Dracul (4 page)

I totally wish he would have outlined the rules.

Maybe I should call an ambulance.

But would Constantine want that?

“Constantine?” I prod his shoulder with the tip of my boot. “Hey. Wake up.” I prod a little harder. I’m not going to lie, I’m still upset that he’s been withholding information from me, especially now that it might be a matter of life or death for him.

What if he dies of hypothermia or that nasty head wound before he can tell me what’s up with the bats and the blood and all that?

I am going to be so pissed.

So. Pissed.

“Wake up!” I prod him with my boot a little harder this time. Okay, so maybe that was technically a kick, but I’m pretty sure he got himself into this mess.

By helping me with my bat problem.

Right.

Okay, deep breath, let it out slowly, and
think.

I can’t drag him off in his current state. Okay, yeah, I’m super strong even in human form because I’m a dragon, so technically I could haul him across the ice, no problem, but I still can’t do it because that would require touching him, thus risking blood contamination.

More dangerous than rabies.

Shudder
.

“Listen!” I crouch down so I don’t have to yell for him to hear me, because the last thing I need is neighbors hearing me and coming out to see what’s up. With my luck, Constantine would wake up and tell everybody about the bat, which would be way worse than an exterminator truck stopping by.

So I hiss in my most audible-but-not-loud voice, “If you don’t wake up right now, I’m going to have to drag you out of this alley before you die of hypothermia. And if I have to do that, I might get your blood on me. So if it’s really as important as you say it is for me to avoid touching your blood, you need to wake up! Now!”

To my immense relief, he groans.

He doesn’t open his eyes, but his lips have parted. The groan was almost like a growl.

“Come on, Constantine, wake up and get out of here. Can you do that?”

“I told you to stay inside.” His eyes flutter open just long enough for him to shoot me a glare. Then he winces and closes them again.

“Fine.” I stand up and clap my gloves together as though wiping my hands free of all responsibility. “You rescue yourself, then. I’ll be inside.”

I’m halfway to the sidewalk, making plans for a steaming cup of hot cocoa, when Constantine’s groan echoes down the alley.

“Do you need help?” I stop and turn to look.

He’s on his knees, his head clamped in his gloved hands. “No, I’m fine. You go. It’s cold out here.”

“Right. You’re fine. Completely hunky-dory,” I mutter as I hurry back to my house. If the guy wants to be a martyr, that’s his choice.

Still, I leave my front door unlocked for him and put two mugs of milk in the microwave.

He stumbles inside and closes the door with another groan as I’m stirring the cocoa mix into the heated milk.

“Can I get you anything?” I call out. “Gauze? Antiseptic? Truth serum?”

“Truth serum?”

I bring the steaming mugs into the front room and extend one toward him. “I want to know what’s going on. I
deserve
to know what’s going on.”

“You
deserve
to know?” He takes the mug, and I head back to the kitchen for the paper towels, because even though the gash on his head doesn’t appear to be actively bleeding anymore (probably frozen over thanks to the Montana cold), it’s still mega gross, and if nothing else I want him to cover it up so I can sip my cocoa without gagging at the sight of it.

“I deserve to know,” I repeat as I return with the paper towels. “Cover that gash. It is so gross. What did you do, anyway? Run into a tree branch?”

“Something like that.” He presses several thickly-folded towels to the wound.

“The truth,” I insist, my anger simmering hotter than the cocoa in my mug. “Not something like it. The plain, honest truth. What would have happened if I would have touched your blood out there by accident?”

He exhales slowly, still wincing.

I push for answers. “What disease do you have, specifically? Not something like it. What’s up with you and the bats and all this mysterious danger? Do you have a disease?”

“Something like—”

“Not something like anything!” I nearly shout. “What is wrong with you?”

He meets my eyes. I can see apology through the pain. “What is wrong with me, is that I am a vampire.”

Chapter Four

Hmm. I suppose most people would assume Constantine was lying or being figurative or plain bonkers.

But since I’m a dragon, and since I’ve fought some pretty nasty mutant cyborg monsters in my day, and since my brother-in-law is the Loch Ness Monster, and my sister spent part of last summer battling it out with a crazy mad scientist named Hans Wexler, who pretty much sounds like Doctor Frankenstein, the whole vampire thing is totally on the table for me.

In fact, if I’m completely honest (and I am the one who just insisted on total honesty, so it’s only fair), part of the reason I’m researching Vlad Dracula, is to get to the bottom of the whole vampire thing.

So I don’t laugh off his statement, but I do take a step back because from what I’ve read about them, vampires are crazy dangerous.

Maybe even more dangerous than rabies.

Just like Constantine said.

Whoa.

He sips his cocoa as he watches me step backward. Then he gives me a sad hint of a smile. “I am not going to bite you. I have never bitten anyone.”

“What about the bats?”

“I have never bitten the bats.”

“But do they—could they—”

“Bite you?” Constantine volunteers.

