Captive of the Midnight Vixens

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Maiden In Distress

Most of the men would rather die than be kept here to provide carnal pleasure and horrifying nourishment for the women in this foul place. Not me. Not Roy Travis. I don’t want to die. Life is very precious to me, and as long as they let me live, I will keep searching for a way of escape. And another reason to stay alive is the s****l pleasure that comes with my purpose for being here. These women are dedicated to achieving the greatest possible indulgence in the supreme physical sensuality the human body can accomplish; both for themselves, and their stable of men, like me, who serve them. Perhaps some of you will charge me with cowardice and debauchery, but you were not here; you did not have the choice I had to make. The day will come when I may beg forgiveness for enjoying the ecstasy of their female flesh, but not from you. Learn now of my fate, and pray it will not become yours. I live in hope that some brave shepherd boy will pass close enough for me to toss this manuscript down to him from my barred window. That is my only chance, as I see it, for him to get back to civilization and send it home to be published.

But be warned, the evil is not dead, only sleeping. And it is the nature of fate that there will be another servant like Karel to rouse them and protect them. God willing, there will be another Roy Travis to challenge their right to exist.

Curiosity, as usual, was my downfall. In my youth it woke inside my mind—the lust for knowledge, the hunger for discovery. Like the Ancient Greek tragedy plays, I laid my own trap, and am unabashedly ashamed that I was snared so easily. Although I am an American, I chose a career in science to disprove the venerable European folklore that grips the minds of so many ignorant people. I went to study Central European folklore at Oxford in England. My father, a respected and honored scientist, disapproved.

“Roy, my boy,” he said one night as we sat together, smoking in his library, “be sensible. What possible discovery or theory could you possibly write about? There’s nothing up in those mountains but superstition and ignorance. Leave it alone! I can arrange a position for you at any of the universities, where you can do meaningful work in their laboratories.”

“Thank you, father, but you know how much I love to study languages and other cultures. You and mother want me to marry soon, and give you grandchildren to spoil, and to cheer your golden years. I’d like that, too. But first, I must seize this opportunity for one last great adventure.”

“A fool in his folly,” Father replied, shaking his head. “Your colleagues will steal a march on your career while you’re wandering around in those boorish villages. Now, I could get you a situation as research assistant to professor...”

“My mind’s made up, father. I’m going, next week.”

He sank back in his overstuffed chair, frowning, with disappointment in his eyes. I reached out and patted his forearm. “I respect you, father, and appreciate all you want to do for me.” I clasped his hand between both of mine. “Remember all those stories you told me about your adventures in the Great War of 1914? Your face glowed with your smiles. There were tears in your eyes when you spoke of your officer friends dying in the trenches.” I patted his hand. “I’m your son. I’m your flesh and blood. Didn’t grandfather argue with you when you decided to go to Europe and work in scientific espionage? He said almost the same things to you that you are saying to me now.”

“Yes, yes.” The smile slowly crept back into his face. “I’d almost forgotten about your grandfather’s gruff words.” He sighed. “Well, go ahead—but just for the fall season, mind you!”

This was my vacation after obtaining my Master’s degree from the university. I decided on a walking tour through the mountains of Central Europe, mainly to gather evidence to disprove all the silly tales and legends that originated from there. Also, the value of exercise and opportunity to increase my skill with Slavic languages was an irresistible lure. I would write a book about my discoveries to earn my PhD degree, and promote my career. Father will be proud of me.

As it turned out, I did write a book about it—but not the one I expected!

It was late in the fall of 1930, and the world was fresh and beautiful to me. The glories of the gold and crimson leaves, the orange carpet of the meadows, the new cape of snow just beginning their stealthy creep down from the mountain peaks, the clusters of birds winging south. It was bliss to be far from the financial grief of the 1929 Wall Street stock market crash spreading its misery throughout the cities of the world. Here in the foothills of Rumania, I crossed over into Transylvania. The leaves, already tinctured with fall colors dripped from the trees to carpet my path. They quivered in the mountain-chilled autumn breeze, beckoning to me, their color giving fair warning of what lay ahead.

I laughed at the villagers’ tales of doom awaiting travelers on the lonely paths through the almost endless forested mountains ahead. I sat with the locals at the rough wooden tables in front of the tavern, hoisting our steins in mutual salute, relishing the home-brewed beer as I commented how beautiful the sunset was. The red sun sinking toward the trees on the western horizon, the fading azure glow of an evening sky. Their faces paled, and their voices spoke low, cursing the impending darkness.

The young, buxom serving maid laughed good-naturedly at my accent and fumbling struggles to find the right words in her language. Then her face became somber. Her blue eyes widened and her long, blonde braids trembled. “You do not know what you praise,” she whispered. “The sun is our guardian, protecting us from fey creatures in the forest. They can live only in the darkness; we are safe only when dawn drives them back to their wretched hovels.” She gave a swift glance at the blood-red sun hovering low, its belly tickled by the pine treetops. “When you retire for the evening, be wise. Close the shutters in your room, and bolt them.”

She turned and scurried back into her tavern before I could scoff at her fears. So, they still believed that Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster, and werewolves still prowling, seeking their victims throughout this land.

Hell, maybe it’s just an act, something to entice us tourists to stay longer and spend more money. I smirked as I scribbled some notes for my book.

