Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #11 (3.3)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

If Avram thought things were bad before, they just got worse as an old woman tries to warn everyone in the tavern about strigoi. See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's going with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #11 (3.3)

“Strigoi,” the old woman repeated. “Heartbreakers. Seducers of women… and of men.” A few of the men in the room squirmed uneasily at her words, while others playfully poked their neighbors and chortled in amusement. “The eyes in the night that see all,” she continued. “The mouths that demand, that steal the lifeblood of others in order to remain forever young.”

“What are you talking about?” one person called out, followed by another and another until the question echoed throughout the room. “What do you know, bunica?” “What tales are you trying to pass off as truth?” As quickly as they’d begun, the voices suddenly stilled. A hushed murmur swept over her listeners, as if they were afraid of what she might say, Avram among them.

“I know much.” The woman cackled. “I see much. Things you are too blind to see. Things you do not wish to see. That which is in front of your face.” As she continued to babbly, many of the men began to rise from their seats. Avram couldn’t tell if they were more frightened or angry at what they were hearing. For a second, he thought she stared directly at him, as if she actually knew something. An unpleasant chill gripped him, but then the moment passed, as did she.

Remain calm.

 The woman began to slink about the room, gliding amongst the tables, her wild gaze darting from person to person, daring them to say something—anything—to refute her words. “Let me ask you this, o wise men of Bistritz. Where are your wives and daughters now, while you are here getting drunk?”

“At home, of course,” a voice replied, followed by a chorus of similar sentiments, Bogdan’s rising above the others. “My Doina is where she belongs, waiting for me to come home so she can take care of me.”

“Tell me then, since you are such clever men, why are your women so pale? Why do they hide their necks from the light of the sun? Why are they so tired lately?” She cast accusatory glances from one man to another. Some of them appeared dumbfounded, as if they were considering her words.

Avram was fairly certain she was casting aspersions on the men’s women as an act of revenge for the way many of them had treated her in the past, making baseless accusations. While he could understand her motives, he did not appreciate them. Especially not now, when Dracula was very possibly involved in the very behavior she was insinuating was taking or had taken place in the village. Despite his protests to the contrary, did he consider it possible that Nico was taking blood from the blacksmith’s wife?

Unfortunately, he would not put it past him. When the vampire wanted something, he had a tendency to throw caution to the wind. They would most definitely have to talk about this… on their way out of town. There was no doubt in Avram’s mind that this was the only option they had, under the circumstances The important thing for now was to divert the attention of the townspeople so that he could ascertain for himself whether Dracula was still in the village or not.

Please, God, let him be gone.

If the beldame continued in this vein, the superstitious villagers might jump to the misguided conclusion that Dracula was guilty of something. Who knew what they might do then, acting under the influence of mob mentality.

And even if perchance Dracula was guilty of something, Avram felt the need to protect him, even if he was weaker than the nobleman. Physical strength would not necessarily stand him in good stead. In fact, it would probably worsen the situation. The only practical solution was to leave for a while and let things cool down.

Extended travels, far from Transylvania.

“You know nothing, you disgusting hag.”  Bogdan again. He advanced drunkenly toward her. A couple of his companions attempted to hold him back, but he broke from their well-meaning grip until he stood directly before the old man. He shook his finger in her face, but she never flinched. “You’re just jealous of her, of all the women, because they are what you are not. Young and beautiful.”

That was definitely a matter of opinion, but Avram held his tongue.

“Begone with you, foul creature!” Bogdan finished dramatically. Avram couldn’t help but admire his fearlessness, although his stance seemed a little bit shaky due, no doubt, to high consumption of alcohol.

At that unfortunate moment, a large gust of wind shook the building, rattling the windows. Bogdan’s legs gave away and he collapsed onto the floor, looking stupidly around him.

“You have angered the gods with your stupidity!” the woman cried as mass confusion ensured. Avram wanted to tell them it was only wind but knew he could never make himself heard above the chaos.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Avram sighed. Gunther was in the thick of it once more, attempting to calm the anxious men. They began to slip out of the alehouse, no doubt heading home to see what they might find. Bodan’s cronies abandoned him there on the floor, scattering like chaff before the wind.

Such fair-weather friends he has.

At least he wasn’t going anywhere. But that thought was premature, as Bogdan staggered to his feet. Most of the customers had fled, leaving a disgruntled owner and servers with little to do but clean up after them. The old lady wore a grin of self-congratulation at the effect she’d had on people she had no reason to like. But her work was not done.

She leaned down toward Bogdan and whispered in his ear.

“Church?”

Avram lurched to his feet, desperate to prevent the blacksmith from leaving. But he found his way blocked by the rude young man who’d served them earlier. Avram had barely registered who he was when the other man swung at him and Avram fell unconscious to the floor.

 to be continued

Now go see what's up with the other Briefers!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #10 (3.2)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Things are going all wrong at the alehouse. Someone has upset the blacksmith in regards to his pretty wife, and Avram fears something worse is to come. See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #10 (3.2)

A collective gasp surged through the alehouse. The ensuing silence rendered the argument between the two men all the more audible, encouraging listeners.

“I simply said she seems very happy lately. That’s all I said, Bogdan. You are making a fuss over nothing.” And yet the tone of the speaker’s voice implied so much more. What did he know, what could he have seen, and did it somehow relate to Dracula?

