Blood Atonement

by Sara Saint John

Genres: Paranormal; Gothic; Vampires; Historical Fantasy; Historical Romance

Synopsis

The Book of the Damned reads “Know ye this – a Merciful God hath provided release from the damning curse of vampirism. If the creature be righteous, loving truly and truly loved in return, he may save his immortal soul. God may grant he become human once more.

Szeretni spends her days translating occultic text and her nights dreaming of romance. Shunned by Society because of family madness, she despairs of finding a man who will share her life. Then she meets the enigmatic Baron Corvinus and she dares to hope love has found her at last.

Once great King Matthias Corvinus has lost his faith in love. Three hundred years before, aided by his queen’s betrayal, Vlad Dracula changed him into a vampire. When Matthias finds himself drawn to the innocent Szeretni, he wonders is she too will betray him, or if he will gain peace for a brief moment in his never-ending lifetime.

When Dracula again makes his presence known, Matthias must face his past. Should he save the woman he’s come to love before Vlad makes her his prey?

What happens when a vampire is granted his greatest desire at the worst possible time?

 

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Release date: November 28, 2023

Publisher: Crossroad Press

Print pages: 305

Sample

Prologue

Hungary - 1476

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His prey was near now, just beyond the river.

Moving with the stealth of a seasoned soldier, the wolf wound his way through ice-covered tree trunks toward the gray stone castle. His large paws splashed through the frigid Danubian waters. His claws found purchase in frozen soil as he clamored up the bank and shook the excess moisture from his coat.

Frosty breath framed his head in an obscure halo.

Yes, there…visible through the trees…his destination.

Releasing a throaty growl of anticipation, he leapt forward, moving faster, faster, his lengthening strides devouring the distance to victory. His heart beat stronger, hammering against his ribs as he concealed himself deep within the foliage lining one castle wall. Sharp lupine ears caught the sound of voices from a window high above him, voices raised in anger. The wolf’s mighty jaws stretched in a loathsome imitation of a smile.

Vlad Dracula threw back his head and released his howl of triumph.

 

***

 

Howls rent the fabric of the night, breaching the glazed windows of Matthias’ bedchamber, and his eyes narrowed at the sound. The wolves were back. Their presence puzzled him. Wolves weren’t wont to brave the nearness of men, yet these wandered the castle grounds like scouts for an unknown commander. True, the winter had been harsh. Scores of hungry mouths taxed castle granaries to their limits. Due to the lack of fodder, prey was scarce. Hollow bellies made predators bold—nothing unusual in that—yet he sensed a menace in their manner, a menace unnatural to the noble beasts.

Matthias chuckled. Unlike others in his kingdom, he held naught with the superstitious local myths. Wolves were merely God’s creatures, not demons hidden within shaggy pelts hoping to devour men’s souls. Ghosts, werewolves, and vampires did not exist.

Now silence reigned, save for the crackling of torch flames as they sputtered and flared, their uneasy dance throwing malevolent shadows on wood-paneled walls. Matthias turned away from the window. Anger held safety; he knew that well. Well-placed ire could sear away the pain of betrayal. Wrapping himself in familiar rage, he began to pace, his steps consuming the cold stone floor as the hated thought whirled through his mind like a dervish: His beloved Beatrice was a whore.

His fists clenched. Skin stretched white and taut across his knuckles, causing heavy gold to press into his flesh. On the ring’s signet, ravens flew relentlessly over a chevron field to form the Corvinus coat of arms. It brought to mind his station, his cage. King of Hungary; of late the title bound him as tightly as constricting sadness bound his heart.

Matthias forced his gaze to a commissioned tapestry, only recently finished. He studied it in silence. The depicted scene defined gallantry. Sewn into the cloth in intricate detail, valiant crusaders galloped off to rid Hungary of the despised Turks. One knight dominated the rest. Mounted on a rearing gray charger, bright silver threads formed his armor, with accoutrements of the purest white. The artisan had captured a look of faith in the knight’s dark eyes. Faith that twisted

the knot of emotion coiled in Matthias’ gut.

Words tore from his throat, hoarse and demanding. “What say you, Father? Were your efforts to place me on the throne well met? True, I am king, but at what cost? Politics demand I stand idle while my vixen queen ruts with every man in my kingdom. She expects me to do nothing. I must act. I am a man.”

His fist struck the tapestry, hitting the wall behind it with bone-jarring force. “The pope will grant me annulment or, by Christ’s shroud, the wrath of Janos Hunyadi’s son will sear them all. To that I do swear.”

Matthias bowed his head. Taking deep breaths, he fought to regain his composure, pushing his anguish down deep inside, shielding it with determination. Raising his head, he stared at the knight. “No. I am king. This weakness cannot be allowed.”

“My Liege?”

He turned. “You will knock before entering my private chamber.”

Beatrice stood in the doorway, still and small in the face of his anger. “Forgive me for interrupting your leisure, but the message I bear is of great importance.”

Studying her, he allowed a façade of indifference to mask his emotion. Lucifer was said to have been the most beautiful of God’s angels. She appeared the image of innocence, this wife of his, chastely dressed and innocuously sweet of face. Perhaps her eyes held the truth. Eyes were said to be the windows of the soul, yet these held no deception in their turquoise depths, only sadness…or regret.

He frowned. Could she be virtuous? They had been happy once, their days filled with laughter and council, and their nights fueled with the passion of their mingled flesh. Had but a few months gone? It seemed a lifetime past.

