The fever was virulent: people could easily spread it about on their feet, their shoes, the entire area for twenty miles around was under quarantine.
A disaster, apparently---but it need not prove to be one for Vladimir. He had an "aunt" in Bucharest, his stepfather's younger sister, and could stay at her house for the break. It was better than nothing.; at least he'd have somewhere to go and not be stuck in an outbuilding of the old college, cooking his own food on a tiny stove.
His Aunt Helga was a young widow with two daughters only a year or so older then Vladimir himself, Olga and Cosmina, and they lived in a large, rambling wooden house on the Budesti road. Oddly, they'd never been much mentioned at home and Vladimir had only ever met them on their very infrequent visits to the Romanian countryside. He had always found his aunt very affectionate, maybe too much so---and his cousins a little sickly and giggling in the way of young girls, except that there were also undercurrents of a sly sensuality behind their years----but hardly darkly suspicious or especially odd. Yet he gained the impression from his stepfather's attitude towards them that his aunt was something of a black sheep, or at least a lady with a terrible secret.
In the three weeks he lived with her and her precocious daughters, when the college closed down for the summer break, Vladimir had discovered all he believed he needed to know of her "oddness," of sex and the perverse ways of females, and his experiences had turned him off for all the years in-between----until now. For the simple fact of the matter had been that his aunt was a nymphomaniac. Recently set free by the death of her husband, she had allowed her sexual obsession to get out of hand; and her daughters, apparently, were cut of pretty much the same cloth. Even when her ailing husband had been alive she had been notorious for her lovers. Word of her affairs had often got back to her brother in the country, so bringing about his aloofness, his disapproval. No prude himself, apparently, he still considered her little more than a whore.
Just how far she had carried her excesses was beyond her brother's power to know, especially now that he had broken off almost all contact with her. If he had known, then he would have made other arrangements for the youth; but his adopted son was, after all, barely a boy; he would surely stand exempt from the woman's vices.
Vladimir had known none of this but was to find out about it soon enough.
To start with, there had been no locks on any of the interior doors in his aunt's house. Neither the bedrooms nor the bathroom had locks, not even the toilets. Aunt Helga had explained that there were no secret places here---nowhere for the performance of secret deeds---and that secret things in general were not tolerated. Which made it hard for Vladimir to understand the secretive or mischievously furtive looks which often passed between mother and daughters when he was present.
As for privacy: there was likewise absolutely no need for privacy in a place where nothing was forbidden, nothing frowned upon. Enquiring as to his aunt's philosophy, Vladimir had been told that this was "a house of Nature," where the human body and its functions were things of Nature given us to "explore, discover, understand and enjoy to their full, without conventional restrictions." Provided that he respect the home and property of his hostess, there was nothing he could not do here and welcome; but he must similarly respect the "natural" behavior of the resident women of the house, whose ways he would find entirely open and unrestricted. As for philosophy as such: there was too little love in the world and too much hatred; if the lusts of the body and fires of the spirit could be quenched, sated in the pleasurable violence of embraces instead of war, then surely it would be a better place. Maybe Vladimir would not understand immediately, but his aunt was sure that he would in a little while....
After an early supper on the first evening, Vladimir had gone up to his room to read. He had brought some of his own books with him from the college, but at the foot of the stirs leading to his bedroom was a tiny room set aside by his aunt as her "library." Looking in, Vladimir had found the shelves full of erotica and sexual perversions and abnormalities, some of which were so fascinating that he took several of the illustrated volumes upstairs with him. They were unlike anything he'd ever seen before, even in the College library which was fairly comprehensive.
In his bedroom he had become engrossed with one of the books (which purported to be factual but was so "improbable" to Vladimir's mind that he "knew" it must be a spoof, a work of highly imaginative fiction; though how some of the alleged photographs had been produced was quite beyond him) and, like any lad of his age, soon found himself aroused. Masturbation was not unknown to Vladimir---he relieved himself that way from time to time as most young men do----but here in his aunt's house he hadn't felt secure or private enough to do so. To avoid further frustration, he had taken the books back downstairs to the library.
