Magia Posthuma ✓

Twenty Nine

When the final rays of daylight retreated and gave way to dusk, Vlad appeared on the square. Once the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, the light began to fade quickly – the hazy, golden puddles of sunset over the cobbles and on the rooftops almost instantly evaporating into shadow.

He'd promised Irina that he'd stay away – that he'd allow her plan to play out to completion and that he'd allow her to protect his identity – but when his blue eyes had opened to the stone ceiling of Poenari's undercroft, a sense of dread that he'd rarely experienced in his lengthy afterlife crawled over him like coffin flies.

He'd raced to the top of the tower and gazed over the twilight-touched landscape – from the snow-capped lower Carpathians to the north, over the piqué quilt of pine forests to the rooftops of Hermannstadt to the west. When he breathed in the cool evening air, he breathed in the familiar smell of Poenari – of the dust and the fire-damaged beams sunk into the snow, and the faint lingering perfume of everything that it had once been before – and when he cast the net out further, he could smell the road below and the waking forests lining it. He could smell wolves on the prowl and weeds floating in the lake, and two hounds snoozing in his bed – but no Irina.

After plonking down a golden serving bowl full of icy lake water for them to drink, he'd insisted that they sleep on the floor – on an old bear skin rug that he'd pulled out of storage for them – but as soon as one defied his orders and leapt up into the bed, the other one had followed. They'd slept like stones beside him – two very warm, very heavy stones – and surprisingly, he hadn't hated it. He'd found that the scent of their mistress clung pleasantly to their fur.

Irina. He left immediately, and as soon as he'd stepped onto the square, he could smell her. That heady perfume of rosewater and tobacco. And blood. Panic seized him as he followed a strengthening trail of it from the Governor's Palace all the way to the doors of the Jesuit Church on the other side of the square – where he stopped and waited, listening to the mumbled chatter coming from inside.

"...You know, I was hoping you would show up," a woman purred from behind.

Vlad turned towards the owner of the voice; towards a woman dressed in an elegant pink, satin gown, with more precious stones dangling from her ears and neck than a crystal chandelier, and a tri-corn hat perched neatly on top of a cloud of pinned blonde curls. She was flanked by two men – two guards who were wrapped in furs and resembled bears in height and brawn.

The woman marvelled at him – her blue eyes wide. "...It is you," she gasped, holding a gloved hand to her lips as her gaze strolled his body from brow to boots. She raised an eyebrow, "Your style's altered slightly, I admit. To be expected, I suppose; after all, it has been over a century – but I do miss the pearls – I've always been fond of men who wear their wealth. Your hair's a little longer, perhaps... but no, it is you."

Vlad observed her without emotion as she took a step towards him, swinging her hips playfully.

She stopped in front of him – peering up at him through her lashes. "...Vladislaus Drăculea," she whispered in amazement.

Vlad looked down at her. "...I don't believe I've had the pleasure, my lady."

The woman scoffed and rolled her eyes. "The pleasure? Oh, you have, believe me," she drawled as she turned and walked away. "All the pleasure."

"...Carmelia, I presume," Vlad guessed.

The woman swirled suddenly and grinned – the ruffled hems of her petal-pink skirts rustling against the cobbles. "Oh, so you do remember me!"