He covered his uncertainty by pouring himself a tankard of wine. A toast came to him, and he laughed aloud at the irony. Isten adni bort, buzat, bekesseget, szep asszony feleseget!—God give you wine, wheat, peace, and a beautiful woman for a wife, the saying went. God help him, she was beautiful. But was she faithful? Or did the rumors hold truth? Had

 she really betrayed him?

That night had been dark, the corridor dimly lit, but when he’d discovered them, he could see they were embraced. What else could he think? He’d made the accusation. Crying, his queen denied the charge. She’d fallen to her knees to beg his understanding. Not forgiveness…understanding. But how could he understand? One casual embrace, and she had ruined everything. His judgment, his trust, and his very life.

Matthias glared at Beatrice, who awaited his whim with downcast eyes. “I loved you once, do you know that?” he said.

“But no longer.”

“I will not be made the fool.”

“Even if you are the one who does the making?”

“Be careful. I am king. I hold your future in my hands.”

“You once held my heart in your hands. You might still, if truth be told.”

The sincerity of her response soured the taste of his wine. He took a gulp, swallowed, then gave vent to a loud belch. “Pardon me, Wife. My stomach curdles to hear ‘truth’ cross your lips. Know you the meaning of the word?”

Beatrice lost all vestige of timidity. She drew herself taller, to replace fear with unexpected courage. “I know this, My Liege, you are the only man to ever claim my body. The soldier you saw me with, the man you deem the cause of my betrayal, was my former lover—in the sense that once I did hold affection for him. Before politics made me your queen. But I never consummated that affection. Instead, I did my royal duty. I married the king. I even began to love you, cruel-hearted villain that you are.”

He masked a sharp intake of breath. Even now it pleased him to hear her speak of the emotion. He must harden his resolve.

“You had no reason to banish Gyorgy. I met with him because he deserved the release of his heart. He learned the truth that I loved you. But you’ve taken my love and thrust it away with your vile accusations. So I will lock it away in this prison of my body, where you can no longer reach it. Be at ease, My Royal Husband, I will continue to do my duty.

Be even pleased, My Liege. For you see, I will soon bear you a child. After that, my future is mine to do with as I will.”

“And whose child would it be? Mine or his?”

She met his glare. “I almost wish it were his child.”

He quaffed the last of his wine and gave her a mocking bow. “Take heart, My Queen, I will not soil your good name. Cuckoldry or no, I accept the child as my own. An heir will bode well for the kingdom.”

“You take heart, My Liege. I may yet beseem your high opinion of me.” She held out a scroll and inclined her head with frigid formality. “With your permission, I shall leave you to read it in peace.”

He waved a hand at her, dismissing her with casual cruelty. Whore—beautiful, beloved whore—it was what she deserved.

And now she would give him a child.

Matthias broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. He frowned at the feel of it, the leather soft, supple in his hands, as if it were made of human skin. Animated with a life of its own, it seemed to move within his grasp. Foolishness. Move, indeed.

The written words were simple and stunning:

Vlad Dracula, Voivode of Wallachia, is dead.

Rumor—images of horror flashed through Matthias’ mind at the mention of Vlad’s name. He pictured the dark-haired, black-eyed prince seated at a long table set up in the middle of a field, a devil surrounded by a forest of stakes. Upon each stake a body writhed, struggling to relieve—please, God, for an instant—the intense pain of dull wood tearing flesh. Carrion birds feasted on the impaled, their cries joining the shrieks of pain and terror hovering on the wind. Amidst the horror, Vlad calmly eating his evening meal.

Dracula, son of the

Dragon, his very name rang appropriate. So, now the demon-spawn danced in the flames of Hell, where he belonged.

As the Order of the Dragon, Dracula’s knights were once the definition of nobility. So noble they chose to ignore the voivode’s atrocities, else they offend him.

“Why, Vlad?” Matthias asked aloud. “Why impale thousands on wooden pikes? Did you feed on their pain? Or did you have some obscene thirst for blood?”

Madness to have allowed the fiend to marry his sister. Now her danger came from a different front. Matthias called for a soldier. “Take an armed escort to Buda. Bring Helena and her son immediately back to Visegrad. Say nothing of her husband’s death. Just bring them, and quickly!”

The man scurried to do his bidding. Matthias prayed to God he would be in time. The Turks were as wily as Lucifer, and royal family members made valuable hostages. He had put his sister in danger once, by agreeing to a marriage that surely doomed her to a life of torment. She claimed love for the man, but surely Dracula had bewitched her. Now she was free—if his men got to her in time.

He watched from the window as his soldiers departed, taking in sensory details that shook him in their strident clarity. Hooves clattered on stone, and it sounded like the breaking of bones. Horses neighed with the plea of a woman’s screams. Armor clanked, and it seemed the very gates of Hell had opened, and Satan’s army was coming for him.

Matthias wiped the sweat from his upper lip and managed a chuckle. “The great conqueror of Europe acts the skittish eunuch—the gold my enemies would give to see me now.”

A strong hand closed on his shoulder, and he spun to meet the threat.

“You look taken aback, old friend. Have you no words of welcome for an ally so recently returned from battle?”

Matthias stepped back. Casually, his hand grazed his side as he sought his sword and found nothing. Buta! Fool! He glanced at the peg by the door where his shining silver scabbard hung, useless. “So. The report erred. You live.”

