"This floor's clear, Diane. We can go up to the top level," Stan muttered as they met at the stairway. It was an elegant mansion: a
dacha
for a party official in the Ceausescu regime. Built around an elegant, three story entryway featuring a crystal chandelier, the ample dwelling had space for a large retinue, but now it was rather empty with drop cloths covering the furniture. Wan sunlight filtered in through the windows; they would have to find the vampire soon or else he would rise before they could destroy him. Destroying a vampire at rest was far easier.
Flashlights illuminated their way up to the third floor: the last level for them to investigate. The darkness was deeper here. Stan turned, pointed left and right, and whispered in Diane's ear, "Same as before: you take the high road and I'll take the low road." Before they could separate, a figure detached itself from the shadows and spun Stan over the rail; his cry of surprise sailed down to be broken on the floor forty feet below. Diane raised her cross; it was batted over the rail and a black gloved fist separated her from consciousness.
She awoke naked in an oven like room. Lying on a simple bed, her ankles were shackled on a short chain and her wrists were manacled to a long chain that ran through a pulley in the ceiling and then off toward a drum toward the center of the huge dungeon. Fearful implements hung on the wall indifferently, promising cruel unspecific horrors should they be employed. A hooded figure sat on a chair to her right. Seeing Diane awake, it rose.
Heavily accented English with the lilt of a Romance language sang in Diane's ears. "Good evening, Diane van Helsing. Daughter of Joseph, son of Jacob, son of Isaac, son of Abraham the destroyer of Vlad Tepes, better known as Dracula. I am afraid that your companion, Mr. Stanley Harker, will not be joining us; he met with an
unfortunate
accident. He was--delicious. Now it is time for us to pursue this evening's agenda. If you will stand for me, please." The figure walked to the drum and cranked it, pulling Diane's arms up over her head. She rose awkwardly in bonds that permitted a some motion but not complete freedom. Her hands were pulled high over her head without straining, and her breathing increased as the figure came close to her vulnerable torso.
He approached her with a lash. "Now you will pay for your little crusade," the voice hissed with a sharp edge. "Many of the wise and noble have met their doom at the hands of your family, and your intent tonight was to end my existence. Vengeance on the name van Helsing will now be played out on your flesh." The lash sang out: Diane's body jumped in response to the pain, but she resolved not to cry out. Remorselessly and impassively he flogged her, the whip working back and forth across her body, turning her entire back and legs into a nest of angry red trails. Diane was lost in the pain, just when she thought her body was totally consumed by flame, the merciless lash found a new place to burn her. Somehow, she managed not to scream although tears coursed rivers down her cheeks.
At length the lash fell to the floor. A black gloved hand traced figure eights on her breasts, pausing to tweak her nipples. The cowl provided a contour of the face: aquiline, with a proud nose and sensitive lips. The hand moved up to trace the tall neck, the cleft of the chin, the fine cheekbones. She breathed heavily and winced as the hand found sensitive spots. The voice began calmly: "No screaming? Very well, I am disappointed, but you are made of stern stock. Very beautiful stock as well, I must say." The gloved hand traveled to caress her features as he described them. "Such as beautiful, tall neck, strong arms, delicate hands, graceful sides, teardrop breasts that fit my hands so nicely." He gave one a squeeze and brought a moan from Diane. "A flat, well defined stomach, thin waist, apple hips sweeping down to an elegant blossom between your legs." Some attention there was repaid by moans, "You like my attentions, don't you? Centuries of practice: you might say I wrote the book. Strong, curvaceous legs that travel to elegant feet and dainty toes." The figure brought one foot inside the cowl; Diane shuddered as she felt a cold, wet tongue glide lovingly over her big toe. The gloved hands worked their way back upward again. "This is a rare pleasure, Diane van Helsing. Tonight is a night you will not forget."
The figure threw back the cowl: the head could have been a Roman God, with a mass of dark hair, olive skin that was not quite defeated by vampiric pallor and deep, brown eyes surrounded by the bloodshot whites of the vampire. Diane eyes bulged in horror as she thought: "Okay, this is where I get it in the neck."
