Prince of Darkness

Kelantha

It was so reprehensible that I could not fathom it, and yet it maintained truth, the vision of my husband melting in from the darkness that I had so readily embraced; the lifeless form of our son clasped against his chest, his features stricken with an emotion that I can only express as utter helplessness. I knew before I touched him that he was dead, our beloved son, for his posture was such that none could have survived. His limp hand was icy to my trembling fingers. Such suffering I had not experienced before that night; it welled within me like some dreadful tide, as my husband passed me in the passage, carrying our child to his final repose within our magnificent bedchamber.

The coffin was closed and the body placed upon it, stark against the rich scarlet tapestry. Dracula stood before him, hands resting on either side of our child, staring down into the face that would never again beseech us to pay him heed. I stood in the background, knowing not to intervene on this moment between them, hardly knowing how I gathered the strength to stand. There was nothing but blinding sorrow before me. �How?� I asked faintly, and he need not have even answered, for the nimble hand that stretched toward the still-open window was all the response required. I ran to it, thrusting my head into the darkness and gazed down, where on a rock below the moonlight glinted off the blood that still glistened there.

Sturdy hands pulled me back from the window, where I might have flung myself after him, and it was not until I felt their grip tighten that I began to fight. I turned upon him in a sorrow-driven rage, cupping my palms into fists and pounding against his chest like an angry child, as a torrent of words poured forth. I accused him of being responsible, of allowing our child to die due to his pride, of how he had lead Mihail astray with his talk of immortality and how the family was �set apart� from the townspeople. Through it all, my husband did not speak. He did not even attempt to fight me in return, but allowed me to abuse him however I might. This did not decrease my frustration but fueled it. No doubt he expected me to lapse into hot, angry tears, but that had never been my way. Not even when my brothers had smashed my priceless doll in the street beneath a passing dogcart had I cried, merely gathered up the pieces and quietly buried them in the garden.

That doll had always reminded me ominously of something that I now knew was a prophecy of our loss. I thought of my sudden restlessness that day, the strange emotion I had experienced in sleep, as though my son had come into the room and gone out again. I now understood that he had, that the dream of his hand resting against my cheek was a reality, that his whisper of intending to remain with us forever was a foreshadowing of his doom. He believed he was immortal, that through a sacrificial danger he might ascend to the higher plain in which his parents dwelled. The nimble boot had crept out onto the ledge, fingers stretching for handholds. I shut my eyes as I saw it all; the foot slip, the hand follow it, the look of utter terror on his innocent face as he plunged to his death.

Dracula gripped my wrists firmly and held me to his chest in comfort. I could not understand his utter calm, the coldness in his embrace, and pulled away from him. Catching up the nearest item of value, a priceless vase from the Ming dynasty, I hurled it at his head. Astonishment did not halt his rapid movement as he ducked, and it shattered against the wall behind him, its broken fragments scattering across the floor. �Oh, God,� I uttered, covering my face with my hands. �This is what he meant. It is all because of you! Our son is condemned to Hell because of you!�

�Of what do you speak?� he demanded. There it was, a spark of passion to his voice, of rage threatening to build. I welcomed its coming, for it would justify my own insane grief. I removed my hands to look at him, hatred seething through every fiber of my being.

�He came to me that night, and told me terrible things. He told me that you traded your soul for eternal life, that you granted it into his keeping. That in return, he promised you a companion, and a child. That child�s body has been broken, his limbs rearranged, the last breath of life passed from his form. It cannot be restored, for life cannot be granted when death has already ascended. If he were any other child, his soul�s ultimate destination would be assured. But he is the son of a vampire, the child of the Transylvanian Prince of Darkness. His is eternally damned because of you. Because it is your immortal blood that flows through his veins, because of all that you taught him, all that you lead him to believe.

�What was it you craved, my husband? Eternal life was not enough, but that you desired some semblance of normality to accompany it? You have slaved your entire life for what now lies dead before you.�

I could see the rage building in him, flooding through his every movement until it became threatening and ominous; it seemed to stretch his height and increase his width, and anyone else would have been appropriately terrified. I had lived with Dracula, known his most intimate touch, shared in his blood. I was not afraid of him, though I should have been. My rage made me irrational and thoughtlessly, I pointed to the body.

�Behold,� I said, �your grand achievement.�

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