Vlad pressed his palm against the rich brown velvet covering his heart, his face a caricature of exaggerated regret. “I do confess my hurt at your lack of concern. Those bloodthirsty Turks were set on separating my head from

my neck.”

A vast improvement, Matthias thought. “Curious you should mention that. Word has it that, even now, your head is on its way to the sultan at Constantinople. Yet you escaped death. How?”

“Ah, I was more bloodthirsty than they. I disguised myself in Turkish dress and marched within their ranks. I even drank to my own defeat as they celebrated their victory over the fearsome Son of the Dragon. Cunning, wouldn’t you say?”

Matthias frowned. “You rattle on like a bolond. I ask you once more, how did you escape death?”

“Idiot, am I?” The sturdy timbers above their heads shook with Vlad’s laughter, preternaturally loud, inhuman.

Matthias felt the hairs stir on the back of his neck, the familiar quickening of his senses in the face of danger. His battle-trained body tensed, but he managed to remain still, showing haughty disdain as he fought the urge to lunge for his sword. Not yet.

Dracula’s eyes shone with giddy knowledge. “I did not escape death, I am Death. I am murony—the vampire.”

“You are mad.”

“Oh, be of good cheer. The Fates are with you. Your fondest desire is well met.” His voice darkened. “No need to take up that sword you have coveted so zealously since first my arrival.”

Throwing back the sleeves of his heavy damask coat, Matthias crossed his arms. “Do not flatter yourself. Had I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here spouting such lunacy. You are my sister’s husband. We are relieved at your safety.”

Vlad nodded slowly as he held Matthias’ unblinking gaze. “Then let us drink on it, Brother.”

“Very well, but only one. I have a matter of great importance to attend.”

“One will be quite sufficient.” Vlad moved to a table stationed under the tapestry. Keeping his back to the king, he picked up a pitcher and filled two pewter tankards with deep red wine: Bikaver—the blood of the bull. He pulled a knife from his tunic. Mocking eyes lifted to the “White Knight of Christendom” as he slowly drew the fierce blade across his

bare wrist.

Several drops of blood fell into the tankard to mingle with the wine. The ripples had not yet ceased to disturb its surface when he turned to hand the tainted drink to the king. “What should we drink to? Old times? Old adventures? Adventures yet to come, perhaps?”

Matthias took the tankard and lifted it. “Life. Let us drink to life.” He placed his lips on the rim.

Vlad’s eyes glowed as he watched him drink deeply. His lips drew back in a feral grin, revealing glistening white teeth. Taloned hands lifted his mug in salute. “Indeed. To life. Everlasting.”

The wine held liquid fire. It scalded Matthias’ tongue, spreading cruelly down his throat to set his lungs aflame. Throwing his tankard to the floor, he gasped for breath, stumbling against the wall for support. He choked and looked up at the hazy vision of a smiling Vlad. Laughter rang in his ears, to echo through his brain as if he were stuck in a bell tower with a monk gone mad. A salty flavor clung to his taste buds. Rotten, yet metallic.

Poison. The villain poisoned him. He must rid himself of its potency before it became too late. He forced himself to gag. Great tremors shook his body as he retched, but he couldn’t disgorge the cloying substance. Shaking his head, he tried to clear the gathering cobwebs from his mind.

Vlad’s bestial countenance swirled in and out of an inky blackness—in and out, advancing to threaten, withdrawing to advance yet again. And always the laughter. His vision cleared, and Matthias wished with all his warrior’s heart that it hadn’t.

The creature’s eyes flared with hatred as it spoke. “Now I have my revenge. For twelve long years, while my kingdom crumbled to nothingness, you kept me prisoner in Solomon’s Tower. For a false crime! And on the word of a Saxon! I am a Dracul, therefore sworn enemy to the Turks. You knew that. To believe I would make a secret alliance with them was beyond insult. It was blasphemy.” He kept opening and closing

 his fists, clearly longing to use his claws to rend and tear the flesh from Matthias’ bones.

Matthias strained against an agony that spread to his bloodstream. He fell to his knees, watching through the red haze of his pain as Vlad seemed to expand in malevolent triumph.

“Oh, how I relished the thought of this moment! Tell me, upon my release, did you think it atonement enough to make me captain of your Black Army? I used to rule my own country. Would you be satisfied serving under another? Especially a king whose blind stupidity tore away everything you valued? You left me with nothing.”

“I gave you Helena.”

“Ah, Helena. Suffice it to say you were right to regret the marriage. Did you imagine for a moment that I could love someone like her? She was such a sniveling little fool. As was the child.”

Matthias fought his way back to his feet. “Black-hearted spawn of Satan, what have you done? If you’ve harmed them in any way, I’ll kill you.”

“Will you not listen? I said I am already dead.”

The king took a step toward the evil prince, who gestured for him to stop. Matthias fell to the floor, this time surrounded by an immense heaviness. He felt encased in lead armor, unable to break free.

“I overheard your loving conversation with Beatrice. Pay close heed now, I bear news: your loving queen has left the castle. She waits for me at…well, no need to reveal her whereabouts, is there?”

Whore…and now traitor. Matthias shook with the need to grab the villain and stop the hateful words flowing from his misshapen mouth. He yearned for the sweet release of closing his hands around the bastard’s neck and choking the life from him.

“And to think I considered you a worthy adversary. This has been much too easy.” Vlad took a sip from his cup and lifted his brow in mocking. He licked the drink’s residue from his mustache and lips.

Reality crumbled and Matthias’ stomach lurched at the sight. The creature’s tongue was long, black, and forked like a serpent’s.