Earlier, while reading, he had heard a car pull up to the house and the arrival and entry of some visitor or other, someone obviously popular with the household, but had paid no attention. As he deposited the books back in the library, however, he now heard laughter and the sounds of physical activity and apparent enjoyment from the main living room----a room he'd been shown and in which he'd admired the mirrors set all about and the curiously mirrored ceiling---and was drawn to see what was taking place. The door stood a little ajar, and from within as he approached in silence Vladimir could hear a guttural male voice, straining in something like exertion, plus the now coarsened and urgent voices of his step-aunt and -cousins. It was then that he had started to suspect that something very much out of the ordinary must be going on in there. Vladimir paused at the door to stare in through the inches-wide gap and was shocked almost rigid by what he saw. Far from being "fantastic" as he has supposed, the book he'd been reading had contained nothing compared to this! The man----a stranger to Vladimir, bearded, pockmarked, huge in the belly and hairy---was quite repulsive in his looks and almost deformed in his body. Also, he was naked. What Vladimir could not know was that he was a satyr, which by this house's standards more than compensated for his ugliness and deformation.
Viewing the interior of the room through a mirror which stood just inside the door, therefore not directly, Vladimir could not see the entire performance, but what he could see was more than enough. The three females were taking turns with their playmate, urging him to greater efforts, working on him with their hands and mouths and bodies in a frenzy of sexual excess.
He lay on his back upon a divan, while the younger of the sisters, Olga, kneeled astride him and literally bounced herself up and down on him. With each upward bound of her body she revealed most of the great length and thickness of him, shiny with the liquids of their throbbing bodies. With each brief appearance of that slippery pole of flesh, Vladimir could see Cosmina's tiny and almost fragile hand locked tightly around its girth between the two where they continued to collide, working at it no less than her sister's jolting body. As for the mother of the girls, "Aunt" Helga, a woman of maybe thirty-four: she kneeled at the head of the couch and flopped her great loose breasts upon his feverish face, so that her nipples dangled alternately into his gaping, gasping mouth. Occasionally, apparently lost in her ecstasy, she would stretch up, thrusting her pubic region against his quivering lips and tongue.
The women weren't naked but all the more lewd for their garments, loose, baggy white things which were open and allowed their breasts and buttocks to be fondled, and all parts of them to be touched at will. What transfixed Vladimir most, riveting him to the spot, was not so much that this was sex---of which he knew very little in any case----but that all four participants seemed so utterly involved and engrossed, each enjoying not only the rewards of his/her own facet of the performance, whatever the part being played, but also the cavorting of the others!
But as they changed places and positions before his eyes, and almost without pause commenced a new series of intricate exertions (this time with the man mounted atop his aunt like some awful dog, while the girls played lesser role), so Vladimir had begun to understand. Nobody was neglected here; each became the aggressor in turn, sot hat all received maximum satisfaction. Or, in Vladimir's fevered eyes, so that all seemed equally disgusting.
In any event, while he believed that he now understood something of what he was seeing, still he didn't quite believe that he was actually seeing it. It was the central character---the man, the awful spurting machine---which he couldn't fathom.
Vladimir knew how exhausted he always felt after masturbating, so how must this hairy animal in the room of mirrors feel? He seemed to be hosing out semen almost continually, and groaning with the intensity of the pleasure given him by each fresh burst; except that it hardly seemed to weary him at all but only served to drive him to greater excess. Surely he must collapse at any moment now!
And as Vladimir finally got his legs going and backed away from the door---and as if his aunt had been thinking almost exactly the same thing as Vladimir himself---he heard her gaspingly said: "Now, now, you two! Let's not weary Radu so quickly. Why don't you go and play with Vladimir, eh? But not too fiercely or else you might frighten him. Poor lamb, he looks the kind who'd frighten very easily. About as lusty as a head of lettuce!"
That had been enough to send Vladimir scrambling frantically upstairs to his room, out of his clothes in a flash and into bed. There he lay and cringed---knowing his door was unlocked, that it couldn't be locked---waiting, for----sometimes he daren't even essay a guess at. If he'd been alone with one cousin, one normal girl, then maybe things might've been different. Maybe then there might have been a shy, gradual fumbling introduction to sex----normal sex---with Vladimir himself taking the stumbling initiative.
