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The Diary of Arkady Dracul
 
30 OCTOBER 1845. The dragon wakes.
 
So say the rumini, the peasants, when the thunder rolls over Lake Hermanstadt and drums against the surrounding mountains. In its crescendo they hear the voice of drac, the great dragon: the Devil himself, roaring a warning to those souls foolish enough not to flee his wrath, foolish enough to linger on the banks of the wind-tossed lake in the face of the rising storm. Dozens die each year, struck down in a blazing mortal moment by lightning.
 
The sun is recently set, and I, like the tempest, am recently wakened. I remain, fearless, seated upon the cold earth beneath the shelter of a towering pine, and stare yearning up at the dazzling bolts that fleetingly illuminate the threatening clouds, out at the black, depthless water that has lured many a suicide. I long for death; but that sweet oblivion is not to be mine. Not until my work is done.…
 
The air smells electric; the brilliant, jagged streaks dazzle me to blindness. They pain me, as once it pained me to stare full into the sun. Even without their light, on this forbidding moonless eve, I see clearly enough to wield my pen, to perceive the colours of all surrounding me, as though it were day: the deep evergreen of trees and mountains, the indigo water, the browns and greys of dying grass upon the shore.
 
Renewed thunder, cascading from the sky and echoing again and again and again as it hammers the mountains encircling the lake, so fearsomely that it is easy to understand why the uneducated rumini attribute it to the Evil One.
 
To my ears, it is no warning but an invitation to the school of darkness: the Scholomance, where the Devil’s own acquire the black arts—and lose their souls.
 
Mine is already lost, along with my mortal life, months before. Yet I remain here, hesitant—not quite willing to ally myself with Evil in order to fight it.
 
Here is the truth: To save my wife, my child, all the coming generations of my family, I am a monster. So shall I remain until I am powerful enough to destroy him, the greatest of all monsters: Vlad, my ancestor and nemesis.
 
For months since my transformation, I had been unable to continue my diary, unable to chronicle my infinite despair at the bloodthirsty creature I have become. Now I see the need to leave a record, in the event—God forbid!—of my failure, and Vlad’s continuance.
 
For I have tried to destroy him; oh yes, I have tried. In my naïveté, I went to his castle again the second night after my horrific rebirth, armed with a dagger and stake beneath my cloak.
 
I found him that night, sitting in his drawing-room as was his habit in the halcyon days before all the servants had fled, while I was still an ignorant mortal. For once, I made my way through the echoing, unlit halls of the castle without trepidation, for I could see easily in the darkness—see every mote of dust, every spider, every delicate web—and I could hear with preternatural accuracy every scurrying rat, every whisper of the night breeze outside the walls. I could even hear the faint murmur of my sister’s sweet voice in the far wing of the castle—and the faint reply of a stranger’s voice, a man.
 
Perhaps I might have gone to rescue him—but I knew if I succeeded in my mission, he and countless others like him would be saved. I could see, too, the portraits of my ancestors, hung upon the castle walls, beginning with that of the Impaler, with his severe hawkish features, his long black curls, his drooping mustache. He was surrounded by a dozen others, all from different generations, all with faces and features that were variations upon his.…
 
All with souls that were tied to his service, by a pact as ancient and evil as their blood.
 
And I—I resembled him more than any other. Indeed, I have become, like him, a monster; but I am a monster bound to destroy him … and myself.
 
My prey was silent, but I knew his custom; and so I glided soundlessly down the corridors until at last I arrived at a closed door, its lower edge beribboned with a strip of flickering light.
 
I moved to fling it open with my hand. To my surprise, even before my fingers touched the brass knob, tarnished by four centuries of my ancestors’ hands, the door slammed open, struck by no more than the force of my will.
 
V. sat in his chair, staring into the fire, which illumined his marble-white features with a warm orange glow and caused a thousand tiny flames to be reflected in the cut-crystal decanter of slivovitz at his elbow. Dressed all in black, he sat regally, his palms atop the armrests, his demeanour that of an aged royal patriarch—but his visage was that of a younger man, middle-aged, with a long iron-grey mustache and hair that flowed onto his shoulders.
 