“Did you notice the wine had a more full-bodied flavor than usual? There’s good reason, old friend. I added an extra ingredient to the vintage, a very special ingredient indeed—the blood of Dracula. I see you are feeling the effect, a strange burning sensation as your body changes.”

Slowly walking around him, the villain taunted his helplessness. Matthias cursed his inability to move. Damn him it might, but he longed for a sorcerer’s power, the magical ability to shoot hatred from his eyes like a golden flame.

“Now for the last-best irony of your defeat,” Vlad said. “You’ve proven your love for wine in the past. I’ve seen you drink your men into the rushes. That ability will serve you well, for you must continue to drink through all time.” Dracula stopped, staring down into his face. “Oh, yes, one small detail must not be overlooked. Your new wine will be much stronger, much more satisfying. Your new wine will be the blood of mankind. Think not to substitute animal blood, it will not suffice.”

Was there no end to the prince’s ranting? Matthias strained to unleash his fury as the creature squatted down, gripped his chin between a taloned thumb and forefinger, and raised his gaze to meet one of gloating madness. It moved its hateful visage closer. Now they were nose-to-nose, an obscene parody of lovers.

“Honorable King Matthias. Such a righteous man. Pity you won’t be righteous any longer. Some may even call you cursed—no doubt you’ll see it that way. That is my revenge. My victory. For eternity you will exist as I exist. But you will not glory in the power as I do.”

Dracula spat the words into his face. “Do not cry out to your God for help. He will not hear you now. You are damned.”

A dawning sense of horror gripped him as Vlad’s words echoed his recent thoughts. Damned perhaps, but with no sorcerer’s power, no magic. He watched his enemy amble over to the window, break the glass, and step out into the night.

Matthias struggled across the floor, almost blacking out in the effort. Mere superstition. He refused to believe Vlad’s deranged claims of vampirism.

But his chambers were on the top level of the castle!

Grasping the stone, avoiding jagged shards of glass, Matthias pulled his leaden form

upright. No broken body among the foliage below. No trace of the insane prince. All he saw was a dun-colored wolf running through the darkness toward the Danube.

He sank back to the cold marble floor. Waves of weakness washed over him, pushing him toward oblivion. Toward death. Or could it be true? Was he, even now, becoming murony—the vampire?

Gathering the last of his strength, he spoke. “You were wrong, Vlad. You forgot one very important detail. I am king. If I be vampire, I will glory in the power.”

 

Chapter One

England - early 1815

---

Royal blue velvet guarded the windows, protecting the elite from the crude eyes of commoners. Candlelight glared from multifaceted chandeliers, a show of molten gold luminescence that threatened to melt the fine crystal cradling the wax. Liveried servants hurried to bring wine to thirsty gamblers as, cravats loosened and waistcoats unbuttoned, they wagered away their inheritances.

Baron Matthias Corvinus leaned back in his fine Louis XIV chair, oblivious to the studied elegance of his surroundings.

“‘Zounds! He’s done it again.” Polidori threw down his cards.

Matthias poured himself another glass of his deep red wine, using the action as cover as he watched to see how each of his companions would react to the creature’s infantile show of temper. Sir Afton did his best to ignore it, thus saving himself the embarrassment of acknowledging any outward show of emotion.

Byron laughed out loud. “Do close your mouth, Polidori, you’ll capture a fly. Why act as if this were a novelty? Whenever we have the dubious honor of gaming with the baron, we leave the table the worse for our wagers. Yet we continue to play. Tell me, Corvinus, are you amused at how green we are? Does verdigris suit me?”

“Naive, perhaps, but surely not verdigris. The pure stubbornness of human nature dictates you return to try for the brass. I count on it.”

“Glad to oblige.”

Matthias set down his glass. “Tell me, though. You grace an establishment such as Watier’s with your presence, yet everyone knows you deem this a dandies club. Do you fancy yourself among the dandies? Surely not a unique such as yourself.”

“You call me unique, yet you’re the fellow who defames the best houses in London by bringing his own special wine. It’s a grave risk you take—insulting these worthy proprietors.” Parodying Polidori, Byron pursed his lips in a pout. “And you will not even share.”

Sir Afton kept his expression bland. Matthias wondered if the lack of emotion was a facade the young knight used to hide the volatility of his true nature. Facades could hide a multitude of sins.

The knight lazed back in his chair, affecting the proper arrogant boredom. “All this talk of gaming—I have an itch to win. Gentlemen, I’ll make you a wager. Ten to one Corvinus has a prime article stowed away in his bedchamber. Odds are that, even now, she waits with supreme impatience for his return.”

Byron shook his head. “First cards and now ladies? No thank you, my friend. Tonight, I’ve lost considerable purse due to Corvinus’ damnable good luck, no need to forfeit my pride as well.”

Their banter lacked substance, but Matthias thought they made adequate company to mark the passing of another night. Afton’s mystery intrigued him, and Byron reminded him of the glory days, three hundred years before, at Visegrad and Vienna. Byron’s writing was superb. Matthias’ mouth twitched in a half-smile. Modern scholars called the

Corvinus reign Hungary’s “golden age of learning.” His weakness for poets and scholars had outlived five generations.

Doctor Polidori interrupted his thoughts with a low moan. “I’m all done up.”

Afton’s composure broke at last. A flush of embarrassment stained his face at his dubious choice of a gaming companion. Byron stared at the doctor with no attempt to disguise his disgust. Matthias looked at him with genuine boredom as he feigned a yawn.