How could it not?

Avram focused his attention on the far side of the room. Bogdan and the other man, whom Avram recognized as one of the local farmers, faced one another in an almost pugilistic stance—Avram wasn’t sure if they intended to fight or dance. Bogdan’s fists were raised, so perhaps dancing was not on the agenda, but his opponent appeared to be more amused than intimidated.

“And why wouldn’t she be happy? She’s married to me,” Bogdan boasted. Such a schlemiel. The blacksmith’s claim of marital bliss drew a few indiscreet chuckles from the eavesdropping customers. Even the servers had stopped what they were doing to openly gape at the growing spectacle. “She has a good home,” he continued. “Plenty of food to eat, clothes to wear, and she has the wisdom and guidance of my beloved mother, who lives with us.”

Avram remembered Bogdan’s mother. Her presence wasn’t the blessing the blacksmith thought it was, and he was sure Doina felt much the same way. No wonder she was drawn to the handsome nobleman. Also, too bad she was drawn to him. She would have been better off having an affair with one of the villagers. A more normal man.

A dark shape passed in front of Avram’s line of sight. Only then did he realize that Gunther had pushed his chair back and was crossing the room in the direction of the two combatants, swiftly closing the distance between them. Suddenly fearful for his friend, Avram rose as well and quickly followed him. If Bogdan became any more riled up than he was, he might strike out blindly and not realize he was hitting a priest.

“And lucky she is to have you,” Gunther inserted smoothly as he took up a not very subtle stand between the two men. “I’m sure Doina realizes what a good husband you are and appreciates the life you and your mother have given her.”

“That’s just what I said, Father,” the other man claimed. More snickers followed. Bogdan swiveled his thick neck left and right, glaring at his neighbors, but he was apparently too slow to catch anyone red-handed.

“Sit back down, Bogdan, never you mind him,” one of the blacksmith’s friends urged. “Here, come have some more beer,” another chimed in, joined by the other men at his table in a drunken Greek chorus.  Avram watched the blacksmith seem to visibly relax at the entreaties of his friends. He said a brief prayer of thanks beneath his breath as Gunther coaxed the second man back into his seat with his own companions, before turning toward Avram with a wink and a smile.

 To quote the bard, all’s well that ends well. Avram made a mental note to buy his friend another drink… or two.  He’d more than earned that for his timely intervention. He breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief as he patted Gunther’s shoulder and they returned to their table. This night could not end soon enough for him.

As if on cue, conversations resumed once more, the noise level rising accordingly, and business continued as it had been before.  Avram hoped Dracula was done by now and back at the castle. Or at least somewhere outside the village. And hopefully practicing discretion, although sometimes that seemed to be too much to ask of the man, despite the fact he was old enough to know better. He glanced with renewed interest at the bread and cheese on the table. A little nosh wouldn’t hurt. He reached for the bread, but his hand froze in mid-air.

“Strigoi.”

Apparently, his momentary peace of mind had been premature.

That single foreboding word rang out, too loud for Avram’s taste, overriding the other voices and bringing all conversation to a halt once more. It might just as well have been the voice of Jehovah for the effect that it created. The speaker was an elderly woman whose shapeless dark brown cape resembled a shroud. This woman, whose name everyone had forgotten, was usually referred to as the old bunica, or grandmother, if not worse. She was known about the village for being peculiar—no one knew where she came from, she had no known family, and she lived alone, a large black Transylvanian hound her sole companion. Plus, further damning her in the eyes of the villagers, she followed the precepts of no known or acceptable religion. Some referred to her as the Witch of Bistritz, but Avram did not hold to such nonsense. However, he knew that even though she was an object of irrational fear, she was very superstitious herself, and a likely candidate to spread unfortunate rumors. Especially when it came to his master. He sometimes wondered if Dracula had known her in her youth but he’d never asked him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

All eyes turned toward the woman, as if anticipating she had more to say. And they were not wrong.

 to be continued

Now go see what's up with the other Briefers!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #9 (3.1)

  Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

While keeping an eye on the village blacksmith to keep him from finding out about Dracula and his wife, Avram converses with his friend, Father Gunther. But something isn't quite right and Avram knows it. See what's going on in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what they're up to. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #9 (3.1)

Gunther fell silent. Tendrils of anxiety wrapped about Avram’s heart.  Why was it beating so fast? Something was wrong. and whatever it was it was about to get worse. Someone dropped a glass, which shattered, and he visibly flinched at the explosion.

 This was no time to panic, and no time to borrow trouble. He forced himself to take deep breaths. Maybe he should step outside for a moment. He needed to think, but without all the noise. He glanced across the room. Bogdan was still there. One less worry.

He started to rise, but Gunther’s hand on his coat sleeve stopped him. His friend leaned across the table, speaking in a low voice that necessitated Avram’s full attention. “I’m afraid they’re beginning to talk, Avram.”

“Who is? What do you mean?” He slid back into his chair and moved it closer, keeping a suspicious eye on their nearest neighbors, although he didn’t think that’s who he meant. Whatever Gunther was about to say, though, he knew it wouldn’t be good.