For until now Vladimir's dreams and fancies in this respect had been fairly ordinary. He had even entertained fantasies of being alone with his aunt---of smothering himself in her soft breasts, her white body---and had not found them especially abhorrent or shameful---not before.
But now he had seen! Any innocence his fantasies might have contained was gone now, wrenched out of him. What could there possibly be of normal, healthy sex now? Was there any such thing? He had seen, yes.
Downstairs in this very house he'd seen three women (he could not longer think of his cousins as girls) coupling with a seemingly inexhaustible beast. He had seen the beast's great pole of lusting flesh. And should he compare himself with that? Did he as a male even exist after that? A twig against a branch? And must he be a party to orgies such as that---like one small hare amongst a pack of hounds? The mere thought of contact with the beast was sickening!
These had been his thoughts as his cousins came looking for him where he lay wrapped in sheets and blankets, absolutely still and breathless in his bed. He'd heard them enter, had tried not to twitch when Olga had giggled throatily and asked: "Vladimir, are you awake?"
"Is he? Is he?" Cosmina had eagerly wanted to know.
"No, I don't think so." (Disappointed.)
"But---his light is on!"
"Vladimir?" (Olga's weight pressing down on his bed beside him.) "Are you sure you're asleep?"
Feigning sleep, his heart pounding, Vladimir had turned a little where he lay, grumbled, said: "Wha---? What? Go away. I'm tired."
It was a mistake. Both of them giggled now, their voices still coarse and lust-filled. "Vladimir, won't you play a game with us?" said Cosmina. "Stick your head out, at least. We've something....." (more giggles) "----something to show you!"
He couldn't breathe. He'd tugged his bedclothes so close and tight that he'd shut out the air. He would have to come out in a moment, whether he wanted to or not. "Please go away and let me sleep."
"Vladimir" (Olga again, and a vision of her with her dainty hands on the beast's belly, jolting up and down on that pink pole) "If we put the lights out will you come out?"
For a moment---the merest moment---a gulp of air---just long enough to fill his lungs! "Yes," he had gasped.
Then he'd heard the click of the light switch and felt Olga stand up, lifting her weight from his bed. "There, it's out!"
It was out, as Vladimir discovered a moment later when, having struggled to free his head, he thrust it into darkness and breathed air deeply into his starved lungs---and almost gagged!
And at once, with more giggles from across the room, the light came on again.
Which of the girls it was, he couldn't tell, but one of them had been standing beside his bed with her loose cassock thing over his head like a tent. The musty smell of the body had been beating into his face, and he had seen the dark V of her pubic patch dewed with a string of milky semen pearls. The light through her garment wasn't good, but it was good enough for Vladimir to see, when she deliberately bowed her legs outward a little, what looked to him like the parting of that patch into a greedy vertical grin!
"There!" Vladimir had dimly remembered a husky voice saying, through a rising gale of coarse laughter. "And didn't we tell you we had something to show you?"
But that was all that was said, for suddenly beside himself in a panic of loathing, that was when Vladimir had lashed out. Later he remembered little of it---only the giggles turning to screams, and the dull pain in his fists and skinned knuckles----but he did remember how, the next day, his tormentors had kept well away from him; and how both of them had sported blue bruises, while Olga had a split lip and Cosmina a great black eye! Maybe his aunt had been right to liken him to a lettuce---in one direction. But for tenacity and ferocity---Vladimir had lacked neither one.
That next day had been nightmarish. Exhausted after a night of wakefulness, barricaded in his room against all entreaty to come out, Vladimir had had to suffer his aunt's wrath and (from a safe distance) the accusations of her perverted daughters. Aunt Helga wouldn't feed him, starving him for punishment, and swore that she would complain to his father if he didn't come to his sense at once. By that she meant that he should come out of his room and talk to her, apologize to the girls, and generally pretend that nothing had happened. He would have none it, remaining in his room except for short and hurried excursions to the toilet and bathroom, determined that before nightfall he would flee the house and make his way back to Bucharest.
