Chapter 3

“Are you unhurt, Mistress?” the giant of a man asked, shutting his eyes tight to ensure he did not see me naked. “Has one of the ghosts bothered you?” the man asked. He stood there, looking in my direction. Still, he held his eyes shut. I covered myself as best I may, in case he cheated, spied me through nearly closed eyes.

“I put the chair on the door to ensure my privacy,” I said, my voice rising in indignation.

“You do not trust us?” he questioned me. His voice held a hurt, which touched my heart.

“No,” I said, “this isn’t a lack of trust at all. Please leave the room while I finish my bath.”

“I’ll guard your bathing,” he said. Alexandru (I assumed) turned away, with his eyes still closed, stood stationary, and folded his enormous, muscled arms over his massive chest.

“No,” I said, “You can wait in the other room.”

“I shall guard your bath here,” Alexandru said. “When you have completed your toiletry, I shall close my eyes, assist you from the tub and cover you with a towel. After which, I shall leave. My Mistress, Countess Drago, would insist. I promise I shall not glance at you until you are again clothed.”

The thought dawned on me, further argument would be fruitless. Part of the boy’s problems, or mayhaps, their cure, lay in unswerving devotion to the Countess. Racking my brain, I evaluated the possibility where the Countess bent these men to her will through the sheer force of her personality. Possibly, left to their own devices, they were a trio of dangerous men.

In a moment of deep contemplation, I thought the younger brothers were perhaps frail by design? They reminded me of those wealthy, anorectic patients I had previously tried to help. Well, the younger fellows did. Alexandru was a fine specimen of manhood. Enormous, well-built, and faithful as a beagle.

In truth, they did not appear like siblings at all. Their noses, eyes, hair color, and physical builds, differed, right down to their height. Their accents varied from one to another, as if they were from the same country but different regions. I began to imagine they all committed separate crimes. Perhaps one or another had been with the Countess longer than the others.

True to his word, Alexandru assisted me without casting his eyes on me. Once I was fully clothed, he opened his eyes, giving me a small smile. I thought he appreciated my form, remembering himself, cast his eyes to the floor, and escorted me to my meal. The stew was a roasted goat’s leg and vegetable brew. I realized this only because Alexandru told me with pride how he prepared the meal for me from an old family recipe.

Unaware, how famished I was, until the moment I sampled the cookery, I consumed the meal with a passion. The food was a delectable feast, and the meat’s flavoring, so different than any other I had eaten. The potatoes and other vegetables were tender and moist.

I’m tempted to use the old, trite saying, “Melts in your mouth,” though the cuisine doesn’t literally dissolve in my mouth. All in all, the meal was marvelous. The boys, true to form, stood in a line, eyes studying the stones of the floor. Perhaps, they contemplated how the stones held in place and didn’t crash to the room beneath them.

I remained amazed at how any of this ancient structure held together at all. Its immense age showed everywhere. All the same, the beauty of its former opulence bore evidence in the precision of its stonework, every dust-coated painting, in each worn yet elegant piece of furniture. This palace must have been a grand old home forty years before, perhaps further into the past. Many signs of neglect were visible, and the castle was a mere shadow of its former glory.

“Why is the commode door in shambles?” Countess Drago asked as she walked into the room.

“Alexandru believed a ghost might be attacking me. He broke the door to save my honor,” I told her, flushing at the sight of her.

“Boy’s go now. You will find a small snack, something superb and scrumptious, for you in the library,” she said. As she spoke, the most wicked grins broke over their faces. “Go and enjoy. Oh, and Alexandru, I would appreciate you resisting the urge to destroy any more doors tonight.”

The boys hurried out of the room. Alexandru closed the door behind him, leaving Valerie Drago and me alone in my bedroom. Several candles and a lamp provided a flickering light. The Countess had changed, explaining, she too had bathed and dressed for bed. The nightdress was brilliant red silk and clung to her every curve. Pinned, a little above her breast, a new, pale, yellow rose.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“The boys?”

“Yes, the boys,” I said.

“They all suffer from a delusion driven by the superstitious fervor in this land. Their idea is fed by the superstitious fears of the people of this backward country. They imagine they are, as do the people from their own towns and villages believe of them, the Children of the Night.”

“What? They think they are wolves and owls?”

“No, no,” she said. “They believe they are the kith and ken of Lilith’s race.”