The tavern door blew open unexpectedly. Avram jumped again, then reprimanded himself for his skittishness as one of the villagers entered and slammed it shut behind him. All sound ceased for a split second. “Watch out for the stafi,” the newcomer announced before joining Bogdan’s table.

Avram shivered. Not because he believed in the Romanian equivalent of the Irish banshee, but he knew these people did… and more. He turned his attention back to Gunther.

“I mean the people of the village. They notice things, some of them. Such as how young Dracula looks. Still”

“How young he looks? He is young,” Avram bluffed. “How old do you think he is? Older than me, yes, but…” He gave up that losing argument before it was even truly begun. Despite his many years of existence—Avram wasn’t even sure how old the vampire was, to be honest—he looked to be no older than a man in his thirties, while Avram was already forty.  A well-preserved forty, to be sure.

His lips had turned suddenly dry. He picked up his ale and drank. How was he going to explain this?

“Some of the older people still remember his father and they say he looks exactly like him.”

“Is that surprising, that a son should look like his father?”  Of course that wasn’t true. Dracula’s father died centuries ago, none of them had ever seen him. And of course, Dracula resembled his “father”, as he was both father and son. How else to explain his many years as lord and master of the castle other than by changing his name on a regular basis so the villagers would not suspect his actual longevity? His ruse had worked for many ears. This was not good.

Calm down and listen. He lightly strummed his fingers across the brim of his hat on the table before him and waited.

“Avram, you’ve been my friend ever since we were little. I understand that you feel you owe him a debt. He took you in after your parents died. He’s been like a father to you, when most of the village turned its back on you.”

“Not your parents,” Avram pointed out. “Or you. Your family has been nothing but good to me. And things here have improved.” He ran one hand through his too curly black hair, the bane of his existence. ”Mostly.” Some people could never forgive him for being Jewish.  “And yes, I do owe Dracula my life. I don’t know how I would have survived without him. So please can we have no more of this nonsense?” In his heart, Avram knew he should hear more, learn what was being said. But he was suddenly more afraid than before that something truly bad was about to happen and he could do nothing to stop it.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt because of him.” Gunther paused, as if searching for the right words. What, was there something worse than what he’d already said? Avram grew more apprehensive as silence stretched between them, until at last, the words were spoken. “The old stories are being revived.”

Scheiss.

Avram didn’t bother to ask which stories Gunther meant. He knew only too well.

“Old wives’ tales, nothing more.” His lies fell limply onto the table between them like wounded birds… or bats.  Perhaps it was time to go abroad. There were women in other countries who would love nothing more than to see their favorite Count once more… women with money, which they badly needed. Not to mention, there was a certain Parisian publisher who was waiting for more material of the erotic kind that Avram wrote so well, even if Dracula did take the credit for his writing. That was a practicality, since it was easier to sell his books if people thought they were being written by a mysterious handsome nobleman than by a Jew.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Avram. You’re my best friend and I would do anything for you. Are you in any danger?”

The question caught Avram by surprise. Danger? Him? “From what?” His hand stilled on the hat brim, his brow furrowed as he met his friend’s gaze.

“I think you know what.” Gunther patted Avram’s hand. “You’re a good man, a very loyal friend. I just worry for you, that’s all. Worried that you’ve given your allegiance to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Avram forced a chuckle he was far from feeling. “I appreciate the sentiment, Gunther. I think you are a good man too, perhaps a little naïve. I mean, to believe such tales?” He clucked his tongue and shook his head, as if to dismiss the very idea.

“What are you saying about my wife?” An angry roar rose above the hubbub of the alehouse. All heads turned toward the source of the disturbance. It was Bogdan, who else?

Avram had a bad feeling all hell was about to break loose.

to be continued

Now go see what the other Briefers are up to!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #9 (3.1)

  Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

While keeping an eye on the village blacksmith to keep him from finding out about Dracula and his wife, Avram converses with his friend, Father Gunther. But something isn't quite right and Avram knows it. See what's going on in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what they're up to. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #9 (3.1)

Gunther fell silent. Tendrils of anxiety wrapped about Avram’s heart.  Why was it beating so fast? Something was wrong. and whatever it was it was about to get worse. Someone dropped a glass, which shattered, and he visibly flinched at the explosion.

 This was no time to panic, and no time to borrow trouble. He forced himself to take deep breaths. Maybe he should step outside for a moment. He needed to think, but without all the noise. He glanced across the room. Bogdan was still there. One less worry.

He started to rise, but Gunther’s hand on his coat sleeve stopped him. His friend leaned across the table, speaking in a low voice that necessitated Avram’s full attention. “I’m afraid they’re beginning to talk, Avram.”

“Who is? What do you mean?” He slid back into his chair and moved it closer, keeping a suspicious eye on their nearest neighbors, although he didn’t think that’s who he meant. Whatever Gunther was about to say, though, he knew it wouldn’t be good.

The tavern door blew open unexpectedly. Avram jumped again, then reprimanded himself for his skittishness as one of the villagers entered and slammed it shut behind him. All sound ceased for a split second. “Watch out for the stafi,” the newcomer announced before joining Bogdan’s table.

Avram shivered. Not because he believed in the Romanian equivalent of the Irish banshee, but he knew these people did… and more. He turned his attention back to Gunther.

