Memoirs of an Immortal Life (10 page)

15 May 1467

Sighisoara

The henchman’s axe came down upon his corpse at the command of Radu at dusk. His body was taken to the monastery where he had once come to me a young man broken by the treatment he endured but still filled with God’s will. Forgive me for failing you, Vladimir.

The Ottomans demanded his head as proof of his execution. It is said it will be put on display in a jar and paraded about their kingdom. How did his life come to this? Where did I first fail him? Over and over to God have I prayed for guidance, only to be greeted with silence. Perhaps this is my penance. I shall never be relieved of the guilt I alone must bear for his fall from Grace and for the truth I must now hide.

The man executed was not my Vladimir, not the man I grew to respect before he slipped from my grasp. His body was readied by the Priests for burial in the crypt as was dictated by Baserab Law and his son. What I witnessed as they dressed him in his royal robes, I am certain. Vladimir shall live on, forever immortalized. I know not what will happen now or what the future may hold. Mihnea is aged to sixteen and shall take the throne. It is said he is more brutal than even his father. Mihnea cel Rau they call him. Mihnea the Bad shall embody his father’s image of brutality and seek vengeance against those responsible for his death. This can be certain.

1 June 1467

Poenari

I sit here alone, surrounded by darkness
. I have seen things which are not possible. What manner of trickery is this? Is it I who is now punished for what happened to my beloved Vladimir? If I am to remain here within the confines of the castle then my faith must be renewed for that which is before me cannot be explained. Shadows and figures linger in the darkness; figures that no mortal man of God could possibly see. I am certain it was not Vladimir who met the executioner’s axe, but another whose appearance was similar enough to replace him.  Certainty lies in this, for the shadows which are seen can be none other than Vladimir. The curse placed upon him by my hand has bound him to this place, a constant reminder of the darkness he invoked. Mordecai questioned me at length. To Rome we are to travel in one month’s time to meet with Pope Pios to discuss my failure. I know not what fate awaits me there, but I shall accept whatever punishment Pope Pios deems fit for not only my failure to my charge, but also to God.

4 June 1467

The Vatican

I await nervously my meeting with Pope Pios. Mordecai has said that I am to meet with him alone; no others shall be present, it shall be only the Pope, myself, and God who will bear witness to my punishment. I pray that should it be deemed my life must end, that it be known I did all that was within my power to care for Vladimir’s soul. I know Mordecai has spoken on my behalf. With the deeds that I have done, I hope Pios will see I did what was within my power.

Late afternoon

“Walk with me,” he said as I followed diligently behind him. “Your efforts, though valiant, have failed. Were it any man but you, Ahbrim, I would have personally called for your execution, but, given the nature of your relationship to Vladimir, it is time you were brought within the Order. There is much that you do not know, nor could possibly understand. I have faith you will see God’s word carried to the end, even if it means you must personally take Vladimir’s life.”

I followed behind him listening to his words as he spoke. His words were like a riddle to me that I did not fully understand. Deeper and deeper within the Vatican he led me until we reached a room with gilded doors and a symbol I had seen before, two inverted letter v’s that crossed each other. It was the same symbol I had seen on Vladimir’s sigil. The only difference being wall Vladimir’s ring bore the crest of the Baserab. Soon I found myself standing where few others before had stood, within the inner sanctum of the Order of the Dracul.

He spoke of Corvinus and how displeased the Church was with his betrayal. He spoke the words I never wished to hear that Vladimir was undead, a vampire who would exist on the deaths of others through their blood. Key elements of his existence were given to me. Vladimir must keep to his own land, his own soil, and when away must travel with it. Trickery and deception would become his bedfellows. He spoke of the confidence he had in me, in my ability to do what must be done.

“To God he pledged his life, just as he placed his life with the Order, but in this pledge he has failed
. He has turned from God and become a creature, dark and reviled. Your task is not yet complete, for in this room, before God, you will be given the same immortality as Vladimir, but not as a vile creature instead as our new soldier of God.”

I watched as one of the archbishops brought forth a plain and ordinary chalice; it was not a chalice of royalty, nor was it the chalice one would expect to have seen in the possession of Pope Pios. It was a plain cup; the cup of a carpenter who sacrificed his life to save those that believed in him. I held in my hands the cup of Christ. A moment so solemn in itself and humbling, I fell to my knees and prayed that I would find the courage and strength to do what was necessary whether that be saving Vladimir’s soul or ending his life.

“You are a Baserab, sworn to protect the Order at all costs. Chosen for this at birth, your destiny was placed in our charge at Sighisoara. You, Ahbrim, have been groomed for this day since your induction. We could not have known he would go astray or have foreseen the events which would follow. This gift we give to you, Ahbrim, so that you might continue to keep the ways of the Order. It will become necessary for you to end his life and at such time, we know your devotion will enable you to do what must be done,” he said.

In the company of Pope Pios, I stayed for many hours. He explained to me the nature of my existence and what it was that God would expect of me and that until my task was complete I would find no rest, death would elude me, and heaven would never be within my grasp. I willingly drank from the cup without question. I resigned my life with my signature in blood. I am now bound to destroy him. I know what it is that I must do and what I have been charged with. His soul I must save or his life I must end. I pray it is not the latter. In the
morning, my return to the castle I must make where I know I will find him. Vladimir will stay where his memory can continue to be haunted as his love for Elisabeta is much too deep for him to abandon her, though she is long gone from this world. He will stay where he can keep her memory alive.

