like visiting England, or even France or Italy.
This was Transylvania. They had started in Bucharest, explored Walachia before heading into Sighisoara and dining in the ancient home—now a restaurant—where Vlad Tepes, the man who’d become known as Dracula, had been born. They had strolled medieval towns, visited dozens of churches, heard about history and architecture. Their guides had all spoken English. The Romanians were no fools. Americans were willing to spend lots of money to travel, to feel a part of myth and mystery—and buy souvenirs.
There were twenty students in their group, and luckily everyone got on well. Even better, they had crossed paths with an international convention of psychologists a few days earlier, and one of them was Jessica Fraser, who he’d met when she’d given a lecture at school. She had spent her free afternoon with them, and even claimed to remember meeting him. He had to admit, he’d developed a little bit of a crush on her. In fact, compared to her, Mary had started to seem kind of shallow and not at all interesting.
He had an uneasy feeling about this invitation of hers, too. He’d heard a little about the kind of parties she was talking about. Rumor had it that on top of the usual bondage scene, they were run by a group of people who actually believed that they were vampires.
“Mary, I don’t like it.”
“Don’t be a wuss, Jeremy. I’m a journalism major. Think what I can do with this story.”
Mary’s idea of journalism had landed them in several uncomfortable situations already. For about six months, he’d had an out, because he’d gotten into a serious relationship with a pretty English major. But she’d left the school when her mother got sick, and never returned. They had called each other every night for a while. Then the calls had become fewer and fewer. Even their e-mails had dwindled, until they’d finally drifted completely apart.
So here he was in Transylvania, and here was Mary, ready to use him again. No, that wasn’t fair, he told himself. She’d always been a good friend.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
She laughed. “Oh, Jeremy. Come on. You’ve been mourning Melissa too long. What’s the matter? Are you afraid you might get laid?”
“Mary,” he murmured. He hated it when she talked that way, no matter how liberated the world was supposed to be.
“Please, Jeremy. I’ve read up the recent surge of private sex clubs—there was an article in the paper a few months back about one right in New Orleans. No sign on the door. People come from all over, because they can do what they want to do there.”
“Yeah. Have silly rituals and slice their thumbs and suck each other’s blood. That’s pathetic, Mary.”
“No, it’s not. No one is allowed to push anyone else into doing anything they don’t want to do. The woman who wrote the article said she wasn’t hit on as much there as at a bar.”
“Maybe she’s old and ugly. And if there was already an article—”
Mary sighed. “Jeremy, I want to take this story national. An exposé—what’s going on here and in the States. Look, I’m going, with or without you. I won’t be going alone. Nancy agreed to come. But we need a guy. I mean, we’d like to have a guy with us. And, if you don’t go, what are you going to do? Play some dumb computer game all night?”
“Mary, I designed that game, and it’s going to get me a good job.”
To his amazement, she took his hands, pleading. “I want this story so badly, Jeremy. Please.”
“All right, fine. I’ll go.”
She jumped up, a brilliant smile on her face. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Ever.”
“Listen, Mary, when I say we have to leave—”
“We leave. Fine. Now, quit worrying. I always land on my feet.”
“How do we get there?” he demanded.
“It’s too cool. We head up that path toward the mountain, and we get picked up by a carriage.” Mary shook her head, smiling. “I still don’t know why that girl invited me. I guess I’m just lucky.”
I guess you’re just beautiful, he thought.
But he wanted her to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. He’d go, but he still didn’t like it.
He was still unhappy when Mary went to her room to change for the night. While she was gone, he went outside. The psychologists were all in the restored judicial palace across the street, now a four-star hotel.
He walked into the lobby and asked for Jessica Fraser, but she was already out for the evening.
What the hell was making him so uneasy?
Nervous enough that he wouldn’t dream of letting Mary go alone.
And nervous enough to dread the fact he was going to go.
He hesitated, then left a note.
A precaution.
Someone needed to know where they had gone.
2
In the shadows, PowerPoint flashed a new image on the screen. The ancient lecture hall was filled, and Bryan MacAllistair was amazed that the many students gathered here from around the world had listened to him thus far in rapt silence. He was nearing the end of his lecture, only a few more points to make.
“This is an eighteenth-century sketch of Katherine, Countess Valor, considered one of the greatest beauties of her time. She was charged with crimes so vile that the court records were sealed. Later, they were lost to a fire. Was she a real monster, or herself a victim of evil? Like Countess Bathory, she was a member of the aristocracy, and one of the many women to find riches as a mistress in the court of Louis XIV. History records a cult within his own house, members of his royal court who became involved in witchcraft. The lady in question is actually the focus of another lecture, but she has a connection to this area. She was condemned for witchcraft and murder but, miraculously, made an escape. Some say she turned to smoke and escaped between the bars of the Bastille. At the time, witch hunters could still make a living, and the price on her head was so high that she was hunted across the continent. The accepted belief was that she had made a pact with a demon, perhaps even Satan himself, in the guise of a fiend known as the Master. The Master, the legends say, is an anglicized form of an ancient Babylonian evil, a being sprung from the womb of the lamia, one of the very earliest vampire myths, a woman who sucked the life from infants. It’s said that Katherine escaped here, to Transylvania, where the Master had gained a foothold, seeking his help, his power.
“But perhaps this creature had become infuriated with her previous disregard of his power in her own pursuits, for he did not come to her aid when she reached these fog-shrouded mountains. The witch hunters found her here. She had run hard and fast, but with no followers, she had no guard to watch over her as she slept. The witch hunters came upon her, and they immediately axed her beautiful neck. The story goes that there was a hideous outcry from her deadly lips, and she spilled more blood than might have filled the veins of a dozen good women. Not satisfied that the removal of her head would keep her evil at bay, they chopped her into pieces, then burned those pieces in an inferno they kept