I nod. I’m watching him warily as he talks, giving him plenty of space out of respect for what he claims to be. At the same time, though, I’m watching him because I’m not entirely certain I believe those claims.

Constantine explains, “There is an honor code among vampires. We do not bite people without their consent.”

I exhale a relieved breath.

“However,” Constantine continues, “I am not convinced these vampires are all the honorable sort.”

I can feel my eyes narrow, but I don’t say anything. I don’t trust my voice right now, and I don’t know what to say.

Is Constantine really a vampire? Or is he only pretending to be one because he knows I’ve been researching them?

He adjusts the paper towel compress on his head as he explains, “The bat you had in your fridge this morning was not a vampire. It was probably a scout. The ones in your attic earlier were mostly scouts, or spies, if you will, but there was a vampire among them. That is why you heard voices—I was trying to learn who he’s working for and what he’s after, though he refused to tell me. And the bat I removed from this room tonight was a vampire. He took on human form when we reached the alley. I honestly don’t know what he hit me in the head with. A steel pipe, perhaps a tree branch? It was very dark and he swung quickly.” Constantine’s no longer trying to hide his accent, which I can now tell is clearly Romanian.

As he’s talking, I’m not just thinking about what he’s saying, but I’m analyzing whether it could actually logically be true.

Here’s the thing: I’ve lived in Montana for at least three quarters of every year for the past eight years, yet in that time,
I have not told a single person here what I truly am
. No one here knows I’m a dragon, and I certainly have no intention of telling Constantine, no matter how many flying rodents he removes from my house, dead or alive.

So why would he tell me what he is?

Seriously, why?

I can’t think of a solid reason.

You want to talk about honor codes? We supposedly-mythical beings don’t go around telling people all willy-nilly what we truly are. I don’t care how hard you hit us on the head. If we want to continue to live private lives, no one can know. Period.

So it makes zero sense that Constantine would tell me.

But on top of that, there are too many things I don’t understand about what’s been going on. For all I know, Constantine is dangerous, possibly even a criminal. If that’s the case, I don’t want him to realize I’m not convinced by his story. I’m going to play along, at least for now. Ask questions like I want to know more—and in the process, find the holes in his story that reveal whether there’s any truth to his words at all.

Play dumb, if necessary. “When you say some of the bats were vampires, you don’t mean vampire bats like the South American species that drinks blood, do you?”

“Of course not. You have been researching Dracula, so you are familiar with the type of vampire which is often referred to as
mythological.
”

“Mythological or not,” I nod, “they’re inconsistently portrayed. You claim they have an honor code, and don’t drink blood without permission. The anecdotal evidence I’ve uncovered in the course of my research indicates otherwise. Why should I trust you over the books I’ve read?”

To my surprise, Constantine doesn’t bristle or allege superior knowledge. Instead he smiles a tiny hint of a smile that might be kind of hot if he wasn’t maybe a psychopath. “Books, yes. That’s right. Did you ever find your third primary source?”

The dude really knows how to go for the jugular, doesn’t he? I heave an exasperated sigh. “No. I flew to London to check it out from the library of the British Museum, but when I got there, they couldn’t find it.”

“It was checked out?”

“No. It was just gone. It wasn’t supposed to ever be removed from the library. It was in a special collection bequeathed to the museum, and they kept it in a temperature controlled vault accessible only with special permission. They kept a record of every time anyone accessed the text, and confirmed it was returned to its place every time. But when I got there, it was nowhere to be found. Not on the wrong shelf or in the wrong spot—we looked. It was just…gone.”

Constantine looks distinctly concerned. “What was the title?”

I grab my notebook and flip to a page where I’ve written the source information, because even though I have the title memorized, the names of the author and translator are unique, and it’s their names that make it a primary source. “
The Life of Vlad Dracula, the Impaler
, by Bogdan Dobrescu, translated into English by Melita Thorne.”

“Translated by Melita Thorne,” Constantine whispers, blinking rapidly. “She translated it? How many copies exist?”

“Of the translated work? The one at the British Museum is the only known copy. There may be others in the hands of private collectors, but Dracula enthusiasts are notoriously secretive. If there are others, no one knows where they are.”

“What’s the publication date on that? Who printed it?”

“It’s from a tiny press called Inkwell, 1837. I was unable to find an address or any record of the print run. I did try.”

“She died in 1833. Who authorized the printing?” Constantine’s leaning against the kitchen counter, muttering mostly to himself. “The Thornes must have done it. Melita knew better, though she shouldn’t have translated it at all.” He pauses and presses one finger to his lips, his eyes lighting up with what looks like hope. “Perhaps she didn’t translate the
entire
thing. No, I wouldn’t think so. Though I wouldn’t think she’d have done any of it. Oh, Melita, why?”

If Constantine wants to convince me he’s not crazy, he’s going about it entirely the wrong way. When it seems he’s done talking to himself, I ask, “Who’s Melita?”

“Beautiful, brilliant girl. She loved me, but she was only human. Humans and vampires, in spite of what you may have seen in movies, they are not compatible. It should not be done. I set her up with George Thorne. They were happy together. Had three children.”

