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The Vengeance Dracula
At St. Agatha�s Crypt stands a statue of the blessed saint, her arms outstretched as if beseeching the masses, her empty stare serenely revealing nothing. She stands atop a thick marble base in the center of the well-tended gardens, merely steps away from the cemetery but entirely separated from it. There is nothing to disturb the peaceful atmosphere of this place, a fact Father Torquemada found particularly compelling�then, of course, there is the minor issue of the diminutive bronze box of offerings he unlocked periodically and personally benefited from. But it stands at the far end of the garden, away from St. Agatha�s gaze. In truth, it is closer to the crypt itself, a massive stone structure locked behind wrought iron. On this night, however, he finds the gate open, the dull light of a single candle flickering from within. He descends the aged steps without haste, careful not to make a sound, but I can hear the frenetic beating of his heart long before he speaks. He does speak, for in the crypt he sees a solitary figure dimly illuminated by the tallow glow, leaning gently against the decaying stone. �I thought I was alone,� he says calmly. His chest rises and falls rapidly but his eyes remain steady, unnerved. �I see I was mistaken.� �We are never alone in this life,� I contradict him, �Or in the next, arguably. Even now we are surrounded by � � I turned to inspect the sepulcher I stood against; it bore no name. �Only God knows. Still, it is an encouraging thought, do not you think so? I have seen five of Saint Francis�s hands across Europe. And now I stand in St. Agatha�s crypt with one holy man and the remains of many others. All this sacred company!� �It is the stench of death, nothing more,� he replies flatly, making a motion as if to leave. �Perhaps it will seem accommodating to you.� Silence fills the distance between us as he gazes at me, defying me to respond, foolishly confident for one so vulnerable. I pause. I smile benevolently and overlook his words. �You come here often enough. In that vault you keep the profits you collect every week from the vestry.� Now it is his turn to pause. He stares at me and makes no attempt to hide his astonishment, raising his hand to his mouth without noticing his action. I cross my arms and nod slightly. �It would be foolish to keep it anywhere else, I quite agree with you.� �Who are you?� he breathes. �Surely you know,� I answer softly. �Or do you not believe the stories you tell your own parish?� His instincts begin to scream in defense; he takes one step backward, then another, groping blindly along the shadowy contours. �I suppose it is enough for you to spread them,� I say coldly, detachedly observing as he trips over the lowest step and falls gracelessly, bringing him on level with the only open vault, alarmingly empty. The sight of it causes him to gasp. �Ah, you do remember,� I exclaim pleasantly. �I had feared otherwise, but am happily proven wrong. She never developed the same affection for this place you have.� He makes no answer but I see the unspoken question in his eyes, which are open wide. �Oh yes, I know all about it; you may cease to stare at me like a wounded goat. It was highly efficient of you to lock Sister Teresa in the vault after she threatened to unveil your financial habits, though I wonder how your saintly patroness would view this use of her crypt?� �Stop!� he cries, �I implore you, stop. Whatever you want, you may have it. Take it and leave, but do not touch me.� He shrinks back as I stand over him disgustedly. �Do not touch you!� I mock disdainfully, �Contaminate your purity? As tempting as that sounds, I am afraid you have done that entirely on your own.� �What is this,� he murmurs abstractedly. Reason has abandoned him; he is brought to reckoning now. �Vengeance? Defending her honor?� He interrupts himself and laughs, dry peals spewing into a choking frenzy. He is mad, I think, and step back. He is thoroughly enjoying this now, for he props himself up and continues. �That scheming little slut who would parade herself as a countess when her union with you is neither legal nor lawful?� �It is enough that she is mine.� �She killed Torres, didn�t she?� He leans forward slightly, forming his words with bitter clarity. �Your whore. She did it to spite me.� �Do not flatter yourself,� I advise, my tone dangerously low. �He had merits of his own.� My left hand flexes slightly; I clench it again. I would delight in his death, delight in it fully; I would watch his mouth gape in wordless anguish before it was eternally silenced. He reaches for something beneath his soutane, and in one fiery moment it has erupted�the tiny phial he smashed against the floor, the burst of liquid, the hand that instinctively lifted to prevent any of the holy water from reaching my face. My other hand is outstretched, my voice imperiously shouting �Arsură!� before I could even consciously think of it. The liquid dissolves rapidly, evaporating into blazing sparks that descend upon the huddled mass on the floor, provoking him to cry out in pain as much as fury. �You have broken her heart,� I say simply, �I shall have to take yours instead.� In a movement entirely too rapid for his eyes to follow, I reach into him deeply and remove it, so swiftly that the slick tearing noise seems to slice through the silence after it is over. It is still beating in my hand, warm and strong, pumping blood that has no purpose except to spurt out steadily, spilling onto him as I hold it before him. Except for its torn capilaries, it is still intact, whole, and he recognizes it, for one agonizing moment of sickening realization before his eyes become cloudy and sightless. She is waiting for me outside the crypt; I see her silhouette against the statue. Her hands are also outstretched, beseeching, expectant. The heart of Father Torquemada has become chilled and frozen disappointingly fast, yet I place it in her open palm. She holds it aloft, turning it gracefully within her deft fingers. Kelantha takes the heart and approaches St. Agatha, gazing at her stony features before putting the organ in the saint�s open hands. It stays there securely, an offering to the night. She remains standing before it, smiling ever so slightly, not looking at all like one who is about to flee a city. She looks rather as if the earth itself lay open to her.
This fan fiction is for enjoyment purposes only. You may not reproduce, duplicate, or otherwise quote the written text without written permission.
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