Traces of the past

20. Garitha

Dracula POV

Time flew like a mosquito and it was finally time for my visit. Petrov suggested I get dressed like a peasant, but it was too much for me to take in. A peasant? Me, to look like a peasant?

So I listened to him, realizing I will have bigger problems if people recognized me, then me getting on the lower level.

The night was freezing, Petrov told me; he also told me to dress accordingly as it would seem strange if I just appear out of nowhere on the streets, dressed in a simple shirt, walking on the village trail.

After listening to his mother-like nagging, I was finally out, under the moon, alone with myself. 

And I had a lot to think about.

Reth...

I actually made him...I bit my lips to keep a laugh. He really got...Another laugh swallowed.

The whole situation was amusing to me, even if I had yet to find the reason. He spreading his legs onto the sheets, gripping them in pleasure like a wild cat, the sounds he made opening his mouth, almost like a kid waiting for a treat...

Stop! 

These thoughts might end ruining my plan for tonight, a more likely scenario than being sorted out. What was to sort out from a man getting pleasured by me, anyway? It was not the first time.

Men like him were just chess pieces, a little usage here and there. And by men like him, I mean men that give themselves to me.

How lucky! I didn't even have to force them, or torture them; they came into my arms like flies to honey. 

My face must be the reason, or my body, maybe? Anyway, I was good-looking. 

With these thoughts, I woke up in front of the old cemetery and realized I forgot to look in the mirror when I left the castle.

It's dark anyway, you donkey. The hell will break out soon, who do you think will take a look at your face?

Yeah right...Now let's get into business!

Checking one more time to make sure I did not attract any attention with the brown cape I was wearing and that was almost covering my entire attire, I pushed the wooden gate at the entrance; a gate that could not even be called a gate. It was more like a wooden square filled with boards.

In the cemetery, between the inclined big crosses that marked every tomb, some still standing straight, some almsot touching the ground, I was able to distinguish a few shadows.

They must have already gathered.

It was good that these days no snow cloud showed its face on our sky, otherwise none of these women, I could tell, by the waving of their skirts, would be standing so proudly over their dead ancestors, waiting to speak to a witch. From what I remembered, the grandmas never dared to leave their huts, their bones hurt too much.

The plague must have scared them more than the cold would.

The shadows moved slowly, so I counted them: No more than seven brave ladies, very well dressed, with, I assume, ten pairs of baticuri.

No light was showing, though. Just the moon assisting from above.

I wrapped the soft fabric of my cape around my body, hoping it would make me feel smaller and eyed a spot behind the biggest tree, that was luckily very near to the ritual site.

As soon as I saw myself sheltered, I started watching with intrigue. The ladies stood separated, two of them were engaging in strong gossip, another five were trying to remember the spells, while standing in a circle, and the last two almost looked like arguing.