“I mean the people of the village. They notice things, some of them. Such as how young Dracula looks. Still”

“How young he looks? He is young,” Avram bluffed. “How old do you think he is? Older than me, yes, but…” He gave up that losing argument before it was even truly begun. Despite his many years of existence—Avram wasn’t even sure how old the vampire was, to be honest—he looked to be no older than a man in his thirties, while Avram was already forty.  A well-preserved forty, to be sure.

His lips had turned suddenly dry. He picked up his ale and drank. How was he going to explain this?

“Some of the older people still remember his father and they say he looks exactly like him.”

“Is that surprising, that a son should look like his father?”  Of course that wasn’t true. Dracula’s father died centuries ago, none of them had ever seen him. And of course, Dracula resembled his “father”, as he was both father and son. How else to explain his many years as lord and master of the castle other than by changing his name on a regular basis so the villagers would not suspect his actual longevity? His ruse had worked for many ears. This was not good.

Calm down and listen. He lightly strummed his fingers across the brim of his hat on the table before him and waited.

“Avram, you’ve been my friend ever since we were little. I understand that you feel you owe him a debt. He took you in after your parents died. He’s been like a father to you, when most of the village turned its back on you.”

“Not your parents,” Avram pointed out. “Or you. Your family has been nothing but good to me. And things here have improved.” He ran one hand through his too curly black hair, the bane of his existence. ”Mostly.” Some people could never forgive him for being Jewish.  “And yes, I do owe Dracula my life. I don’t know how I would have survived without him. So please can we have no more of this nonsense?” In his heart, Avram knew he should hear more, learn what was being said. But he was suddenly more afraid than before that something truly bad was about to happen and he could do nothing to stop it.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt because of him.” Gunther paused, as if searching for the right words. What, was there something worse than what he’d already said? Avram grew more apprehensive as silence stretched between them, until at last, the words were spoken. “The old stories are being revived.”

Scheiss.

Avram didn’t bother to ask which stories Gunther meant. He knew only too well.

“Old wives’ tales, nothing more.” His lies fell limply onto the table between them like wounded birds… or bats.  Perhaps it was time to go abroad. There were women in other countries who would love nothing more than to see their favorite Count once more… women with money, which they badly needed. Not to mention, there was a certain Parisian publisher who was waiting for more material of the erotic kind that Avram wrote so well, even if Dracula did take the credit for his writing. That was a practicality, since it was easier to sell his books if people thought they were being written by a mysterious handsome nobleman than by a Jew.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Avram. You’re my best friend and I would do anything for you. Are you in any danger?”

The question caught Avram by surprise. Danger? Him? “From what?” His hand stilled on the hat brim, his brow furrowed as he met his friend’s gaze.

“I think you know what.” Gunther patted Avram’s hand. “You’re a good man, a very loyal friend. I just worry for you, that’s all. Worried that you’ve given your allegiance to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Avram forced a chuckle he was far from feeling. “I appreciate the sentiment, Gunther. I think you are a good man too, perhaps a little naïve. I mean, to believe such tales?” He clucked his tongue and shook his head, as if to dismiss the very idea.

“What are you saying about my wife?” An angry roar rose above the hubbub of the alehouse. All heads turned toward the source of the disturbance. It was Bogdan, who else?

Avram had a bad feeling all hell was about to break loose.

to be continued

Now go see what the other Briefers are up to!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #8 (2.4)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Avram goes to the local alehouse and spends time with his friend, the priest, but mostly he is keeping an eye on the blacksmith and worrying about what Dracula is doing. See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #8 (2.4)

Despite his light-hearted words, Avram knew his friend was troubled by the defection of so many of his parishioners, but he never betrayed those feelings, either by word or manner, when he encountered those people as he went about the village. He treated them as he always had—with kindness and patience—and was always ready and willing to lend a helping hand to someone in need. If they felt guilty or disloyal in any way, that was a matter for their conscience, not his. Still, fewer church members meant fewer tithes, which made maintaining the church difficult. Avram (with the consent of Dracula) helped when he could, but when times were lean, such as they were now, money was difficult to find. Yet another reason to curb Dracula’s spending, although that was easier said than done. And attempting to explain economics to the man was well-nigh impossible.

“I have your bread, Father.”

Avram startled at the unexpected approach, nearly spilling his ale, before he recognized the newcomer as one of the young men from the village. Dracula’s behavior had him more on edge than he’d realized, he really needed to pay better attention to his surroundings. A quick inspection of the far corner assured him that the blacksmith was still there.  Gunther gave him an appraising glance but said nothing as the young man set a covered serving platter on the table. The enticing fragrance of freshly baked lipie bread wafted from beneath a bright red cloth. “Can I get you anything else, Father?”

“No, my son. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Father.” For a moment, Avram thought he was going to genuflect, but the moment passed. Instead, the man’s hand flew to the silver cross that hung on a chain about his neck, his eyes refusing to meet Avram’s. If the child only knew that symbol of Christianity was useless when it came to either vampires or Jews.

“I’m good, thanks for asking,” Avram quipped.

The server visibly flinched but made no reply as he backed away from the table and was quickly lost to view.