The only trouble with that scheme was that his father was bound to find out and would want to know why, and Vladimir would just not be able to tell him. He'd never been an easy man to speak to, and this---this had been simply unbelievable. And even then, assuming his stepfather did believe and accepted all that had happened, mightn't there be doubts about Vladimir's own---participation? His active, maybe his willing participation.....
There were other difficulties, too. Vladimir had no money and no arrangements had been made for him at the college. Which was why, when evening came around again and when his aunt's threats turned to pleading, he had dragged his bed and dresser away from the door and allowed her to take him downstairs.
She was sorry, she said, that the girls had teased him so badly the night before, and that he'd been so alarmed What they could possibly have done to offend him so---that should have reacted so violently---was quite beyond her powers of understanding. But whatever, it was all over now and Vladimir should try to forget it. It could only cause trouble between herself and her brother if he learned of it---whatever it had been. Oh, yes, for he always blamed her for everything.
Vladimir had quietly agreed with her. It'd cause trouble, yes---and eve more so if there should be mention of the beast! But his aunt didn't know he knew about that, and it was best that she shouldn't. Otherwise----the entire charade would fall apart. Anyway, the satyr was no longer in the house and Vladimir had hoped he wouldn't be back; Aunt Helga had fed Vladimir, and later he'd heard her telling Olga and Cosmina to leave him completely alone, that he wasn't for them, and this must all be handled very delicately; the thing had seemed to be finished with, for which Vladimir had been grateful.
Until that night.....
Exhausted, Vladimir had slept in his bed against the door, his own weight replacing that of the dresser; but that had not been sufficient. At about 3:00 A.M., aware of some kind of erratic, intermittent motion, he had come half-awake to hear his aunt's voice clumsily hushing and lulling him back to sleep, or at least attempting to. Her voice had been slurred and her breathing very heavy; she had been drinking, and was naked, as he discovered when he put out his hand in the darkness. That had instantly shocked him fully awake, aware that this insatiable woman was trying to get into bed with him. And at that, immediately and like a cool, salving hand on his hot brow, an icy anger had come over him to oust and completely replace all fear.
"Aunt Helga," he had said into the darkness, sitting up and averting his face from the booze on her breath, "please put the light on."
"Ah! Dear boy! You're awake and want to see me. But---why! I've been to bed, Vladimir, and I'm afraid I've no clothes on. So hot, these summer nights! I got up for a little drink of water, and must've stumbled in here by accident." As she finished speaking, her breasts had brushed his face.
Gritting his teeth and again turning his face away, Vladimir had repeated, "Put on the light."
"But that's very naughty of you, Vladimir!" she'd girlishly pretended to protest, at the same time finding the light switch. And momentarily dazzled, there she had stood quite naked where she'd forced the bed back from the open door. And smiling a little drunkenly at him, which had the effect of making her look utterly stupid and disgusting, she'd moved towards him and reached out her arms.
Then, seeing that he was fully dressed, and for the first time noting the strange look on his face, her hand had flown to her mouth. "Vladimir, I..."
"Auntie," he had swung his legs out of bed and slipped his feet into his shoes, "you will get out of this room now, please, and stay out. If you do not, I shall leave, and if the door downstairs is locked then I'll break a window. Then, as soon as I'm able, I shall tell my stepfather just what goes on in this house, and..."
"Goes on?" she was sobering up rapidly, trying to catch hold of his hand, beginning to look worried.
"About the men who come here, to fuck you and my cousins---like the great bulls which service my stepfather's cows!"
"Why, you----!" She had staggered back from him, her eyes wild in a suddenly white face. "You saw!"
"Get out!" Vladimir had sneered at her then, a withering look which he would employ from that time forward when dealing with women, and tried to thrust her from the door.
At that her eyes had narrowed to slits and she'd spat at him: "So that's the way it is, eh? The big boys at the college got to you first, did they? You like them better than girls, do you?"
Vladimir had turned towards the window then, picking up a chair. "Go on," he'd snapped, "out! Or I leave at once, right now. And not only will I tell my father, but also every policeman I meet between here and Bucharest. I'll tell them about the library or filthy books you keep----which alone might get you a term in prison----and about your daughters, who are little more than girls and already worse than whores...."
