Dancing into the Night- Part Fifteen

Dancing into the Night: Part Fifteen  

It was almost dawn and though the sun had already begun to rise in the plum colored sky, it was far from the greatest source of illumination. For within the depths of Budapest, only a mile or so from the harbor, a building had been set alight and the hellish glow of the flames showed no signs of being quelled. The fire seemed to have a mind of its own as it crackled and writhed in a gay display, though as of yet, there was no one awake to view its devastating manifestation. . . Save for the single solitary figure that stood outside the inferno and looked upon it emotionlessly. For a breath the cloaked passerby was still, studying the flaming structure with calculating sea-green eyes, before he raised his hands up to observe the item he had brought with him. Within his calloused palms was grasped a sack cloth, almost long enough to cover the man completely, stained with the marks of time and heavens knew what else. Though currently the figure was ignorant to such petty details as this and only focused on the material of the fabric. It was unquestionably compact, heavy- and exactly what he needed.

Without another thought, the man wrapped the cloth fully around himself before he strode purposefully towards the nearest window of the burning building. And as he drew closer, he let his rapt gaze take in the length of the destruction. Though the man had initially expected the sight of glass to meet his view, he was instead greeted by an empty and scorching windowpane. Apparently with the heat of the fire, the windows had shattered, leaving a place for the red and orange coils to reach up for the still dark sky. A slight Godsend to the figure who now looked upon the dancing element with well masked apprehension. He would have had to break the glass first if it had been there, but his way was unmarred and several seconds of precious time saved.

Carefully the man judged the position of the twisting flames, steadied his breath, and in one bound, leapt through the opening into the bowels of the blaze. The red lashed out viciously at his flying form, trying to thwart his entrance, but due to the sack-cloth wrapped tightly around his body, the man remained ultimately unscathed. And he was able to roll rather easily upon hitting the floor, lessening his impact a considerable amount. Then he shot up from the sizzling floorboards and let a hand come up to rest protectively over his mouth and nose.

The air was permeated with the thickest of smoke, making it nearly impossible to see, and even more so to breathe. But somehow he managed, forcing his sea-green eyes to focus past the pain and take in his surroundings. Everywhere he looked there was blinding, yet diluted light. But he disregarded it and kept his silent search in check.

For a moment it seemed like his bravery would be in vain. That his efforts would be too late . . . But then as his eyes began to water and the sweltering temperature became almost unbearable, he spotted what he was looking for. It was only several yards to his left.

Cautiously, the man judged the pathway between himself and his goal before he diligently began to pick his way towards it. He would have moved quickly if it had been at all possible. But the floor, having been burned, was unsound and with too much pressure or movement would collapse and drag him down to a fiery death. So he paced himself, coughing deeply as the rancid fumes of the fire and what seemed to be corpses filled his unwilling nostrils. With every step he drew closer and the floor creaked louder. But after another painstaking minute of this, his patience was rewarded.

Slowly, the man leaned down, the bottom of his garments trailing across the stilled forms of two women. They laid side by side, one with hair as red as the flames that sought to destroy them, and the other with curls the color of obsidian. He eyed the fairer of the two for a brief moment with a wary gaze, before he let several of his fingers slide down to rest upon the darker woman's neck.

For a breath he felt nothing. No pulse, no breath. . . But then as he was about to give up, he felt the softest pounding against his fingertips. Her heart was beating. She was still alive! But only just.

The man quickly removed his fingers and placed both of his hands underneath the lasses' sedentary form. It took him a second to find his grip, before he lifted her up and inelegantly slung her over his shoulder. Though he did this without preamble, his body immediately began to groan in protest. He was muscular and well-toned, but the woman weighed quite a bit more than he had anticipated.

With an almost imperceptible grunt, he shifted the limp woman and let his hands take a better command of his burden. Then with a final glance at the obviously dead she-demon, the man began his tremulous trek back the way he had come. With each step his knees threatened to buckle and the floor creaked in warning, but he fought his fatigue and worry and only concentrated on his task and what would be at stake if he failed.

The floorboards splintered deafeningly at his feet as the scorching fires grew to colossal heights. But he never faltered. His only view was that of the window that he had come through and the first light of the forthcoming dawn. The first glimpse of the sun gave him new reserves of strength that he hadn't known existed within him, and his doubts melted into pure conviction for the last moments of his journey. And by the utter grace of God, he made it there, his charge still unconscious and bleeding from the gaping puncture wound in her neck, but otherwise untouched.

With a huff, he quickly wrapped the sackcloth around her as he had done for himself, before unceremoniously sliding her from his shoulders out of the window to the cobbled street below. As she landed, there was a loud thud and he wordlessly apologized. It was not his intention to harm her, but he wasn't capable of jumping through the high window with her added weight either. Hopefully the fall would not prove to be another injury, but there would be time to evaluate her condition later once they were clear of the hellish blaze. For now he needed to get himself and his charge to safety.

So with a well-balanced lunge, the man followed the woman, jumping through the windowpane once more. This time he landed on his feet and let his boots clomp on the now bloodstained pavement. Then he again shouldered his unmoving ward and disappeared into the depths of the city from whence he had come. Leaving the burning Tavern far behind him as the sun's light rose on the smoking morning and the woman cried out unknowingly in her comatose state.

From the tips of the sky the beginnings of light shone through the dark clouds of autumn, promising some warmth and reprieve from the darkness of the deeper months. But the sun had yet to fully shine, and due to this the large creature that currently flew through the heavens was unhindered. On silent wings of crimson and gray it cut through the clouds like a sword, going faster than any bird as it flapped erratically and spiraled North, not minding the city that sprawled below itself or the winter breeze that had started to blow in from the Adriatic.