“You knew her? She died in 1833,” I repeat the year he mentioned moments ago.

“I’m immortal.” Constantine gives me a look like I should know that. “I gave Melita the book for safe keeping.
Safe keeping
. Since when does translating something help keep it safe?”

“Perhaps she feared the original might be lost or destroyed.”

“Or stolen.” Constantine shrugs resignedly. “It was dangerous either way. Perhaps I should never have written it in the first place.”

“Wait.” I’ve been keeping up with his mad mutterings so far, but now he’s firmly contradicted his story, unless I’ve simply misunderstood. “The book Melita Thorne translated was written by Bogdan Dobrescu.” I read the name off my notes to be certain I have it right. Bogdan is not even an anagram for Constantine. Seriously. They don’t even have remotely the same consonants or number of letters.

But Constantine bows as though making an introduction, waving one hand in front of himself with a flourish that is decidedly old-world European. “I am Bogdan Dobrescu. I am Constantine Funar. I’ve had several other aliases over the years. One cannot simply live forever under the same name in a world that assumes lifespans of less than a century. This current name came to me with the identification numbers and papers I bought on the black market. According to those, I am thirty-one years old. I will soon outgrow that identity and have to purchase another. So it goes.”

I’m simultaneously trying to keep up with what Constantine’s telling me, and attempting to find the holes in his story that prove whether he’s telling the truth. Right now, I’m so confused, I’m not sure I can do either of those things anymore.

But given my research project and the pains I’ve taken trying to find
The Life of Vlad Dracula, the Impaler
, I can’t let Constantine go muttering off this topic without learning what else he might be able to tell me about the book.

“So, you wrote
The Life of Vlad Dracula, the Impaler
?
”
I ask, hardly believing it.

“In Romanian,” he clarifies with a sharp nod. “Many, many years ago. There was no print run, no press, just a single copy written by hand.”

“Which you gave to Melita for safekeeping.” I shrug nonchalantly, mimicking his casual attitude. “Almost two hundred years ago?”

“Over two hundred years ago,” Constantine clarifies. “The translation wasn’t printed until after she died. It could not have been a large print run, or surely I would have learned of it long before now.”

I cross my arms and lock eyes with Constantine, as though I could keep him on topic with the pull of my gaze. “What happened to the handwritten book you gave her—the one written in Romanian?”

Constantine smiles.

I’ve not seen him really smile before, just hints of cute smirks. Nothing so sincere, so pleased, so…attractive.

While I wouldn’t call him traditionally handsome, not with that nose, there’s a certain charisma to him. And the man is surprisingly good-looking when he smiles.

I might be smiling back.

Hang it all, he’s irritating and confusing and cute. Not a good trifecta.

“I have it.”

“You have,” I stutter slightly, “the—the book?”

“Yes. Melita gave it back to me before she died. I did not know she’d translated it. I thought I had the only copy.”

“
The Life of Vlad Dracula, the Impaler
?
”
I clarify for good measure, having already flown to London just to discover it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. I’m not about to assume anything at this point, not when my last viable primary source is at stake.

The fact that too large a portion of my attention is still analyzing the unexpected cuteness of his smile, means I have to focus deliberately on the subject I care about most.

“
Viața lui Vlad Dracula, Țepeș
,
”
Constantine clarifies, with a robust Romanian accent every bit as attractive as his smile.

“You still have it?”

“I do. Would you like to see it?”

“I’d like to use it as a primary source.”

One of Constantine’s arched eyebrows shoots upward. “It’s in Romanian.”

“I’ve got translation apps. There are computer programs—”

“It’s not even modern Romanian, but a dialect hundreds of years old.”

The air leaves my lungs. It’s hard enough to find a decent Romanian translation app, since Romanian isn’t a very high demand language. But old Romanian, from hundreds of years ago? “I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll figure something out. I’ll find a scholar of old Romanian literature to translate it for me, if I have to. If you could just loan it to me for long enough—”

Constantine holds up one finger a couple of feet in front of my lips, effectively shushing me. “Do you know why the bats are bothering you?”

“Why?”

“Your research.”

“What?”

“They seek the book as much as you seek the book. In all your searching for it, somehow you have called attention to yourself, perhaps when you went to London to find the copy they stole. If—”

“Wait! They stole it? How do you know?”

Constantine lowers the paper towels from his forehead. His injury is ugly, but at least it’s stopped bleeding. “Do you know why that vampire hit me on the head?”

“Because you forcibly removed him from my house?” I’m still playing along with the idea that Constantine really is a vampire, because, let’s face it, I don’t have a likelier explanation at this point.

“Because he wants what I have. He wants to know what I know. He doesn’t want me dead, because then he’ll lose any chance of finding out what I refuse to tell him. He wants the book. I have no doubt, if he realized there was a copy in London, he’d steal it. The fact that he’s been hanging around here says he thinks you might know more than you know.”