Matthias’ eyes never left Polidori’s face as he drained the last dregs from his glass. Slowly, deliberately he set the glass on the table. Leaded crystal met polished wood with a musical ting. He made a show of wiping his mouth with a square of fine linen. Pupils dilated, he held the idiot’s gaze with his own.

Polidori’s swinish eyes watered as he strained to look away.

“I could force you to work off your wagers,” Matthias said. “Become my servant.”

Byron nudged Afton under the table, saying, “Protestant or not, the archbishop of Canterbury would grant the baron sainthood for saving England from Polidori’s doctoring.”

Polidori didn’t acknowledge the slur to his medical expertise. He remained paralyzed, trembling like a mouse in a King Cobra’s thrall.

Matthias frowned. “Trouble is you bore me. I refuse to suffer your presence merely to assuage a debt. Therefore, I will make a deal with you, Doctor. Since I do not need the money, and since you can ill afford to lose it, I consider the debt paid—on one condition.”

“Anything!”

“You will never enter a gaming house again.”

“Damn generous if you ask me,” Afton mumbled.

Polidori took a square of ornate lace from his sleeve and, with porcine fingers, clumsily began to mop at the sweat beading his upper lip. “I swear by all that is holy…I swear. You have my eternal gratitude, My Lord. You have saved me from ru—”

“Shut up, Polidori. You gibber like a baboon.” Matthias released the ape from his control.

He rose from his chair. “Gentlemen, I grow fatigued. Another night, perhaps.”

He hardly noticed when, like obedient subjects, the men hastened to stand. They watched in silence as he corked his wine and strode to the door. He gathered his coat from the servant and, with a whirl of its waist-length cape, made his exit.

The carriage moved swiftly through the unusually clear London evening. Soon Matthias was back inside his townhouse, where he shrugged out of his coat and handed it to his servant.

Anton’s eagerness to please was stamped on his craggy face. “Your evening was pleasant, Mein Baron?”

Matthias allowed his mask of aloofness to slip as he looked at this subject. He was glad to have such a man, one who served so loyally of his own free will. Anton had taken no preternatural skills of persuasion to win over. One effortless rescue of the Austrian from a band of highwaymen and Matthias had gained the man’s eternal servitude—and unending friendship. Such a man would have made a good captain for his Black Army.

He shrugged in answer to Anton’s question. “Mediocre. I won so easily at the cards it was hardly worth the effort. And the petulant gibbering of a swine/ape hybrid interrupted our somewhat pleasant conversation. I want solitude. I trust nothing requires my attention?”

“A woman came to see you, Mein Baron. I sent her away.”

Nodding his approval, Matthias took the crystal decanter and wineglass from Anton’s outstretched hands and climbed the stairs to his room.

Standing before an open window, he drank in the beauty of the night-graced landscape. He drew strength from the darkness, yet what he would give to bask in the sun’s warmth once more. To stand in its rays without feeling the strength leeched from his body.

Lost in the yearning, he didn’t hear the woman approach from behind, but he caught her scent. Light from the fireplace softened the shadows. Its dim reddish glow painted the polished wood and marble with romantic ambiance. Her arms encircled his waist, and her hands moved up to caress the fine fabric covering his chest. The low rumble of Matthias’ growl grew steadily louder. An animal sound. Inhuman. His hand

closed like a manacle around her wrist, and he pulled the intruder around to face him.

“You are hurting me!”

His free hand reached to close on her throat. “Consider yourself fortunate I do not break your neck. Never touch me without my consent. You will find it dangerous.”

He caressed the silky skin. “Such a pretty neck. Such a shame to bruise it. Who let you into my bedchamber?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “I—I only wanted to surprise you. Please.” Her voice was breathless, fearful as he jerked her arm behind her back, crushing her pliant body against his. “Please, let me stay with you.”

Futile, really, to deny her. It would take a fool not to know what she wanted. Matthias was no fool. His mouth covered hers with brutal force, swallowing her pleas like a hungry panther devours its prey. She moaned. The sound spurred his excitement and his lips left hers. Using increasing pressure, he nipped her cheek, her chin and, finally, her throat. The woman arched her back, offering him better advantage of her creamy white skin.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please. Make love to me.”

Matthias’ eyes glowed with golden menace as he allowed the Change. Saliva shone on his sharp incisors in evidence of his hunger. Opening his mouth wide, he sank his fangs into her soft flesh, relishing the sweet-salt flavor of her blood. At once he was one with the tides of life pulsing through her veins. Dark passion surged through his body, drawing him to drink deeper, deeper, until he lost himself to its primal beat. Sucked down into a vortex of soulless darkness, he fed, unable to control the creature within him. Without desire to do so.

Lost to her weakening cries of passion, lost to the world around him. Her hand fell from his shoulder, knocking a vase from the nearby bureau. The crash of breaking porcelain jarred him back to reality.

The woman slipped from his arms and sank to the floor like a pile of discarded rags. Matthias stared at the blood staining her throat. Its heady taste taunted him, filling him with shame for what he was. By blood, had he killed again after all these years? He had vowed to deny himself the

pleasure of his vessel’s death.

Kneeling beside her, he felt for a pulse. Yes, there it was, faint, but beating nonetheless. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Taking a cloth from his vest, he wiped the crimson stains from her skin. Poor creature, so vulnerable in her swoon. He had sorely used her.

His heart hardened within him. He sent the mental command.