I find myself torn by what must be done and what I know that only I have the power to do. I would rather fight for his soul, the soul of Vladimir Dracula, until my life they have taken from me than to betray the oath I once took to care for his soul.

Ahbrim Baserab’s Journal

12 June 1467

Corvinus Castle

“What is it you desire from me, Vladimir, to see my body upon a stake, the same as the others who have crossed you?” I asked.

The smile upon his face as he gazed at me with his lifeless, soulless eyes was one of wicked contemplation.

“This from you I shall not ask. I know more than what is spoke, Ahbrim. I have seen the bargain you struck. I understand the nature of what was given in that arrangement. I would rather find pleasure in watching you suffer for all eternity, than free you from the words you spoke so freely, for I desire to see you endure the suffering I embrace for all eternity given what you denied her. I am a condemned man. I care little what you choose to do now. Know that the truth is known, what you have done. You have made me immortal.”

His words were cold and unlike the man I had once loved, replaced by a creature so vile it only resembled him in appearance.

“So be it. My fate I accept willingly. Take from me my life, Vladimir, if you must, if it will ease your sadness.”

I drew the sword he carried into battle when his allegiance was sworn to God, and he, His soldier. To the center of my
chest, I placed the tip, imploring him to kill me. He seized it swiftly without remorse. “Surely my life ends here,” I had thought as I watched him closely. Yet in that single fleeting moment between the opportunity I gave him and the decision he made, I saw within his eyes the glimmer of hope. He tossed the sword to the floor and walked away from me. I know now his soul still resides. I cannot abandon him. It is certain to me no matter where he travels or how long the pursuit shall take, I will save my beloved Vladimir from the fate he chose.

Carlisle abbey

West end
london

Chapter Thirteen

Claudia Van Helsing’s Journal

1 August 1893

London

I worry so about father. He appears so worn, so gaunt. I fear he sleeps little in his quest to arrest this disease I bear. It consumes his every moment. I aid him as best I can in his studies and research, but find I tire so easily; I am more of a burden than a blessing.

He says I should spend my time as all young woman my age do: finding a suitor. “Pappa,” I tell
him, “there shall be time enough for suitors.” In all truthfulness, I have barely the energy to entertain a suitor for an afternoon of tea, but nothing more.

Afternoons I often spend listening to his lectures. I am sure his students find it somewhat disturbing that a woman sits in the rear of his laboratory a silent observer. Sciences of the blood, after all, I am certain they believe are no concern for a woman.

I often wonder what they think about me being here, if it interrupts their studies or if I am a distraction, but really it matters little to me. For if my time is as limited as the physicians say, then I shall spend each waking moment possible close to my father. He is all that I have left in this world. I know he misses my mother deeply. He never speaks of her; however, the sadness lingers in his eyes still. The few photographs he has in his possession show much likeness I bear to her. I am sure when he gazes up me he sees just as much his beloved Catherine as he does his own daughter.

The few details I know about my mother are sparse and gained through letters found that she kept in a small hatbox written to my father when he traveled abroad and are as veiled as the letters he wrote. He made continuous mention of a promise made before God that must be honored.

For years now, I have wondered what that promise was, especially since the death of my beloved mother and sister Ophelia. With the many years in passing, I can barely remember her, the way she looked, or the toilette she wore. Were it not for the scented letters in my keep, it would be but a faded memory. I do recall her eyes, which often seemed as though she longed for something lost. Whatever that may have been, I cannot say for sure. I can only guess it had something to do with my father.

As I sit here watching them conduct his research, I wonder what would compel him to go on if I were not ill with this unknown affliction. Would he find another misfortunate to devote his life to with such vigor? I sometimes believe whatever led him to become so consumed with his work happened long ago, long before even I was born. Lunacy such as this just does not arise in a matter of urgency upon discovering a loved one’s illness. It manifests over time, becomes an obsession, until it consumes, leaving a shell of a man. I wonder how Abraham Van Helsing was before this, before this lunacy.

I should not write such things, nor should I allow such thoughts to even enter my mind, such hurtful words against him. Yet, as I sit here waiting to be the subject of his next experiment, I cannot help but wish for a normal life with a normal father who loves me and is not consumed with curing me.

“Claudia.”

“Yes, father,” I replied.

“Come child, the light of the world shines upon thee and so shall the world of medicine.”

I sat compliantly as the bloodletting began. It is a daily occurrence I must endure. My blood replicates too quickly.

“You see, Claudia’s blood is akin to that of a Vampire bat, yah. It replicates too quickly, my
young friends, with no clotting abilities. She requires daily bloodletting or her blood will begin to pour from her eyes and her ears to relieve the pressure.”

“Is it akin to Hemophilia, Professor Van Helsing?” One of his students asked.

I must admit that my mind wandered as I sat listening to their conversation. I have heard it countless times with the same end result; there is no cure for Claudia’s condition. Though I play the part of his poor, sweet, beleaguered daughter, nothing could be farther from the truth. I tire with little effort, but intend on experiencing every moment that life has to offer before death calls at my door. I know it is his expectation that one of his students will procure the serum responsible for my miraculous recovery. Even Father himself has not been able to accomplish this. Forty serums without success nor any show of promise. I have accepted my life, at best, will be short lived.