He looked like my father, before V. had entirely broken his spirit; but there was a cruelty around his lips, his dark green eyes, in place of Father’s kindness.
 
At the unsettlingly loud slam of the door, he did not move but remained planted like a rock, his hands still gripping the armrests, his gaze still on the fire. All that moved were his lips, very slightly, into a faint mocking smile.
 
“Arkady,” he said softly. “What a welcome surprise. And how are your dear wife and son?”
 
The question tore at my heart, as he knew it would; I could only pray he was as ignorant of the answer as I. When no reply was forthcoming, he slowly swivelled his head towards me.
 
Immediately, I put my hand upon the stake at my belt.
 
At the sight, his smile broadened to a grin; then he threw back his head and laughed, so heartily and so loud that the sound rang echoing off the ancient stone walls. He continued some time, while I stood, feeling both furious and foolish.
 
At last he drew a gasping breath and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said, grinning, his eyes agleam with unholy mirth. “Forgive me, dear nephew. After so many years, one becomes … jaded. One forgets the thought processes of the neophyte. Arkady”—he nodded towards the sharp wooden stake in my hand, at the shining dagger still sheathed at my belt—“do you really think to use those things?”
 
“I will,” I said, my voice low with hate. To think that I had once innocently loved him! “I am younger and stronger than you, dear, dear uncle—”
 
“Younger, yes.… But you will find that, in undeath, it is age and experience that confer strength.” He sighed as he rose and turned to face me. “Very well. Let us dispense with this before it interrupts my plans for my houseguest.”
 
What followed took place with inhuman swiftness, faster than any mortal eye could perceive.
 
I leapt at him with the stake, aiming to plunge it deep into his chest. As I did so, he stepped aside with supernatural speed and grace—and caught the hand that held the stake, with such might that my arm was pulled from its socket.
 
I howled, tried to wrest free, but his strength outmatched mine tenfold; with a brutal yank, he tore the arm from me, leaving my shoulder a stump that spewed my latest victim’s blood. As I watched, stunned, he tossed it—the fingers still clutching the stake—with casual grace into the fire.
 
But I too was no longer mortal; so, neither, was my wound. The pain blinded for one brief brilliant instant, then transformed into pure energizing rage. Again I charged—this time knocking V. into the flames.
 
As he struggled to rise, hair and waistcoat ablaze, I retrieved my severed limb—only to realise, with amazement, that another had instantaneously and completely regrown to take its place. I snatched the charred stake from my erstwhile fingers and, oblivious to its blistering heat, rushed with it at V.
 
To my surprise, he spread his arms in welcome, a smouldering, willing target that wore the Devil’s own grin. I struck out with every shred of my newfound immortal strength, determined to drive the stake clear through his cold heart; struck out again. Again. Again.
 
The stake would not pierce him.
 
Like a madman, I flailed at him with it—but it was as though the very air itself formed an impenetrable cushion above his chest. I hammered away until the wood itself began to splinter. All the while, he laughed, soft and low, with the condescension of an adult watching a helplessly furious child; but then his amusement faded and turned to murderous fury.
 
“Fool!” he spat. “Do you really think you are better than all the others—that you can destroy me, when all have failed? You and your son cannot escape. Yield, Arkady! Yield to destiny!”
 
“Never,” I whispered, and read in his eyes my destruction; I knew then I should have to flee or meet the fate I had intended for him. I turned and flew through the air—barely in time. As I burst from the room, the violence of my exit causing the door to slam shut behind me, he hurled the stake after—with such force that it split the wood and remained stuck in the thick door, quivering like an arrow.
 
I fled to escape certain destruction.
 
The experience filled me with horror—not at the thought of my demise but at the thought that true death would not come soon enough, that I should have to continue as I was—a monster, drinking blood from victim after innocent victim until at last I succeeded in destroying V.