Matthias turned back to the woman’s still form. “So, I used you. Given enough time, you would find a way to use me. Then, woman that you are, you would betray me. Your kind always does.”

Anton knocked.

The servant raised not a brow at the sight before him. Anton’s stoic demeanor amused Matthias. He was usually more discreet with his lovers.

He motioned toward the bed. “Take her home. See she is well taken care of and be sure to leave her money for her pains.” He smiled wryly at the unintended pun.

“Anything else, Mein Baron?”

“Yes. The maid let her in. The servants here are not to be trusted, and although I’ve disguised myself as one of them, the counterfeit nobility of these so-called excellents is beginning to bore me. When you return, begin packing

We leave for home at next nightfall.”

***

 

Hungary – 1815

The sun shone intermittently through the branches above her head, alternating shards of light with pools of velvet shadow. Szeretni gave her mount free rein, and the spirited horse broke into a full run. She could see the stone fence that surrounded her home—they approached it with terrible speed. The horse’s powerful muscles bunched. It jumped and they cleared it with ease. Throwing back her head, she laughed. They were going too fast. The trees were too dense for such abandon, but the feel of the wind as it whipped through her hair exhilarated her.

Caught up in the wonderful mindlessness of the ride, she reveled in her escape. Escape from the endless hours of translating dark mysteries of the occult: her father’s fascination, not hers. Escape from the aching loneliness of being a disgrace—all from something she’d had no control of—something she would give her soul to change.

Szeretni looked down to loosen the ribbons at the neck of her crimson-colored riding dress. She only took her eyes from the path for a moment. It was enough. The impact knocked the breath from her as the branch knocked her from her horse.

Her world went black.

A peculiar sensation awakened her, as if something cold nuzzled her palm. Warm, soft wetness caressed her face. She opened her eyes to darkness. Struggling to sit up, she winced at the soreness in her hip. It felt bruised, not broken, and still moveable. Now that her eyes were open, she wanted to close them again, darkness against darkness to shut out the night. Bad things happened at night.

Mothers were killed at night.

A rustle of leaves startled her. Willing her eyes to adjust, Szeretni stared into the space between two tree trunks, wondering what lurked in the shadows. Did some creature lurk in the darkness, waiting for the right moment to attack?

Angel neighed softly. Tearing her gaze from the perceived threat, Szeretni looked toward her horse. The mare’s white coat glimmered in the moonlight, casting a phantasmic glow. Her reins were tied to the limb of a nearby oak—Angel stood safe.

Who tied Angel to the tree? Glancing around her, Szeretni felt fear bunch her stomach into knots. A pair of golden eyes shone like smoldering embers within the forbidding darkness. The eyes moved forward. A ghostly figure emerged from the shadows, materializing into a huge black wolf. Desperate, she searched for a rock, anything, to use as a weapon against the beast. She must stand up. Run. But her body refused to cooperate. She couldn’t get to her feet. The animal moved closer. A medium-sized stick was all she could find. Ignoring the sting of wood against flesh, she smacked it against her palm, hoping the creature would get the message and keep its distance.

It kept coming.

Digging her heels into the fragrant dirt, she scrambled backward across the forest floor. Her spine struck the hard bark of a tree. She could go no further. The wolf moved closer…and stopped, as if he knew the extent of her reach. Stunned, she watched as he dipped his head, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. His tongue lolled from between fierce

teeth, a shocking shade of pink against his ebony fur. Funny, but he looked as if he were teasing her. His mouth looked unexpected and bold, like a grin.

Fear dissolved into astonishment. There stood a dangerous beast, not ten paces away, and instinct told her to lay the stick on the leaf-carpeted ground.

The wolf trotted forward to rest his head in her lap.

Relieved, Szeretni laughed. “So, you are the one who woke me. Just like a handsome prince in an ancient fairy story, though yours was a warm, sloppy kiss.”

Stroking his soft fur, she gazed into his amber eyes. The bright intelligence shining from their depths spoke to her. Her soul replied in kind. She had to say something, nonsense, anything to diffuse the tension that crept up her spine at such an honest communication.

“Handsome animal, lamb in wolf’s clothing, that’s what you are. Pity you cannot talk. You could tell me who tied Angel to that tree. Chivalrous though you are, wolves are ill-formed for that kind of service.”

She paused to stare at her horse, mystery butterflies dancing in her stomach. If there were a man, he must have gone far away by now. Otherwise, the wolf would not rest here so calmly in a stranger’s presence. Unless it was his wolf. But then, surely a man who could tame such a fierce animal, replacing its wildness with such gentleness of spirit, would never harm her. She ran her hands over the beast’s sides, feeling strong muscle flex beneath his fur. The animal was in exceptional shape. Obviously, the man cared for him with great devotion. Szeretni felt a sudden yearning, deeming it a desire to care for the animal herself. She could love a noble animal such as this. Hugging him, she buried her face in musky softness. He smelled good, clean.

But he belonged to someone else…a man she would rather not meet under these vulnerable circumstances. Time for the wolf to go.

She placed her hand under his muzzle and kissed the spot just above his nose. “My home is beyond those trees,” she said, pointing to the east. “Perhaps you

will come visit me in the future?”

His warm tongue caressed her cheek in a wolfish kiss and a promise.