"Whores?" she had cut him off with such a hiss that he'd thought she would fly at him.
"---but who could never be as totally rotten as you!" he'd finished.
Then she'd broken down, bursting into tears and letting him shove her from the room without further protest. And for the rest of the night he'd slept soundly and completely undisturbed.
That had been the end of it. At midday the next day, while Vladimir was enjoying his lunch in silence and on his own, his stepfather had arrived to take him home. The trouble with the animals was over; it had not been so serious after all, thank God! Never had Vladimir been so glad to see anyone in his whole life, and he'd had to fight hard not to show it too much. While he got his things together, Aunt Helga spent an apparently cordial if careful half-hour with her brother, who made a point of asking after his nieces, neither of them being present. Then, with brief farewells, Vladimir and his stepfather had left to begin their trip back into the country.
At the gate as they got into the care, Aunt Helga had managed to catch Vladimir's eye. Her look, just for a second, before she began to wave them goodbye, was pleading. Her eyes begged his silence. In answer he had once more shown her that sneer, that look far worse than any snarl or threat, which said more of what he thought of her than any thousand words ever could.
In any event, he had never spoken of that awful visit to anyone. Nor would he ever, not even to the thing in the ground.
The thing in the ground----the old demon----the Wamphyr.370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcVkarAkhw8
He was waiting (what else could he do but wait?) when Dragan arrived in the gloomy glade of the tomb just before dusk with another piglet in a sack. He was awake, angry, lying there in the ground and fuming. And as the sun's rim touched the rim of the world and the far horizon turned to blood, he was the first to speak:
Dragan? I smell you, Dragan! And have you come to torment me? With more questions and demands? Would you steal my secrets, Dragan? Little by little, piece by piece, until there's nothing left of me? And then what? When I lie here in the cold earth, how will you reward me? With the blood of a pig? Ahaaaa! I see it's so. Another piglet---for one who had bathed in the blood of men and virgins and armies! Often!
"Blood's blood, old demon," Dragan answered. "And I note you're more agile tonight for what you drank last night."
For what I drank? (Scorn, but real or fake?) No, the earth is the richer, Dragan, not these ancient bones.
"I don't believe you!"
And I don't care! Go, leave me be, you dishonor me. I have nothing for you and will have nothing from you. I do not wish to talk. Begone!
Dragan grinned. "I've brought you another pig, yes---for you or the earth, whichever---but there's something more, something rare. Except....."
The old one was interested, intrigued. Except?
Dragan shrugged. "Maybe it's been too long. Maybe you're not up to it. Maybe it's impossible....even for you. For after all, what are you but a dead thing?" And before the other could object: "Or an undead thing, if you insist."
I do insist----Are you taunting me, Dragan? What is it you bright me this night? What would you give me? What do you----propose?
"Maybe it's more what we can give each other."
"Speak."
Dragan told him what was in his mind, exactly what it was he was willing to share.
And you would trade? What would you have from me in return for this----sharing? (Dragan could almost sense the Wamphyr licking its lips.)
"Knowledge," Dragan answered at once. "I'm just a man, with a man's knowledge of women," he lied, "and...." He paused in confusion, for the old one was chuckling! It had been a mistake to lie to him.
Oh? A man's knowledge of women? A "complete" man's knowledge, eh, Dragan?
He gritted his teeth, choked out: 'There hasn't been time----my work, studies----the opportunity hasn't arisen."
Time? Studies? Opportunity? Dragan, you are not a child. I was eleven when I tore through my first maidenhead, a thousand years ago. After that---virgin, bitch, whore, what did it matter? I had them all, in all ways---and always wanted more! And you? You have not tasted? You have not soaked yourself in the sweat and the juice and the hot sweet blood of a woman? Not one? And you call me a dead thing!
The old one laughed then, laughed uproariously, outrageously, obscenely. He found it all so ecstatically ridiculous! His laughter went on and on, became a deluge, a tidal wave, a howling ocean of laughter in Dragan's head, threatening to drown him.
"Damn you!" He stood up and stamped on the earth, spat on it. "Damn you!" He shook his knotted fists at the black soil and tumbled slabs. "Damn you, damn you, damn you!"
