Dracul (3 page)

Maybe Constantine’s talking to himself. I’m not going to judge him. If he takes away the bats, he can be a total loony for all I care.

But seriously, those are voices. Men’s voices. Is Constantine talking to someone?

Be careful.

What’s he doing up there, anyway? Is he even up there, for sure? I don’t know. For all I know, he could be robbing me blind while I hide behind this door.

I’ve got to see for myself.

Don’t worry. I’m only going to open the door a tiny crack so I can hear better, and maybe see.

But the men are shouting now, threatening words in a language I don’t understand, though I can hear much better with the door cracked open. To be honest, I’m not sure for
sure
that there’s more than one person.

I turn my head to peek through the door crack.

The attic is dark.

Is he even up there?

Crashing noises answer my question. He’s up there, banging around, thumping into the walls. It almost sounds like he’s fighting somebody.

And yelling at them. Still in that language I don’t know. I’m pretty fluent in a lot of things—English, of course, and Azeri. I can carry on conversations in German and Russian, and ask for the
baño
in Spanish, but the words being shouted in my attic are none of those.

Now the yelling stops. There are a few more thumps, followed by silence.

I hear slow steps across the attic floor, then Constantine’s black leather lace-up boots appear. Before I see more than the bottom half of his jeans, I push the door silently closed.

He never needs to know I peeked.

“The coast is clear.” There’s no hint of Constantine’s accent in those four words. If anything, he’s inserted a bit of forced Montana cowboy casualness into his speech.

I open the door to confront him. “What was all that shouting?”

“You heard that?” He flashes me an almost sheepish look as he closes up the attic hatch, then turns his back to me and heads for the stairs.

“It was kind of hard to miss.” I follow him down to the ground floor. “It almost sounded like there was someone up there.”

“Just bats.”

“You talked to them?”

“I had to convince them to leave. They weren’t eager to go.”

“Do they have rabies?”

“No.” He turns to face me, and for the first time since he came down from the attic, I can see his face clearly.

“You have blood on your face.”

“Don’t touch it.” Constantine hurries to the kitchen and pulls several paper towels off the roll by the sink.

“Why not?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Do you think you might have rabies?”

“No.”

“Aids?”

Constantine has wiped most of the blood from his face, and folds the used paper towels into a tight wad, cramming them into his jacket pocket. “Something like that. My blood is dangerous. I don’t think I lost any in your attic, but to be safe, don’t go up there. I will retrace my steps and make sure I didn’t drip anywhere.” He gives me wide berth as he exits the kitchen.

I follow at a distance. Blood doesn’t scare me. I like my steaks rare, and my mom taught me how to butcher meat from a young age.

It’s not the blood that’s creepy.

There’s something weird about Constantine.

Not that he looks weird, or anything. He’s studying the stairs, looking for blood, as he heads back to make sure he didn’t leave any traces behind.

I’m studying him, trying to figure out what’s so strange about him.

His nose is a little big. Not crazy big or ugly big, just sort of on the largish, prominent side, and kind of hooked near the tip, like an eagle’s beak.

It fits his face, though. He has a broad forehead, high cheekbones, a full, wide mouth that I have yet to see bend into anything brighter than the somber smile he gave me when we parted ways this morning. That was a guarded look, like he was trying to decide whether to tell me something.

That’s
what’s so weird, isn’t it?

The man is full of secrets, things that either don’t make sense or don’t add up.

There’s something strange about him, something more foreign than the accent he’s tried with limited success to hide.

What’s he doing here, getting rid of my bats for me?

What’s he after, really?

Chapter Three

“The bats should be gone for good,” Constantine assures me as he descends the stairs, his steps deceptively light for a guy of his size. He’s smooth. Most guys my age are still getting used to their recently-expanded proportions, especially anyone of his height. But he seems at ease in his frame.

How old is he?

He skips the bottom step and lands gracefully on both feet, pivoting to face me. “If they give you any further trouble, call me.”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“I live just up the street. It’s no trouble.”

“They’re mostly only active in the middle of the night.” I’m not going to lie. I’m studying his face as we talk, trying to sort out what’s driving him, why he’s after these bats in the first place. Personally, I don’t like being awakened in the middle of the night for anything—certainly not to rush outside in the freezing cold to pursue a flying rodent for a near-stranger.

So why is Constantine so eager to do so?

He’s studying my face in return. “I don’t care what hour it is. If you hear them, call me. I will come.” He nods sharply and steps toward the front door.

I step after him. “Why?”

“Why?” He lifts an eyebrow. How did I miss noting that feature? The man has eyebrows like wings—lofty, jet-black arrows jutting skyward.

“Why do you care so much about the bats?”

“They are dangerous.” His hand is on the doorknob now.

“Because of rabies?” I ask for what must be the fifth or sixth time today.

