Death Among the Ruins

Kelantha

It was slow to wane, the sunlight that filtered through the afternoon, casting long golden tendrils along the carpeting in my mother�s parlor. It crept into every nuance of the house and threatened my sleep. I was restless with anticipation, awaiting that glorious moment when the night would come and beckon me into its keeping, when I might slip forth into the world and wreck my vengeance. I knew too well the look in his eyes, the primal hunger that made him a predator. Juan thought of himself highly, was practiced in his methods. He believed me easily seduced, won over by promises of excitement in his arms. He knew nothing of the fate in store for him.

The gloom of the room stirred and I arose from the bed, creeping to the window to peer through the slender chink in the heavy cloth. Sunset was approaching. The house had grown very still, as it often did in this hour, when the birds sung their last and children playing in the street went home at the bidding of their mothers. Dracula resided with me in the darkness, enfolded into a chair before the fireplace, watching my movements as one observes a novice, with mingled approval and fascination. He was resigned to this game much as I was, but derived a certain amount of pleasure from it. I turned to look at him, my hand remaining on the curtain, pale fingers closed about the cloth.

�You will come,� I whispered.

I needed him to see, to observe my triumph when it was finished, to come to me in that eerie place that was so often mistaken for a lover�s lair. He watched me with a kind of finality in his bottomless eyes, their presence so luminous that they glowed without the aid of any natural light, like a wolf�s in the night. His voice flourished with a melodious accent, overly present in his verbs and like a silver arrow to my soul, causing it to flutter in excitement. �I will,� he vowed, and then rose and went out into the hall as the shadows grew in length and the light flickered through the trees.

The walk to the ruins was made with deliberation, taking note of everyone and everything that I passed, for it is in these observances that mistakes are prevented. I saw no one take notice of me until passing the church on the other side of the street; then the waist-high gate clanged and a familiar voice called out to me warmly. I turned to behold the dark-clothed figure of the bishop as he crossed the street, the pragmatic figure of his prior with him, who beheld me with open coldness despite his superior�s greeting. I experienced a mingled rush of emotion, both of shame for the venture upon which I was to embark, and loathing for the fat, balding man that stood in the shadow of the bishop�s greatness.

�Your step is light for such an hour,� said my former mentor, with the same cheerful anticipation that had become him so well in his younger years. Rome had not changed him, nor corrupted the goodness in his soul, but I noted that he beheld me with a change in his aspect, something that I could not quite place but that seemed mildly laced with suspicion. �May we walk with you as far as the square? We are to pay a visit upon a humble, ailing soul of the parish.�

I would have liked nothing less and yet could make no reasonable excuses, allowing them to fall into step with me. The tall individual at my side laced his hands behind his back as he walked, robes rippling with each movement. I knew that he wanted to ask my purpose but was wise enough to abstain. I made some vague reference about how warm the nights were, and how I would be glad for the interior of a hacienda in which to rest, for I was meeting my husband at the bridge. It seemed to satisfy them and we parted once the square opened up before us, allowing me to slip away through the alley and make haste for the ruins. I kept to the shadows, in fear of being seen by the gypsies, who would be dully suspicious come the discovery of Juan�s body the following morning.

Fragrance overwhelmed me as I entered through the broken gate, stepping over the stones scattered among the greenery that flourished in the monastery. The flowers were in bloom, bathing me with their scent as I lowered the hood of my cloak. He was already there. I could sense his presence, smell the arrogance in his aspect, hear faintly the slapping of his glove against his hand as he waited impatiently. I appeared in the doorway and he turned abruptly, his hair tousled as though he had been running fingers through it. His eyes darkened with pleasure at the sight of me, following the subtle movement of my hand as it unhooked the strap of my cloak and tossed it aside. I had chosen black for my attire, and it rippled around me as I approached.

�I almost believed you would not come.�

�I was detained.�

I slid my hand up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. Catching the end of his cravat, I pulled it loose, baring his neck to the growing darkness. His blood was stirring in his veins. I could feel it pounding beneath my fingertips as he pushed me against the cold stone and tasted my lips. I allowed him to lavish in them, entwining his hands in my dark curls. His lips went to my neck. I opened my eyes, mouth parting just enough to reveal a glimmer of white beneath their redness, and said softly, �Juan? Do you remember when we came here last?�

Pulling back slightly to appraise my expression, he took on a form of amusement. 

�Yes. You said that one day you would kill me.�

I laughed delightedly and he joined in, disconcerted with my mirth. �I did, didn�t I?� I said, keeping hold of his collar. Leaning forward to softly kiss him, I whispered, �You never did believe me.�

I might have used my influence then and there, but I had no desire to tame him. I wanted him to fight and allowed his mind to remain clear. He had no warning, only a glimpse a burning blue flame in my eyes before I drove my teeth into his neck. He gave a strangled cry and attempted to fight me off, but my strength was superior to his, shoving him back against the opposing wall. Rage flowed through me, remembering the many betrayals he had forced upon me. Only when he stopped struggling and slumped in my arms did I stop my relentless quest for blood. I let him fall to the floor and stood over his body as it cooled, hatred gleaming out through every gesture and subtle movement.

I stood there with one hand closed into a fist, turning only when the count entered the ruin. He was as rapid and soft footed as a phantom, his cloak unfurling as one lean, beautiful hand reached out to grasp my shoulder. The streets passed beneath our rapid footsteps, my hand enclosed in his, cloaks rippling behind us as we ascended the outer stairs of the hacienda. A voice called out to us from below, plaintive, the voice of my sister in law, but was ignored. The door slammed and locked in our wake, cloaks falling to the floor in a single motion as he took me into his arms. He slowly lifted his head, and such a look was in his eyes that it almost frightened me, a glimpse of raw triumph that melted into satisfaction as he kissed me. It gave me such dark inspiration that resisted just enough to speak. �There is one thing yet we must do,� I said, and when I had told him, the wickedness of a delighted smile passed over his remarkable countenance.

The following morning, when the priest that had so insulted my family through the denial of offering them communion shut the parish door and came out into the brilliant sunlight to make his usual visit to the church, he stumbled over a cold body on the doorstep; the body of his greatest financial contributor; the body of Juan Torres.

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