He rose gracefully to his feet and bounded away to melt into the Stygian darkness. Szeretni could not keep from pouting. Like the heroine in a fairy tale, she needed some enchantment in her life. Perhaps one heartfelt kiss on the lips and the beast would transform himself into a handsome prince. What a man he would make! A dark, muscular male with hair the same blue-black color his fur had been, with eyes the same unusual golden brown. But she had tried the kiss, had she not? It hadn’t worked.

Now able to stand, she brushed the dead leaves from her clothes, grimacing as she then ran her fingers through her wind-tangled hair. It was a slow, stiff walk to her horse. A large rock loomed nearby, and she blessed its presence, using it to climb onto her sidesaddle. A careful kick to Angel’s side and they moved toward home.

***

Szeretni finished her fortifying dinner of hagymas tokany alone. The spicy beef stew and crusty bread gave her a boost of energy and, though it was late, she wasn’t ready for the idea of going to bed. Her father was in his study, more than likely poring over a crumbling manuscript of ominous text. Rosza, her maid, was probably deep in divination. There was no one to tell of her wolfish adventure. After pouring herself a glass of sweet apricot brandy, she headed for her favorite room.

The gallery was long and narrow, its creamy damask walls lined with portraits of the more prominent of her ancestors. Fair Castilian Aragons watched her with pale eyes as she walked among them. Vitezes, the dark, more robust Hungarians marked her passing with their fathomless gaze. Szeretni ignored them. They were old friends. She stopped before her favorite portrait: Beatrice of Aragon, the fifteenth century queen. She felt an eerie kinship with the queen, one that went beyond their shared lineage. Beatrice’s life had also been fodder for gossips’ tongues.

Szeretni took a sip of the brandy. Its warmth loosened the knot forming in her throat. “Were the rumors true? Did you really leave your husband to run away with your lover? Whose child did you bear?”

She ran her fingers over the bottom of the gilded frame, smooth wood cool on her fingertips as she gazed up at the painted woman above her. “Father claims the stories were fabricated by castle residents as a way to pass a bitterly cold winter. He says they weren’t meant as malicious, but I disagree. Of course, they meant to hurt you. Why else spread slanders that destroyed the bond of your marriage?

“Father tries to see the best in everyone. Maybe that’s why he ignored the rumors spread about our own family after Mother died. Or perhaps his own grief bound him too tightly to notice Society’s cruelty.”

Szeretni’s eyes stung with unshed tears. “Any advice to give me, O wise ancestress? Can you foretell my future from the great beyond? I, too, bear my

 share of gossip. Once a man finds me worthy, the local harridans will rush to tell him about poor, demented Uncle Stefan. And my suitor will cast me away like damaged goods.”

“Tell me, was love worth giving up your crown?” She choked back a sob, studying the painting she knew by heart. “You don’t look deceitful. You only look beautiful.”

Portrayed on the day of her coronation, Beatrice’s hair was loose, and it fell to her knees, a crown of sable softness. Her creamy silk sarcenet gown reflected the light like a multi-colored gem. Golden flowers were embroidered at the neck, waist, and skirt. She wore a jeweled pendant, the famed Corvinus rubies, and they shone with a fiery brilliance matched only by the light in her eyes. Szeretni looked closer, wondering why she hadn’t noticed this before. Anger fired the sparks in Beatrice’s eyes, not love.

“Who made you angry? Was it your lover? Or perhaps your husband?” He, too, graced the portrait, standing regally behind her, his strong hand pressed on her shoulder as if to keep Beatrice in her seat. Obviously, they had just quarreled. What could he have said to her all those years ago? What would have been bad enough to make her leave him?

He didn’t appear cruel. She could imagine though, from his broad shoulders and muscular build, he’d made a formidable adversary. Adversary or lover, how had Beatrice felt? Szeretni shivered as she imagined her own King Matthias coming to her. She could feel herself dance with him, swept up in his embrace as they soared through the room, his strong arms around her as she gazed into his eyes. But there, fantasy stopped. What color eyes? Again, she looked to the painting, but could find no reference, no clue as to the details of the king’s face. She frowned, puzzling for what seemed the thousandth time over the painting’s one defect. The image of Beatrice was clear, concise, but the king’s image became cloudy and vague—exactly where his face should be. She stared to see past the blur, wondering about the man inside the king. What was his favorite food? Could he sing with any talent? What did he smell like? Taste like?

The thought of his lips touching hers made her feel strangely lethargic. The room tilted. Her head swam with dizziness. She reached out, gripping the painting’s gilt frame, trying not to panic. She’d been injured in the fall from her horse—had lost consciousness. Perhaps she was hurt more seriously than she realized. Or maybe the apricot brandy had gone to her head. The best place for her was a warm, soft bed.

She managed to climb the long, circular stairway without help. With halting steps, she traversed the dark, empty corridor to her room.

Rosza had left a candle burning to banish the darkness. Good Rosza—Szeretni smiled at the welcoming fire Rosza had built in the hearth. Odd, but she felt better, steadier on her feet. Her head no longer spun with that nauseating dizziness. She placed her glass, now drained of the brandy, on the bureau. And noticed the box.

The large dressmaker’s box waited in a chair near the fireplace. She grabbed it and tore off the lid. Inside, cushioned in velvet, was a perfect replica of the gown in the portrait. Beatrice’s gown. “So beautiful,” she whispered.

Moving to the mirror, she held the gown up against her to test the effect in its silvered glass. She had ordered the dress months ago, planning to wear it to her friend Anne’s All Hallows Eve ball. It would prove the perfect disguise. She had wondered what it felt like to be Beatrice. Now was her chance to find out.

