Captain Vampire by Marie Nizet

Author:Marie Nizet [Nizet, Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2012-09-03T00:00:00+00:00

VII. O Frailty...!

The hiss of the whips died away. An unknown man of taller stature and coarser features had just appeared next to the exhausted and bloodied Relia Comanescu. His left hand was crumpling a wad of papers, and his right hand was extended, in a gesture replete with nobility, between the young man and his executioners. The man was evidently strong, and conscious of his strength. Without taking stock of the influence to which they were obedient, the Russians recoiled from him like jackals before a lion.

Relia had recognized Ioan; Ioan had remembered Relia. Ioan had repaid the debt contracted by Mariora, and the boyar’s lip brushed the peasant’s tanned fingers.

The dorobantz’s extraordinarily calm gaze surveyed the entire company, to various degrees. Not a muscle quivered in his face; one might have thought that no hatred had ever subverted his soul–and yet, his enemy was in front of him, nonchalantly perched on a divan, within range of his dagger! Ioan could see his enemy, though.

“Which of you is Boris Liatoukine?” he asked, coolly.

“That’s me,” said Captain Vampire, sitting up straighter. Ironically, he added: “Is your memory so short that you can’t recognize me?”

The Imperial missive slipped from the messenger’s fingers.

“Oh, yes, I recognize you,” he said, with a bitter smile. “A Rumanian’s memory is trustworthy, as is his khanjar! 44 But I did not know the name of the monster who takes pride in insulting old men, beating children an violating women!”

“My boy,” said Bogomil, slapping Ioan on the shoulder and causing him to take a step backwards to avoid contact with the drunkard, “you’re not very polite, and you talk like my Archimandrite uncle. No more of your pious sermons, I beg you; it’s not Lent any more and morality gets on my nerves!”

An irritated glance from Liatoukine imposed silence on Tchestakoff.

“Are you alluding to the Slobozianu woman?” Boris said, calmly, picking the Archduke’s letter up with the point of his saber. He continued, addressing his companions in debauchery: “It’s to do with Mariora, gentlemen.”

“Mariora!” exclaimed Igor, smoothing his moustache. “I knew her–a lovely sprig of a girl!”

“I knew her too–she wasn’t shy!” said Stenka, performing a pirouette.

Ioan thought that he was in the grip of a horrible nightmare. The name of Mariora, which he produced as if it were that of a goddess, tripped from the mouths of these libertines accompanied by epithets! So they knew Mariora! Where and when had they known her?

This flood of questions was rising to the dry lips of the dorobantz when Bogomil, sticking both hands in his pockets, advanced towards him again, studying him with an impertinent curiosity. “Is it you, my boy, who is engaged to marry Maruschinka?”

“It is me!” said Ioan indignantly, “and I forbid you...”

“Well, I congratulate you–sincerely, I congratulate you,” Tchestakoff repeated, with a false bonhomie–and he turned his broad back to resume his place.

Igor got up in his turn, and said, with the disdain that stamps the least movement and most insignificant remark of a great

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