Constantine exhales slowly. “What these bats have…” He turns the doorknob, pinches his lips together tightly, and closes his eyes. When he snaps his lids open, he speaks in a rushed whisper. “It is worse than rabies.”

And just like that, he has the door open, he’s through and gone, the door closed before the gusting February wind can chase any chill inside.

Still, I’m shivering. Totally not from the cold outside, but from the shudder that gripped my spine when Constantine spoke.

Does he not know how bad rabies is?

I googled it. Rabies is crazy bad. And I read a lot of comprehensive articles on the subject, some of which outlined other bat diseases. None of them mentioned a disease that was worse than rabies.

You’d think, if there was such a thing, it would have come up.

*

I don’t want to go back upstairs. I mean, I feel confident Constantine got all the blood cleaned up, and if you think about it, now that he chased the bats away, I should be safer tonight than I have been in days and even weeks.

It’s just that I’m creeped out being home alone with the lingering chill of Constantine’s words.

Not that I’m scared, or anything.

What really frightens me, is not finding another primary source so I can ace my history class and graduate with honors. I’m studying with a kind of desperation I didn’t realize was possible. I’m sitting on one of the hard kitchen chairs, shoulders hunched over my open books, pouring over the bibliographies of every Dracula book I own, searching for another primary source, though none seems to exist.

I mean, there are historical sources that date to the fourteen hundreds which give passing mention to Vlad Dracul. Some even have whole sections on him. Those are helpful supportive sources, but they can’t be one of my three main ones because they don’t provide any new or unique information. They’re the medieval equivalents of cut-and-pasted quotes from the other two sources.

My professor knows the difference. She devoted a large chunk of an entire lecture to explaining why those kinds of sources don’t count, and how much we’ll get our grades docked if we try to pass them off as though they do.

So it’s nearly midnight and I’m studying in the kitchen, when I see a shadow flit across the corner of my field of vision.

I look up. Oh, of course, there’s a lamp on in the living room. No biggie. The shadow must have come from something flying close to the lamp.

Something flying?

I swallow, and lower my pencil quietly onto my notepad, my eyes glued to the living room doorway, or what little of it I can see from my chair.

The kitchen table sits tight against the same wall as the door between the kitchen and the living room, so I’m way off to the side. I can’t see much more than a sliver of the room.

But I can listen. I strain my ears, searching for the distinctive flutter of wings.

Creaking floorboards.

There’s no mistaking it. I may be living alone now, but I shared this house with my mom and sisters for long enough to know what footfalls sounds like in the next room, even when the person making the sound is deliberately trying to be quiet and walk slowly, as is the case with whatever—whoever—is in the next room.

I reach for my phone and rise silently to my feet.

Today has not been a good day. It’s been the kind of day that makes me wonder what good it does me to be a dragon if I’m not going to use any of my dragon powers.

Granted, in full dragon form I won’t really fit in this kitchen.

But I don’t have to assume full dragon form to grow talons or horns, or even defensive armor scales. While I don’t dare breathe much more than a tiny flame of fire inside the house (resale value, you know), there’s still plenty I can do to defend myself.

In two silent steps I round the table, expecting to see an intruder, maybe even the guy who stole my backpack this morning.

But the living room looks empty.

No, not empty.

There’s a bat on the light fixture.

My swords are upstairs. I’m not supposed to breathe fire indoors. And frankly, the potentially-rabid critter gives me the creeps. I just want it gone, and last I checked, I’m not supposed to kill it myself. Like it or not, I’m left with little choice.

With a swipe of my fingers, I find the recent calls on my phone and return call to sender.

Constantine sounds wide awake when he answers. “Yes?”

“There’s a bat in my living room.”

“Meet me at your front door in one minute. Keep a close eye on it. Don’t let it get away.”

“Got it.” I stare down the bat as I cross the room to the front door. I can hear Constantine’s boots echo against the front walk. That was way less than a minute. He bounds up the stoop in time to rush in as I open the door for him.

“Where?”

“There.” I point to the light fixture.

Empty.

“It was just there on the light fixture. I only took my eyes away for long enough to open the door—”

“We’ll find it.” Maybe it’s because he’s focused on hunting the bat, but Constantine’s Eastern European accent, though faint, is once again detectable.

Immediately, Constantine starts scanning the room, pulling the throw pillows off the couch and fluttering the window curtains.

The room is sparsely decorated. I’m planning to move out at the end of the semester, so I’ve taken things back home on every trip I’ve traveled. I’m down to bare essentials here, mostly books.

In fact, there isn’t much in the room at all besides the furniture and my open backpack sitting where I left it on a dining room chair (the dining room isn’t actually a different room—just the end of the living room nearest the kitchen).

Is the bag actually where I left it?

That’s so weird. I could have sworn I’d leaned my bag with the heavy books resting against the chair back, but now it’s slumped forward on the seat.