“Care to break bread with me, Avram?” Gunther made no comment on the boy’s behavior, but none was really needed. Not everyone loved Avram, both because of his employer as well as his religions. The priest lifted the cloth to reveal a loaf of golden-brown bread as well as a generous portion of the sheep’s milk bryndza cheese much loved by the villagers. Avram didn’t dare to keep this type of cheese at the castle for Dracula disliked its strong smell, being very sensitive to such things. But Avram had eaten it often, growing up, and appreciated the tanginess of this white cheese, as well as the slightly salty finish. It served as a wonderful accompaniment to the bread.

The smell of the bread was quite tempting. Only then did Avram realize he’d not eaten recently, too concerned with what Dracula intended to do to have an appetite. The priest used his knife to cut a hunk of bread and a piece of the crumbly cheese and handed them to Avram before taking some for himself.

“Eat up, eat up.” Gunther waved a piece of bread and cheese in the air before he popped it into his mouth. “So good, so good,” he mumbled before washing everything down with ale. He dabbed at his face with a cloth and emitted a loud belch of satisfaction before turning his shrewd eyes to Aram. “Is everything well with you, my friend?  You seem a little uneasy. Is there some problem with your employer? Is he not well?”

Avram took a bite to forestall an immediate response. The slightly salty white cheese almost melted on his tongue. As a boy, he’d considered this to be a treat whenever he visited Gunther and his family. They had always been good to him and allowed him to stay in their home as long as he wanted. He suspected it was only fear of the nobleman that prevented them from offering him a permanent home. Dracula had been a surprisingly lenient guardian and encouraged Avram in his studies. He’d received no formal education, as he couldn’t very well attend the church school due to his religion, but Dracula made sure he had access to the vast library at the castle. Avram had availed himself of that generosity and became a voracious reader.

But he could avoid the question for only so long. “We may have to go abroad again soon,” he said obliquely.

“Business reasons?”

Avram nodded. Maybe strictly speaking that was not the whole truth, but it was close enough. As close as he felt comfortable speaking, anyway. It wasn’t exactly a lie either. The way things were currently going, they might actually need to leave the country, at least long enough for each of them to do what he did best in order to earn money. Unconventional? Perhaps, but also necessary.

His people had a saying: Di kats hot lib fish, nor zi vil di fis nit ayn-netsn. The cat loves fish but doesn’t want to get her feet wet.

Sometimes you just had to get your feet wet if you wanted to survive.

 to be continued

Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #7 (2.3)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Avram has gone into the village since Dracula is out and about, but he can't help but be worried that the vampire is being foolish. See what's going on in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #7 (2.3)

Avram shook his head as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of the alehouse after leaving his horse stabled nearby. An uneasy feeling had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach. He wished Dracula wouldn’t take such risks just for sexual gratification, particularly this close to home. And a married woman at that. What if the husband found out? While he was sure the vampire could more than handle himself in a fight, the ramifications of being outed would be detrimental to both of them. Dracula may be on the immortal side, but he was neither invincible nor invulnerable—given the right circumstances, he could be killed. At least Avram didn’t have to worry that he was using this woman for her blood. That would be disastrous indeed.

Sometimes I think the man is just meshuggeneh.

He glanced around him as he made his way across the room to the bar, as if he were looking for someone. Most were faces familiar to him, lifelong residents of Bistritz. He returned their greetings, albeit somewhat distractedly. Truth be told he was searching for one face in particular. When he didn’t see him immediately, a chill coursed up his spine. But then he heard a loud bray from the far side of the room. He glanced over to spy a tall, broad-shouldered ape of a man, seated at a table with a few of his friends. He seemed to be entertaining them with an amusing tale from his undoubtedly limited repertoire. Bogdan the blacksmith. Dumb but strong. Generally, he was known as a good-natured fellow, but when it came to his pretty wife, he was said to possess more than a small streak of jealousy. At least since he was currently sitting here, he could be nowhere near Dracula’s vicinity. The whole group seemed rather ferschnickered. None of them were likely to be going anywhere soon, not in their drunken condition. Avram released a sigh of relief and prayed that the vampire would take his pleasure and quickly leave the village.

“Would you like some ale, Avram?”

Somewhat mollified by the presence of the blacksmith, Avram turned his attention to the young woman behind the bar whose father owned the establishment. Instinctively he checked her neck for any sign that Dracula had been there, despite knowing the vampire was dallying with another woman. Seeing nothing, he relaxed a little. “Yes, please.”

She poured him a tankard of ale and set it on the bar in front of him. “Looking for someone?”

“No, no one,” he assured her. Found someone he had but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Turning slightly, he surveyed the room more carefully, deciding where he should sit. He needed a vantage point from which he could watch Bogdan as well as the door, in case the blacksmith developed the sudden urge to leave. He couldn’t allow that to happen, at least not for a while.

The large public area contained a dozen or so tables where villagers could spend their free time, drinking ale and socializing with their neighbors. Simple iron sconces dotted the larch wood walls to supplement the inviting fire that blazed in the hearth, lending an air of comfort and warmth to the establishment. Avram was familiar with most everyone he saw as visitors were not common in Bistritz, usually tradespeople picking up or delivering trade goods from neighboring towns. These tended to conduct their business during the day before hastening elsewhere. Thanks to the infamy of some members of Dracula’s family, the area had developed a sinister reputation, especially after dark. Outsiders tended to stay away after nightfall, although the residents were not quite as wary. They realized that the days of Vlad Dracula were long gone, and no one had been impaled in many years. But even they weren’t so sure about some of the mythical creatures said to roam about the countryside. Tales abounded of dragons and ogres, werewolves and ghosts. And of course, the ever-popular strigoi, also known as the vampire. Avram prayed the truth would never be discovered.