Glamorie
, the vampire's hypnosis took her and batted aside her resistance. A cold kiss tenderly enveloped her lips, and trailed down her neck. The hint of the razor sharp incisors faintly dinted her flesh: on her neck arteries, on her ivory chest, down the swelling of her breasts, on her pink nipples, across her flat stomach. The face smiled and approached her navel: a questing ice-cold tongue probed the indentation, moving outward in slow circles until it ascended the summits again. The gloves came off: delicate hands with thin fingers began to caress the petals of her blossom interrupted by an occasional light scratch. The cold touch soothed her hot red lash marks, enchanting away the remnant sting of their making. Diane's breathing was growing more rapid: from a disjointed consciousness, she couldn't believe how this was exciting her, but primal sensations were overwhelming her. The bud was trapped by two sharp nails: the edges pinched but did not perforate. Her body started wriggling beneath his touch, the chains making a staccato tarantella as she spasmed with delight. Places were exchanged: the sharp thin fingers quested upward to trail a path between two pale white peaks while the icy tongue probed the blossom below. The effect didn't take long; Diane surged wildly as her climax took her, the chains clanging their harsh ecstacy for several minutes before diminishing to a rare chink. She hung there by the chains, her body unable to support her weight.
The figure went back to the drum to lower her to the bed. He flung off his robe, revealing a form once handsomely muscled and well endowed, olive skin fighting pallor. He entered her abruptly; she responded to his chill with hot enthusiasm. On a level of disjointed consciousness she thought: "Oh my God, he's fucking me with an icicle," but the chill provoked her more than it deadened her. He scratched red trails into her sides as he rode her. She reached the summit again; he flipped her over and penetrated her dark rosebud, teasing her blossom and her breasts once again with his sharp, thin fingers. After several minutes, she peaked and subsided a third time and he held her, savoring the seeping trails of red as she faded into a deep sleep. Convinced of her deep slumber, he got up, dressed, released her and carried her upstairs.
An old fashioned wind up alarm clock rattled Diane awake. The dim moonlight displayed five in the morning. She looked around; she was lying on a four poster bed dressed in a white silk negligee that reached the floor when she stood up. Her body was sore; muscles and nerves complained from their abuse, and faint wispy trails of red lined the gown. A candle stood on the night stand with a box of matches; she lit the candle and looked around. It was a bedroom out of a gothic novel: luxurious, filled with noble, ancient furniture and objects d'art. The room was a little cold; she was naked except for the gown. The door beckoned: she turned the handle and went into the hallway.
Across the hall, was a door with a faint light beneath it. Softly, she crept across and turned the handle silently. It was a huge library, crammed with two stories of books around three walls. A large picture window gave a stunning vista of the eastern horizon, full of stars and hints of Bucharest's lights. A figure sat in an overstuffed chair facing the window. The light came from a dying fire in a small fireplace. A voice said, "Come over, pull up a chair, and let us talk."
Diane's her bare feet crept tentatively across the polished wood floor. The vampire was sitting at the chair staring out the window. He was dressed as a guest at a Victorian dinner party, with a silk tie and pearl cufflinks. "Please, sit down and do not be afraid. Help yourself to a glass of very fine port on the sideboard." Reaching the window, she paused to regard him: this
was
the man who was torturing her earlier. "If I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead. Get yourself a drink: you need it, my child. I will wait for you."
Diane crossed to the sideboard where a sparkling crystal decanter three quarters full of dark fluid and a glass rested. She took a sniff of the liquor, filled the glass and sipped it. Relishing the flavor, she took a larger sip and moved a small chair to face the vampire. She said, "Why am I here? This is a surprising turn of events."
The vampire looked at her curiously. "How do you mean, surprising? Oh, that we would be having this entertaining chat after what has transpired between us? Yes, I imagine you thought your awakening would be quite different this morning. It is my desire that we have this little colloquium this morning before the end."