Szeretni hung the gown carefully. There was a bundle of plain cloth on the wardrobe floor, pushed far to the back and hidden in its depths. Now she drew it into the open and unwrapped it, exposing to glittering candlelight a small circlet of gold (her crown) and a golden girdle to complete the dress. Passed down through her family for centuries, these were the only Aragon treasures to escape Napoleon’s greed. With a satisfied smile, she re-wrapped them and put them back in their hiding place. Finally, she had something to anticipate.

Szeretni drew back her bed’s satin spread, then changed into a pristine lace gown. A noticeable chill had crept into the October air and her teeth began to chatter. Removing the winter bedcover from the wardrobe's

top, she spread it across the bed and jumped beneath, sighing at the warmth of its weight. Unable to resist, she played her hands across the soft fur of her bedcover and remembered the feel of the wolf’s silky coat under her fingertips. How beautiful he was…ah, to tame the wild beast. She fell asleep and dreamt of wolves, handsome princes, and love.

The sound startled her awake. Szeretni sat up, searching the darkness for the noise’s source. A shaft of moonlight breached the terrace doors. There, revealed by its silvery glow, waited a man. Her breath caught at the sight of him. He stood without moving; could have been crafted from stone—except for the life blazing from his golden-brown eyes.

Hunger intensified his predatory stare.

Szeretni’s heart leapt to her throat. Scooting back against the headboard, she returned his stare, unable to look away. Now she knew how a hunted animal felt—afraid but defiant as, cornered, it turns to make a futile last stand. The man’s expression spoke volumes: like the animal’s, her defense would also be in vain. She clenched the fur in her fists and pulled it up under her chin. “Who are you?”

“Your prince.”

“Why are you here?”

“Do you not remember? You gave me the invitation.”

Szeretni loosened her grip on the fur. She managed to release it completely with one hand and began to smooth her palm back and forth across its soft surface, feigning a calmness she didn’t feel. She couldn’t let this man know he intimidated her. A show of fear might give him the upper hand.

As if he didn’t have the upper hand already, alone with her in her bedchamber, with no one within hearing distance if she cried out for help. He stepped closer. She felt a strange tingling at the base of her spine—a stronger, unrecognizable emotion to mingle with her fright. “I did not invite you here.”

He gave her a slight smile. “The invitation was valid. Think back, remember. You told me your home was through the trees. ‘Perhaps you’ll come 

visit me’ you said. It was all the invitation I required. Now I have a question for you. Why did you ask me here?”

“Told you where my house was? No…I told the wolf. Were you hiding in the shadows? Why didn’t you make your presence known?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“So the wolf is yours?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Who are you? Where do you live?”

He stepped nearer to the bed. “I can be whoever you want me to be. A prince, perhaps? Ah, but that is too easy. Give me more of a challenge.”

She felt the heat of a blush rise up in her face. He had overheard her silly talk with the wolf. She had let down her guard, safe or so she thought, with only an animal for company. Now she was open to ridicule. “You mock me.”

“No. Tell me, what would you have me be?” He sat down on the edge of her bed. The mattress dipped with his weight, leaning toward him.

His nearness overwhelmed her, clouding her ability to think. He smelled good, clean. Familiar. And what were the strange sensations tickling her spine?

He moved toward her. She shrank back. “What is your name?” he asked.

“I am Szeretni Maria Vitez.”

A laugh rumbled from his chest. “Szeretni is Hungarian for love—could it be an omen? Or just delicious irony?”

She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes in defiance. “I am proud of my name. My mother chose it—she said I was a personification of the love she and my father shared. She hoped my name would bring me luck. That it would bring me the same kind of love.”

“And has it?”

She looked away. 

“Not yet.”

He reached out to caress her cheek. At his touch, she shrank back, and his eyes filled with sadness. “Foolish of me to come here, but you charmed me with your talk of princes and fairy stories. How could I resist you?”

Szeretni’s breath escaped her. Her voice trembled when she dared to ask, “What do you want of me?”

“You gave the invitation. What do you want of me?”

She sat up taller, boldly meeting his gaze with her own. “I want you to leave.”

Matthias shrugged. “Very well, but rest assured, I shall return. That I promise you.”

She watched as he moved out onto the terrace. The moon went behind a cloud, and he vanished into the night.

***

 

Szeretni sat up, glancing wildly around her. A crash had awakened her, the sound of breaking glass, but she could see nothing to indicate the destruction’s source. Except…

…the terrace doors swung loosely on their hinges. Large shards of broken glass dripped from their splintered frames. The sight puzzled her—hadn’t she locked those doors? The wind battered and tore at the trees outside her bedroom, causing their branches to gyrate in a frenzied dance. At times the gusts wailed like a lost soul. Yet she knew the wind could never force the locks, they were strong and crafted from heavy iron. She felt certain she had locked them.

Then she remembered the stranger. His presence: so real, so compelling, and so handsome. In truth, it was his very handsomeness that negated his reality. He was a phantasm, the dream personification of her longing for a man to deem her own. He’d been the exact image of her wolf-prince, the way she’d imagined after his magical transformation, with blue-black hair, topaz eyes and all. He was only a dream.

Strange, how real he’d seemed. She could still feel his caress on her cheek, the brush of his skin on her own. She shivered as goose bumps prickled her flesh, goose bumps that had nothing to do with the chill October night. The memory. The unfamiliar sensations brought on by his nearness.

He said he would return. He promised. What if he didn’t come?

But what if he did?...