The old one was quiet in a moment, oozing like some nightmare slug in Dragan's mind. After a little while, he said, I'm already damned my son. Yes, and so are you.....
Dragan snatched out his knife, reached for the stunned piglet.
Wait! Not so hasty, Dragan. I have not refused. But tell me: since it would seem that like some puny priest you've abstained for all these long years. Why now?
Dragan thought about it, decided he might as well tell the truth. The old demon in the ground had probably seen through him, anyway. "It's the woman. She aggravates me, taunts me, flaunts her flesh."
Ahhhh! I know the sort.
"Also, I believe she thinks I've been with me---or at least she's wondered about it."
Like the Turks? The old one's mental response was sharp and tinged with hatred. That is an insult!
"I agree," Dragan nodded. "So---will you do it?"
You are inviting me into your mind, am I correct? Tonight, when this woman comes to you?"
"Yes."
And it is as an invitation, made of your own free will?
Dragan grew wary. "Just this once," he answered. "It will have no permanence."
Again you flatter yourself, the other chuckled. I have---or will have---my own body, Dragan, which is nothing so weak as yours!
"And you can do it? And I will learn from it?"
Oh, I can do it, my son, yeeesssss! Have you forgotten the fledgling? And did you learn something that time, too? Who made you a necromancer, Dragan? Yes, and this time you will learn---much!
"Then I want nothing more from you---for now, anyway." He began to back away from the tomb, moving downhill, away from that place of centuried horror. And----
But what of the piglet? asked the thickly gluttonous voice in his head. And more hurriedly: For the earth, Dragan, for the earth.
In the deep, unquiet gloom, Dragan narrowed his eyes. "Oh, yes, I very nearly forgot," he said, his tone not quite sarcastic. "The piglet, of course. For the earth...." Quickly he returned, slit the insensate animal's throat, tossed its pink body down. And then, without looking back, he made silently away.
A little way down the slope, against the bole of a tree where great roots forked, trapped there and unable to roll any farther, he saw something strange and stooped to pick it up. It was last night's offering, or what remained of it. A tightly interwoven ball of pink skin and crushed bones, all dry as crumpled cardboard. A beetle crawled on it, seeking in vain for some morsel of sustenance. Dragan let it fall and roll out of sight.
Oh, yes, he thought---but guarded his thoughts carefully there in the darkness beneath the pines----oh, yes. For the earth. Only for the earth....
Dragan returned to the Rudolf place in time to eat supper with the family again; for the last time, though he couldn't know that then. During the meal Zsa-Zsa showed little to no interest in him, which was as well for he felt tense and on edge. He wasn't sure he'd done the correct thing; the old demon in the ground was no fool and had stressed that this would be at Dragan's own invitation; his old revulsion was gradually mounting in him as the time approached; but at the same time his body ached for release from years of sexual self-denial. For the first time since his arrival here the food seemed tasteless to him, and even the beer was flat and lifeless.370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡie64knLXhM
Later, in his room, he paced and fantasized, growing ever more angry with himself and fretful as the hours slipped by. For the third or fourth time since supper he took out the half-dozen volumes he'd brought with him on vampirism, read through the relevant passages, but the books away again, out of sight in a suitcase. According to legend, one must never accept any invitation from a vampire; and, equally important, one must never invite a vampire to do anything! In this the conscious will of the victim (by accepting or making an invitation) was all-important. It meant in effect that it was his decision to be a victim. The will was like a barrier in the mind of the victim which the vampire was reluctant, even unable, to surmount without the aid of the victim himself. Or maybe, psychologically, it was a barrier the victim must surmount: before he could become a victim, he must first believe......
In Dragan's case it was a question of the depth of his belief. He knew the thing in the ground was there, so that didn't come into it. But as yet he did not know what power---or the extent of the power----the creature could exert externally. Maybe even more important, now that he had "invited it in," as it were, he didn't know the limits of his own resistance, or if he would be able to resist at all. Or if he would want to.....
Well, doubtless he would find out soon enough.