“Avram!  My friend! Over here!”

Avram glanced toward the caller, a pudgy man about his own age, whose close-cropped blond hair showed more and more scalp with each passing year. Avram teasingly referred to it as his tonsure. The man had bright blue eyes and a contagious smile. Avram couldn’t help but return that smile as he turned his steps toward the table where he sat. Father Gunther, the parish priest at the Old Church. Avram considered the priest to be a friend despite their religious differences, but they never let those interfere with their friendship. In fact, those same differences often led to rather lively and entertaining discussions between them.

As Avram drew near, the priest shifted from one seat to another, leaving Avram a chair that held a better view of the room. Father Gunther had known Avram since they were both boys and knew, as did everyone in the village, who he worked for. Despite the friendly faces, there were still those who eyed Avram with open suspicion. Some went so far as to cross themselves in his vicinity, as if that were protection against either him or Dracula. That was no more effective than their use of the sign of the horns to ward off evil. But if the gesture was of comfort to them, far be it from him to interfere with their peace of mind.

“How are things with you?” As Avram took a seat, he noticed sullen glances from some of the villagers who sat nearby, but these turned their heads quickly, as if afraid of being noticed. “Save any sinners this week?”

The priest chuckled. “No, I sent them all to the new church. We have to keep Father Damien employed, don’t we?” He raised his own mug and Avram followed suit. “To your health, my friend.”

“L’chaim,” Avram readily responded. To life.

to be continued

Now go see what the other Briefers are up to!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

 

   

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #6 (2.2)

  Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Dracula meets the blacksmith's wife in the church for a clandestine rendezvous, and she is most eager to be with him. All's well that ends well, right?  See what is happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #6 (2.2)

He teased the soft skin of her neck with his tongue, tasting her, savoring the lavender and cloves scent that had first drawn him to her. She shivered in response. The throbbing of her jugular vein intoxicated him, filled as it was with primal promises of what would be. So enticing... so tempting. How provident that Avram had provided his master with sustenance before he left the castle, as if anticipating what the vampire intended to do and forestalling a… problem… should his desire for blood outweigh his common sense. Being mostly satiated, he would allow himself just a mere sip of her sweetness, but not until matters of the carnal kind had been attended to.

Memories of her blood that he’d drawn during previous encounters distracted him momentarily. His thoughts began to wander although his body continued to respond to her abundant charms. His lady du jour, clearly growing impatient to have him inside her, bunched up her skirt past her hips revealing she wore nothing underneath. His lust for her burned even more brightly.

 She gave a small moan as she spread her legs a little wider. “My lord,” she pleaded.  Her husky voice betrayed her passion as she pushed up against him needily.

Someone was more than a little eager for him to make his entrance, despite the fact that his breeches were still fully buttoned and he’d made no move to undo them. His own breathing was becoming more labored, while his manhood ached for release. And still he continued to draw out his pleasure, knowing that would only serve to inflame her lust for him further.

She wrapped her legs about him and pulled him against her, so close he could feel her wetness through the silk. “I am yours,” she whispered. “Please make me your own forever.”

She had no idea what those words really meant, and he was not willing to show her. Creating more of his kind was the farthest thing from his mind at the best of times, but most certainly not here and now. He had no need for either possible rivals or boon companions, and he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his freedom by tethering himself to a wife, not to mention she was already married to the idiot blacksmith. Dracula’s desire to remain unencumbered by the bonds of matrimony did not preclude him, however, from engaging in short-term sexual relations with women… or men. He found himself attracted to people of all sexes and did not discriminate against his lovers on the basis of gender, race, nationality, or religion. Over the course of the many years of his life thus far, he’d thoroughly enjoyed himself with a variety of people on his extensive travels around the globe, making commitments to none of them. He was not foolish enough to fall in love. Due to the nature of what he was, that would be disastrous indeed.

Instead of responding, he claimed her lips instead. He gently nudged them apart, tracing their contours with his tongue. Her moan of approval vibrated inside his mouth. When he repositioned one hand between her legs and slid two fingers inside her, she arched her back in response.

“Yes, yes!” she cried. “More, my lord, more. Say my name, please! Tell me you love me as I love you!” she begged him, her voice growing in intensity as she frantically rutted against him, her actions only serving to feed his self-conceit.

He loved the effect he had on his partners, loved the responses he evoked from them in acknowledgement of his sexual prowess. Avram often accused him of having vainglory, but Dracula’s rejoinder was that he appreciated himself for who he was so why should he pretend otherwise?  But neither was he kind enough to accede to her wishes.

So caught up was he in the heat of the moment and his own lust that he momentarily became oblivious to his surroundings—always a grave mistake—until a voice boomed out from the back of the church.

“Doina!”

Dracula jerked his head up, instantly on the alert, all else forgotten. Damn, the idiot blacksmith.