With glowing light blue eyes, the creature gazed ahead, though his vision could only see her. The image of his human crying and broken, lying in a river of blood and fire.

A deep growl unconsciously ripped through the back of Dracula's throat as the thought burned vividly into his ancient mind. It caused him to go even faster than before- disobeying the laws of nature as he zipped towards the place he knew she would be.

The vampire soared ever higher as his animalistic senses took full control, for his mind was too preoccupied to bother with something as simple as flight.

He had returned to his Summer Palace nearly an hour ago, after leaving his little Storyteller at her Tavern, knowing that the new day was close at hand. He would have stayed by her side, after almost losing her to the scum near the docks, but she had asked him for space and time and he had been willingly to give it to her. . . But now as he soared over the quiet earth, the vampire cursed himself for his compliance to the barmaid's whims. Because he had allowed her, her wish there was a high probability that he would be too late . . . A chance he would lose her forever.

Dracula knew that if his heart could still beat that it would have been unrivaled in its tempest. It had been more than 400 years since the vampire had known fear, but now it consumed him. He hissed through his fangs and forced his wings to beat harder against the air currents, pushing down his fear and trading it for determination. He would reach Lynara in time. He would care for her wounds and heal her. And if it was required for her to survive, he would change her. Dracula felt remorse at the thought, though with the condition his human was in he knew it might be a necessary evil.

In truth, the Count would have been oblivious to Lynara's fate if it hadn't been inflicted by Aleera's hand. But because of his connection to her, the vampire had known the second his youngest bride had diminished. It had been as he was about to rest, that he had heard Aleera desperately call to him and seen Lynara's body amongst the blood and flames, and he had immediately taken to flight.

As a Sire, Dracula was privy to a special bond with all those he transformed, and Aleera was no exception. It was an awareness to one another; a beacon that allowed for silent communication and sharing thoughts over long distances. And as the vampire had swooped from his darkened quarters and sailed into the midmorning heavens, he had felt his unity with Aleera laid to waste. It was like a mirror within his mind being shattered, as her final memories rushed to imprint upon his encumbered mind. In a breath of time, he had experienced Aleera's hatred towards his human firsthand, as well as her final act against the inhabitants of the Tavern- their strewn about, dismembered corpses making him involuntarily hungry. . . But the memory that had made him fly with such frantic energy, was what his bride had done to Lynara.

He had endured the details of her torture. Had felt her precious blood trickling down his throat as Aleera drank from her, and experienced the devastating pain the vampiress' had suffered before finally falling into her eternal sleep. Every emotion his bride had felt, his mind had reflected until there was nothing left to share. And then Aleera had truly passed beyond the world, leaving his conscious with a haunted scream of anguish that reached his ears alone. It rang throughout his entire being, before her presence was gone and the Count was once more himself though it held little comfort for him.

After another minute of flight, the vampire began to descend from the gray havens. And as he dipped below the cloud line, his eyes narrowed with unaccustomed dread.

The Tavern was aflame and the devastation was beginning to spread to several nearby buildings, filling the air with acrid smoke and ash. If the fire remained unchecked the whole area would be in danger of ruination. Though Dracula paid the possibility no mind as he landed gracefully and immediately began to change back into his human form. The leathery body and giant wings faded into his black coat and breeches, though the action went by utterly unnoticed. The nobleman strode faster than most humans could have run, and within seconds of setting his feet on solid ground, stood before the place he had been called to. His stride remained unbroken as he slammed his bare palm against the liquid hot door and entered into the unquenchable inferno.

As the Count's black clad form fully embraced the red-wrath that surrounded him on all sides, he felt the pain of his body burning. Though as quickly as he was incinerated, the vampire healed- his muscle and sinew flashing into view every few seconds in the flickering light. Most would have screamed in agony from the process, but the vampire remained silent and exact.

With deep blue eyes Dracula scanned the Tavern and felt both relief and apprehensive trepidation. There was no sign of Lynara. Her scent was faint, making it was obvious that she was no longer present.

His little Storyteller's whereabouts tormented him, but he also found himself treasuring the fact that she had not burned to death. So with unfeeling, ancient eyes, the Count looked at the almost unrecognizable Tavern, bidding it farewell, before he turned his attention to the shell that had been Aleera. Silently he knelt down before her, taking in the now charred and crisp face he had come to know so well. Her hair, once so beautiful and smooth was black with soot and ash, and her clothes had been stained by both her own blood and that of the ones she had killed. . .

All was as it should be.

She had so loved the color red, and now it would permanently stain her in life and death.

Gently, Dracula let his thumb caress her now deformed cheek, his face turning into an unreadable mask. He had never loved Aleera. Until his human had come, the Nosferatu had thought love an impossibility for his kind . . . And yet he had cared for Aleera . . . She had been his choice, his sireling . . . his Bride . . . and for that he would always remember her.

Slowly he leaned down, his raven locks draping over them like a curtain of night, as he placed a kiss to her forehead.

"Goodnight, my darling," he whispered against the crackling of the fire, before he let her go and stood. For a moment more he regarded Aleera, thinking back to the hundred years she had spent at his side, before he closed his eyes and began to morph. Instantly his body grew in size and shape; great leathery wings unfolding and he shifted into his monstrous from. Then Dracula let his instincts take over and lifted up into the scalding flames. And with a mighty roar the creature smashed past what was left of the Tavern ceiling and once more began his search for his mate.