The hour between midnight and 1:00 A.M. passed incredibly slowly, and as the trysting time approached Dragan began to hope that Zsa-Zsa would think better of it and stay away. She might be sound asleep even now, with no intention of meeting him here. It could just be a game she played with all her father's guests---to make them look and feel foolish! In fact, she might well feel the same way about men as Dragan---until now---had been caused to feel about women.
A half-dozen and more times the thought had come to him that she was making an utter fool of him, and each time he'd gone to the open window to close it and draw his moon-silvered curtains. But on every occasion he had paused, something had stopped him, and he'd snarled silently at his own incompetence in this thing and gone back to sit on his bed in the darkness of the room.
Now, at two minutes past the hour, cursing himself for a buffoon and rushing to the window yet again, he was on the point of slamming it shut when----
Down there in the moonlit farmyard, making its way like a shadow amongst shadows, a figure, dark and gauzy, fleeting---and Zsa-Zsa's bedroom window open a little way, seeming to smile up at him with her face, her knowing eyes. She was coming!
God, how Dragan needed the old one now! And how he didn't want him. Did he need him, really? But---dare he make do without him?
Elation vied with terror in Dragan and was very nearly overwhelmed at the first past. Terror born not alone of the tryst itself, nor even the purpose of the tryst, but maybe more out of his own (in)ability (?) to carry it through. He was a man now, yes, but in matters like this still a boy. The only flesh he'd known, whose secrets he'd delved, had been cold and dead and unwilling. But this was live and hot and all too willing!
Revulsion climbed higher in him, coursed through him like a flood. He'd been a boy---just a boy---pictures filled his head in bestial procession, which he had thought were forgotten, thrust out---the visit to his aunt's house---his cousins---the beast-thing which he knew had only been a rotting man! God, that---had---been---a----nightmare!
And was it to be like that all over again? And himself the lusting, slavering beast?
Impossible! He couldn't!
He heard the creak of a stair down in the bowels of the guesthouse, flew to the window and stared wild-eyed out into the night. Another creak, closer, sent him flying to the light switch. She was out there, on the landing, coming to his door!
A gust of wind moaned into the room, billowing the curtains, striking at---into---Dragan's heart. In a moment all fear, all uncertainty was gone. He stepped out of the moonlight into shadow and waited.
The door opened quietly and she came in. Trapped in a shaft of moonlight the gray veil-like garment she wore was almost transparent. She closed the door behind her, moved towards the bed.
"Herr Dragan?" she said, her voice trembling just a little.
"I'm here," he answered from the shadows.
She heard but didn't look his way. "So----I was wrong about you," she said, raising her arms and drawing off the gauzy shift. Her breasts and ass were marble where the moon touched them.
"Yessss," he whispered, stepping forward.
"Well," now she turned to him, "here I am!"
She stood like a statue carved of milk, gazing at him with nothing at all of innocence. He came forward, a dark silhouette, reaching for her. In daylight she had thought his eyes a trifle weak, a watery blue---a soft, almost feminine, filmstar blue---but now...
The night suited him. In the night his eyes were feral----like those of a great wolf. And as he bore her down onto the bed, only then did she feel the first niggling doubt in the back of her mind. His strength was----incredible!
"I was very, very wrong about you," she said.
"Aaaaahhhh! said Dragan.370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkCFZbYlU1J
The following morning, Dragan called for his breakfast early. He took it in his room, where Zobor Rudolf found him looking (and feeling) more fully alive than he had thought possible The country air must really agree with him. Zsa-Zsa, on the other hand, was not so fortunate.
Dragan didn't need to ask about her: her father was full of it, grumbling to himself as he served up a substantial breakfast on a tray. "That woman," he said, "my Zsa-Zsa is a good strong girl----or should be. But ever since her operation...." and he had shrugged.
"Operation?" Dragan had tried not to seem too interested.
"Yes. Six years ago. Cancer. Very bad for a young girl. Her womb. So they took it away. That's good, she lives. But this is farming country. A man wants a wife who'll give him children, you know? So, she'll be an old maid----maybe. Or maybe she'll go and get a job in the city. Strong sons are not so important there."
It explained something, possibly. "I see," Dragan nodded, and, carefully: "But this morning....?"