“Lilith’s race...?”

“Yes, but the specifics of their obsession are unimportant. All which concerns me is I break these young men of said mania. I have given the boys a new fixation, taking them to a new destination. Once they are safe from the first delusion, I will wing them away from their new one. Their treatment is a long, arduous process but requires the use of only one intoxicant rather than the myriad of mind-numbing drugs used by others in our field. Neither do we lock them away from sight, gnashing their teeth and ripping their flesh from themselves as other, so-called experts in our profession. We treat them with dignity, counseling, some hypnotherapy, and some measure of freedom. Take your freedom from you, and let us see how long your sanity lasts.”

“I’m eager to learn all,” I told her as I stood, wandering about the room. A dozen red roses were in a vase, atop a small table, by the door of my room. I hadn’t beheld them before now. As they caught my eye, I moved to the flowers.

Lifting one, I sniffed the sweet aroma. Returning the rose to the vase, I drug my knuckle over another rose stem, at which point, one of the thorns cut me at the fold of my finger. I let out a small, pained utterance, flinching my finger away.

When I turned away from the table, the Countess moved to stand beside me. Somewhat startled, I stepped back, bumping the table, the stand threatening to spill its contents on the floor.

“It was not my intent to frighten you,” she said, smiling. Holding her hand out, she steadied the table. She moved closer, took my hand in hers, lifted my finger to her bent head. Her lips pressed against my bloody knuckle, causing a sense of euryopia to sweep through me.

She held my hand, her lips pressed to the bleeding wound, sucking the blood away. I quivered as she licked the wound, afterward, broke her kiss. On checking my finger, the cut seemed to have scabbed already. I gazed at her, light-headed as though I drank a healthy shot of bourbon. I was weary and supposed the reason was my long, arduous day catching up with me, at last.

“You have unusually, sweet blood. Cornelius did say you were a woman of style,” the Countess said, her voice light and lyrical. I laughed with her at the witticism. Though blood being described as sweet struck me as, to some extent, creepy.

“Still, you should be careful not to cut yourself. In particular, avoid this around the boys,” the Countess said.

“They’re not brothers, are they?”

“They are not,” she said. “And yet, they are of the same blood. They share the same affliction and the same cure. Hence, they are brothers of sorts. But enough of, what do you Americans say? Shoptalk?”

“Well, I did come here to work and learn,” I said.

“But not tonight,” she said. “Tell me, what do you think of my home?” Holding her arms upward, she walked about the room.

“It’s a grand old place,” I told her.

“Only a shadow remains.” The Countess picked up the fireplace poker and stabbed the logs, sending the flames roaring in the hearth. The impression of a tremendous sadness overcame the woman as she spoke.

“This wondrous place constructed by a warrior princess. Who grew war-weary over 600 hundred years ago. She led her armies into battle, beating back the Turkish hordes. As an impartial judge, you, a successful, modern woman, must appreciate her accomplishments in those days. Having, yourself, suffered the slings and arrows of men whose delicate pride and self-worth battered simply because she was a strong woman.

“Have they not likewise lashed out, trying to elevate themselves by gashing every single triumph you have achieved? You have overheard the whispers, ‘She’s only a woman.’ I sensed envy in your old mentor, the envy of your youth, and fear, with the years ahead of you, he’d become, but a footnote in your biography, as your achievements surpass his.

“Imagine how they reacted to a woman warrior, who fought better than they, strategized more effectively, and conquered every man who opposed her. Blood became her life, for life is in the blood. Fighting and killing fulfilled a need inside her until war consumed the princess. In the end, all she desired was peace, but all she achieved was more bloodshed, and only carnage gave her life meaning.

“She built this castle, her only desire to live out her remaining years, occupying her time with the joy of raising her children in the solitude of this citadel. I think the deceptions brought about by her husband, a weak, deceitful rouge, who married her to steal her property. His precious pride, wounded by her refusal to take his name, the rascal turned on her and their children.

“Drago’s be they, men or women, never abandon their name and never give a name to their offspring other than their own revered family name, Domini Draconum, Masters of Dragons is the ancient name of my family.

“So, it was for two millennia but reduced to simply Drago in recent years, though not so recent, for precious little in this family is recent. My name is her name - Draconus Valeriana. Changed over the years to the more mundane, Valerie Drago.

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