While Constantine crawls on his hands and knees to peer under the sofa and loveseat, I head for the backpack and circle it warily.

I really don’t want to touch it if there could be a bat in there.

But come on, what are the odds a bat would have flown in there? This is silly. I’m just going to check the bag, rule it out—

“Don’t touch that!”

I jump at Constantine’s words.

He asks, “Do you think the bat flew in there?”

“Probably not, but where else could it have gone? I guess maybe the kitchen. Or upstairs.” I swallow back the taste of fear. I hate fear. I’m a dragon. I’m supposed to inspire fear, not have it inflicted upon me.

Constantine rounds the couch swiftly and extends his hands toward the bag. “I’ll check it. I’m wearing gloves.”

Indeed, he’s got on leather gloves that look like they could resist a bite from an animal far bigger than a bat. Other than the gloves, though, he’s hardly dressed for winter weather. He’s still wearing the jeans he had on earlier, as well as a black t-shirt that stretches tautly across his shoulders.

Shoulders. Wow, Constantine has impressive shoulders. How did I miss those before?

Parka. Right.

But he didn’t take time to throw on his parka this evening. Just the gloves.

While I’m taking in the vastness of Constantine’s broad shoulders, he reaches for the bag and widens the top opening.

“Gah!” He claps his gloved hands together, then holds them in a prayer-like pose in front of him. “Front door!”

I rush ahead of him and get the door open in time for Constantine to leap through without breaking his stride.

“Stay inside! I’ll be right back!” Constantine shouts over his shoulder as he bounds down the stoop.

Since I’m not remotely eager to offer the sneaky little varmint another opportunity to get inside, I slam the door closed and peek through the peephole in time to see Constantine duck down the alley, hands still clasped tightly around the fuzzy creature whose head I only caught a glimpse of before Constantine rushed outside.

The taste of fear quickly recedes to frustration, even anger.

I don’t like being afraid.

I don’t like being rescued.

I am a dragon, mighty and awe-inspiring.

How did that stupid bat get inside the house, anyway? Way, way back when we first moved in, my mom had an efficiency inspection performed, that used infra-red technology to locate any areas where warm air might escape during the long cold months. They plugged every air leak, down to the tiniest gaps.

The house should be bat-proof.

Bats getting inside is one thing, but the mystery of why Constantine cares is even more perplexing. He clearly knows something about these bats, about their very dangerous malady…about why I can’t risk touching them or letting them touch me.

He knows something, something very important, maybe even a matter of life or death (if the disease is worse than rabies, it has to be a matter of life or death), and
he’s not telling me
.

It makes my blood boil.

I don’t think there’s anything on earth that upsets me as much as having information deliberately withheld from me, especially when it’s something I should have a right to know.

Just last summer, my sister Zilpha convinced me to help her fly into danger by deliberately misleading me. She withheld the truth of what was going on, and because of that, I very nearly flew her to her death. We barely escaped alive.

It chafes me still.

And now Constantine’s doing that exact same thing, isn’t he? I’ve asked him repeatedly what’s up with the bats, and he has yet to give me a straight answer.

Infuriating.

On top of that, where is he? I’ve been standing by the front door, fuming and waiting, for several minutes now. He said he’d be right back.

What’s taking him so long?

Seriously, it’s freezing cold outside, the kind of temperatures that can give exposed skin frostbite in way under an hour. Constantine wasn’t even wearing a coat.

Does he have any idea how dangerous that is?

I pace impatiently a couple of minutes longer, then bundle myself up and step outside.

Sure, he told me to stay inside, but he also said he was coming right back, and he hasn’t.

I’m careful to watch for patches of ice as I follow the scooped trail of sidewalk to the alley.

Fortunately, this close to campus streetlights are thick and bright for safety, so I can see clearly a long way down the alley.

It’s empty.

No, wait, it’s not. There’s a shadow on the ground near some trash cans, just beyond the reach of the streetlights.

Maybe I should have brought a flashlight.

I could go back…but I’m a dragon. If I need light, I’ll just breathe fire.

Cautiously, I pick my way down the alley toward the shadow.

The shadow is shaped like a man. A dark-haired man lying on his side, one cheek resting on a puddle of ice.

“Constantine?” I recognize his shirt-sleeves first, and hurry forward. How long has he been out here? He’s got to be on the verge of frost bite, if not hypothermia.

I’m reaching forward to shake him when I see the blood smeared across his face, oozing from an ugly gash on his forehead.

He told me not to touch his blood. It’s dangerous.

He’s never told me why, which is particularly infuriating right now because I need to help him, preferably quickly, but I don’t know the rules here. Why can’t I touch his blood? I’m wearing gloves now. Granted, they’re leather, which might be sort of bite-proof, but it’s still porous, isn’t it?