"Sometimes she doesn't feel too goo, even now. Not often. But today she's not really up to much. So, she stays in her room for a day or two. Curtains drawn, dark room, all wrapped up in her bed, shivering. Just like when she was a little girl and sick. She says she doesn't want a doctor, but...." he shrugged again. "---I worry about her."
"Don't," said Dragan. "I mean, don't worry about her."
"What?" Rudolf looked surprised.
"She's a full-grown woman. She'll know what's best for her. Rest, quiet, a nice dark room. Those are the right things. They're all I need when I'm a bit down."
"Hmm! Well, maybe. But still it's troubling. And a lot of work to be done, too! The British come today."
"Oh?" Dragan was glad that the other had changed the subject. "Maybe I'll meet them tonight."
Rudolf nodded, looked gloomy. He gathered up the empty tray. "Difficult. I don't know a lot of British. What I know I learned from tourists."
"I know some British," said Dragan. "I can get by."
"Ah? Well, at least they'll have somebody to talk to. Anyway, they bring good money---and money talks, yes?" he managed a chuckle. "Enjoy your breakfast, Herr Dragan."
"I'm sure I will."
Beginning to grumble again under his breath, Rudolf left the garret room and made his way downstairs. Later, when Dragan went out, both Zobor and Csilla were readying the lower rooms for their expected British guests.
*****
By noon Dragan had driven into Pitesti. He didn't know why exactly, except that he remembered the town had a small but very comprehensive reference library. Whether or not he would've gone to the library---or what he would've done there---is academic. The question didn't arise for he was not given the chance to go there; the local police found him first.
Alarmed at first and imagining all kinds of things (worst of all, that he'd been watched and followed, and that his secret---concerning the old demon in the ground----had been discovered), he calmed down as soon as he found out what the trouble really was: that Katin Semyonovich had been trying to track I'm down since the day he left Moscow and finally had succeeded. It was a wonder Dragan hadn't been stopped at the border where he'd crossed into Romania at Reni. The local law had tracked him to Ionestasi, from there to Rudolf's, finally to Pitesti. In fact, it was his Volga they'd tracked: there weren't many of those in Romania, not with Moscow plates.
Finally the policeman in charge of the patrol vehicle which had stopped him apologized for any inconvenience and gave Dragan a "message"---which was just Semyonovich's Moscow telephone number, the secure line. Dragan went with them at once to the police station and phoned from there.
On the other end of the line, Semyonovich came right to the point: "Vlad, get back here a.s.a.p."
"What is it?"
"A member of the staff at the American embassy has had an accident while touring. A fatal accident: wrecked his car and gutted himself. We haven't identified him yet---not officially, anyway----but we'll have to do so soon. Then the Americans will want his body. I want you to see him first---in your, er, specialist capacity...."
"Oh? What's so important about him?"
"For some time now we've suspected him and one of our two others of spying. CIA, most likely. If he's one of a network, it's something we should know about. So get back quickly, will you?"
"I'm on my way."
Back at Rudolf's Dragan tossed his things into the car, paid what he owed and a little more, thanked Zobor and Csilla and accepted sandwiches, a flask of coffee and a bottle of local wine. But for all that they gave him these parting gifts, it was obvious that Zobor had some misgivings about him.
"You told me you were a mortician," he complained. "The police laughed when I told them that! They said you're a big man in Moscow, an important man. It seems a great shame that an important man would want to make a fool out of a fellow countryman---an unimportant man!"
"I'm sorry about that, my friend," said Dragan. "But I am an important man and my job is very special----and very tiring. When I come home I like to forget my work completely and just take it easy, and so I became a mortician. Please forgive me."
That seemed to suffice; Zobor Rudolf grinned and they shook hands, and then Dragan got into his car.
From behind her drawn curtains Zsa-Zsa watched him drive away and breathed a sigh of relief. It was unlikely she'd ever meet another like him, and maybe that was as well, but....
Her bruises were blooming now but would soon fade, and anyway she could always say she suffered a dizzy bout, tripped and fallen. The bruises would disappear, yes, but not the memory of how she'd gotten them.
She sighed again---and shivered deliciously.
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