* * * *

The alehouse in Bistritz had no official name but was well known by one and all. The men of the village were often to be found there after a hard day of work (or not, in the case of some) while the wives were usually grateful to be rid of their presence inside the home, at least for a little while longer. For the men, it was a place to relax without the pressures of marriage or familial obligations. A time to discuss important happenings in the village, and occasionally the outside world, although for the most part the villagers were rather insular. It didn’t hurt that news traveled slowly, if at all, which gave them less incentive to understand or know about the world they lived in. And, of course, there were usually barmaids to be admired and flirted with, if not more. Not surprisingly, the sale of beer and ale rose whenever pretty young women were working.

Avram had been coming to the alehouse for years, having grown up there, for the most part. The villagers gave Dracula a wide berth on the rare occasions when he chose to enter the town, but Avram was treated as one of them. He had never done anything that would cause them to think badly of him. Not that Dracula had ever done anything overt, and they were certainly unaware of his true nature, but his family’s reputation was not particularly good, stretching back to the time of the infamous Impaler. No one wanted to give the current Dracula cause to revive his ancestor’s cruel method of torture for any reason.

 to be continued

No go visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #5 (2.1)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Dracula is off to church - but not to worship! He is meeting a married woman there, with whom he has been having relations. That won't be a problem, will it? See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their link follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #5 (2.1)

Compared to other Orthodox churches throughout Romania, the church in Bistritz was smaller and less elaborate. Built of stone during the thirteenth century, it lay on the outskirts of the village, and served as the town’s spiritual center until a second church was built some years later, nearer to the town center. The villagers referred to the original church as the Old Church, while the newer edifice was simply the Church. The Old Church was unusual in that pews had been installed, a feature not common in traditional Orthodox churches, as it was considered disrespectful for people to sit during sermons. Dracula’s ancestors had graciously donated the pews for not altogether altruistic motives—namely their own comfort. The first pews had been built from sturdy European beech, which was plentiful in the area. But sometime after the Americas were begun to be colonized, the Dracula family had replaced two of the beech benches—the ones closest to the altar, naturally—with seats made of beautiful Brazilian rosewood. The villagers were impressed with the reddish-brown color of the expensive wood, which contained streaks of a darker chocolate brown. It was tacitly understood that anyone could avail themselves of these pews, but when the family was in attendance, their presence took precedence. Nobody complained. Not surprising, considering the reputation the family had even then, which only grew darker and more sinister over the years. No one wanted to be on their bad side.

Now Count Dracula was the last of the lineage and he had lost his faith in religion many years ago. The last time he’d attended a mass or made confession was well before any of the present residents were even born, and probably several generations before them. But he remembered the beautiful pews with fondness, and he remembered that they were always well cared for. He therefore had no hesitation in availing himself of them while desecrating them with carnal knowledge of the blacksmith’s wife. Access to the church was easy, as the parish priest, Father Gunther, never locked the building, believing it should be kept available to everyone at all times. During the evenings, the good father—when he wasn’t tending to the members of his flock— was generally to be found at the local alehouse, downing pints with the other villagers, and having a generally good time, blissfully oblivious to what was happening behind his back in his church.

Dracula paused just outside the door of the church and listened. Only one heart beat inside. Not surprising, as their trysts heretofore had always been uninterrupted. He quietly pulled open the heavy oaken door. As a child, he had once marveled at the images of the saints carved into the wooden panels, but he no longer saw them, having long ago grown enured to them. Tonight he was intent on what lay inside—the church as a place of worship no longer held any interest for him.

He passed swiftly through the narthex—the vestibule of the church, where worshippers would commonly pause to refocus their energies on matters of the spirit as well as to light a candle—and then on into the nave. He spied her at once, kneeling before the altar in the position of a supplicant, head bowed and hands clasped before her as if in prayer. She had lit several candles in anticipation of his arrival. The flames flickered in the eternal draft that blew through the church like an ill wind. He noticed she’d worn her best fota for him, one he’d seen several times before. The white wool wraparound skirt decorated in elaborate geometrical designs in red and blue concealed the suppleness of the limbs beneath. On her head a white marama embroidered with white designs covered her dark brown hair, so soft to the touch.

Foolish girl.

Dracula frowned, momentarily annoyed with her, perhaps because he’d told her more than once how much he disliked such posturing before a non-existent deity. But her religious upbringing was apparently too strong to be set aside, even for him, despite the fact she was committing the cardinal sin of adultery within the very walls of her god’s house of worship. Both ironic and erotic. He would have to remind her of his wishes… but not right now. Such matters as his contempt for the church he had once embraced could wait. His desire for her was stronger than his displeasure. When he grew tired of her and ceased to want her, then he would end the relationship and obliterate her memory of him. But, in the meantime…

He glided smoothly down the aisle between the pews and reached her before she was even aware of his presence. She gasped as he lifted her easily into his embrace and carried her to the front pew.

“Draga mea,” she murmured. My sweetheart.

“Floare frumoasa,” he responded. Beautiful flower. He brushed his lips lightly across hers and felt her quiver. He distributed small kisses upon her cheeks before running his tongue along her jaw and around the sensitive outer shell of her ear. She was very tactile and responded ardently to his every touch as if she’d never been touched in that way before. Not surprising, considering the brute she was wed to. In the brief time of their intimacy, he had shown her pleasure such as she had never experienced before, and sadly would never again, once he removed himself from her life.

With his heightened senses, he could smell the tanginess of her arousal. She shifted beneath him, her hand pressing against his hardness. She’d become rather bold in letting him know what she wanted, and he was more than happy to give it to her, although he was also careful not to spend himself inside of her. The last thing he wanted was to procreate—with her or anyone else— knowing that any child of his must of course be fated to die, and that would be a difficult burden to bear.

 to be continued

Now go see what's up with the other Briefers!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb

 

 

 

 

Wednesday Briefs: Dracula #4 (2.0)

 Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Dracula has a date to keep in the village! See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Dracula #4 (2.0)

A midnight breeze blew warm across the Carpathians, carrying the familiar scent of Norway spruce and Scots pine to the lone figure making his solitary way down the mountain toward the village below. Dracula loved the night above all other times. He felt that darkness possessed a certain serenity not to be found during the daylight hours. A peace of mind that was lacking beneath the sun’s fierce rays. He drew strength from the night and preferred the solitude of his castle to the cacophony of human life. Of course, his predilection for human blood demanded that he exercise extreme caution in its acquisition, especially so close to home. Unfortunately, at times of pecuniary necessity, a certain amount of social interaction was required of him. But sometimes, as was the case tonight, a clandestine rendezvous was simply a matter of pleasure.

He could have had Avram drive him to Bistritz in a carriage… if he still possessed one, which he currently did not. The previous carriage had been very ornate and surprisingly comfortable, and Dracula had enjoyed driving it down the mountain in the dead of night at breakneck speeds calculated to test the courage of any passenger, had there been one, Avram clinging precariously to the driver’s box beside him. But Avram had found it prudent to sell that vehicle along with most of the magnificent stallions that had drawn it. He claimed the expenditure on their upkeep was an unnecessary drain on their limited resources and they could utilize other forms of transportation when they went abroad. The vampire couldn’t argue with such logic, as he disliked concerning himself with such mundane matters. Someday, Dracula swore, he would have another coach, the finest that money could buy. But alas, when there is little money, one must… economize, as Avram liked to remind him. Far too often, for his taste.

Apparently Avram had read some such nonsense in a book he had recently acquired (interesting how money was found for such a purchase). He tried to explain to Dracula what the author—what was his name? Oh yes, Adam Smith—wrote concerning the subject of economics. But Dracula found the entire matter to be very dull and he didn’t bother to retain anything he was told. However, he did understand the necessity to raise more money when existing funds grew low in order that he be maintained in the lifestyle to which he would like to stay accustomed. After all, he was going to live a long and richly wonderful life. No reason to live it in poverty.

He left the one horse that remained of the set he’d previously possessed for Aram’s use. Being merely human, Avram didn’t possess the same abilities his master did. Dracula had vampiric strength and speed and could travel quite easily from the castle to the village. Not that he did so very often. Avram had convinced him that dining on the villagers would, in the end, not be in either of their best interests. Dracula reluctantly saw his point and agreed to hold himself in check—providing that his very reliable factotum, i.e. Avram, saw to all his culinary needs. Liquid, that is. While he could and did eat human food on occasion, it did not provide him with what he required to survive. How Avram acquired blood was up to him, and Dracula asked no questions.

But Dracula also had other needs that blood would not suffice to meet. So sometimes he found himself going to the village for a little bit of fun.

Bistritz had originally been settled by Saxon immigrants, well before Dracula was born. Through the years, many Germans made the village their home, as well as a number of Romanians and Hungarians. At one time, there had been a good-sized Jewish community, but that had been largely decimated through ignorance and prejudice and mindless acts of violence. Many of those who were not killed were either forcibly converted to the Orthodox Church or they chose to leave for more hospitable environs. Unfortunately, Avram’s family had been among those who did not survive the persecution. In these current times, however, anti-Semitism had receded, which made it easier for Avram to conduct business in the village. He got along well with most everyone he met. Dracula knew he spent some of his evenings there, at times when they were not traveling abroad, and considered these to be diplomatic excursions that would benefit them both. His own expeditions into the village tended to be stealthier… and more seductive.

Dracula was well aware that Doina was a married woman, and that her husband was the rather well-muscled village blacksmith. But she was a pretty thing, and Dracula enjoyed her… company. Unbeknownst to Avram, he also liked to sip her blood. Not enough to harm her or turn her, for that would serve no useful purpose. But a little drink after sex never hurt anyone. To keep her from remembering, and possibly spreading the information to those who might not take it well, he clouded her mind a little, just enough to forget the bloodletting while remembering what a wonderful lover he truly was.

When he’d first decided to bed her, the question of where they should do so was of major concern. He firmly rejected her first suggestions, not willing to lower himself to using the filthy earth for their assignations and unwilling to take a room at the inn. The first was injurious to his delicate sensibilities, while the latter ran the risk of their being seen by too many people, some of whom might just inform Bogdan, her husband. Naturally, her home was similarly out of bounds, although a tempting and cheaper solution. But then he had a truly marvelous idea, one which was deliciously wicked and fun.

The church.

 to be continued

Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them!

Cia Nordwell

J Ray Lamb