Well, as it turned out, I did stay longer—much longer than I and those others ever dreamed I would.

I spent the night at the tavern, bedded in the guestroom, luxuriating in the oversized bed and goose-down comforter. It was already dark outside with a waning, sliver-crescent moon low in the eastern sky. Through my open window the stars gleamed in a cloudless, ink-drenched velvet canopy that stretched from the eaves of the forest in the west, to the jagged teeth of mountains in the northeast. I stripped naked, slid into bed, snuggled under the covers, blew out the candle, and rolled over with a long, contented sigh.

At first I believed I was dreaming. She stood just inside the open window, a dark cloak and hood covering all of her body except her young, sensual face. She vanished instantly when there was a soft knocking on my door.

“Sir, I just...” The serving maid stood at the opening door and gasped, one hand covering her neck, the other holding a flickering candle. “Your window, sir, it’s open!” She set down her candle and dashed across the room and slammed the shutters closed and slid the locking bar in place. “It’s very dangerous, sir, I warned you about...”

“Surely no one still believes the old tales,” I replied. “This is the twentieth century, for heaven’s sake.”

“It is for heaven’s sake we must be so careful!” She glanced around the room, searching through the shadows. “Thank heaven they did not come through the window into your room!”

She hadn’t seen the girl at my window. I must have dreamed it.

“Who? Who would come at this time of night? And it’s preposterous they should enter through my window. The sill is fifteen feet above the ground.”

“Do not ask who, sir. We do not speak their names. They slay our souls, but keep the body alive for their own foul use.”

I sat up in my bed, exposing my naked chest. “You don’t mean to suggest that...”

She fetched her candle and rushed to my bedside, setting it down on the side table. She bent over me and clapped her hand over my mouth. Her luscious breasts almost tumbled out of their precarious cradle in her bodice. “No, don’t say it! Speaking their name only draws them to you.” She removed her hand from my mouth and pressed her forefinger over her trembling lips. “You must not ...but I forget, you are a stranger here. You need someone to watch over you tonight.” She smiled in the faint light and began unlacing her bodice. She tugged it off, revealing the beauty of her abundant breasts in the soft gleam of her candle’s flame. Next, her full skirt slid to the floor, and she loosened her petticoat.

“Miss, please,” I stammered. “We just met, and...”

“Hush!” She stepped out of her lacy petticoat and caressed my bare chest with it. The feminine fragrance of her body filled its frilly fabric, enchanting my nostrils, vanquishing my already weakening resolve. She stood unashamed, a creamy nude statue of feminine youth, breathtaking in her loveliness. She slid underneath the coverlet, pressing her nakedness against mine, arms around my neck, drawing my lips down to hers. She whispered in my ear, “We don’t often get young, handsome men staying at my tavern.” Sleep was the last thing on our minds. It was a long, splendid night.

The next morning, after a shared love-making and breakfast in bed, we dressed and reluctantly said our goodbyes. I hoisted my replenished pack on my back, breathed in a heady draught of crisp mountain air, and strode away with many a backward glance.

I spent the next few days following the twisting, ancient road up toward the distant peaks. I expected it would be rutted and worn by the passage of carriage wheels, but there were no marks. This way was seldom traveled.

The weather was perfect: sunshine all day and cool, peaceful sleep beside the soothing gush of a crystal-clear stream under the stars. Two days later clouds chased after me from the northwest as I ascended the gradual slope of a mountain. The sun was already shrouded by the overcast, and the sky darkened ominously.

Time to find shelter for the night. A woodcutter’s cottage or a sheepherder’s hut. A welcome chance to relax and practice my language skills. Maybe learn more of their folklore.

An ancient path branched off to my left, zigzagging to the northeast. The sun peeked through a brief opening in the clouds and glinted brilliantly off something up higher, shrouded in fog, tucked in a depression between two flanking peaks. The wind parted the fog momentarily, revealing the gleam. After a few hours of hurried hiking, I discovered it was reflecting from the windows in some kind of large stone mansion. The ascending rills between me and the mansion cut off the view of all but the two tower roofs, and the uppermost story.

Who would want to live in this forlorn place, even in such a splendid dwelling?

I needed shelter from the storm, and hoped they weren’t xenophobic, hating and repelling any casual passer-by, namely, me.

The path became steadily more difficult, rising and falling over ever-more-steeper rills. Soon I was breathing hard, almost stumbling on the narrowing and increasingly stony path. The shrouded sun must have already set, and darkness was growing when I crested the last ridge as the path wound upward, then down in a sweeping approach to the mansion. A mountain spring gushed out of the rocky slope above it, the rivulet cascading downward as a rushing stream. I was startled to see a lone young woman sitting on the ground, rubbing her ankle. There she was, below me, near the icy water. It emptied into a chill mountain lake, with the mansion perched on a tiny island in the center. From the steeply descending slopes all around it, I knew for certain the water must be deep as well as cold.

The young woman glanced up at me, waving her arm and calling. “Please, kind sir, I twisted my ankle trying to cross the stream.” She indicated the stepping stones that were pale dots against the darkening water. And then she pointed at the mansion. “Would you be so chivalrous to assist me in walking home? With the approaching storm, my sisters will be getting worried about me.”

I waved back and answered. “Of course. I would be most happy to help you.”

Her speech was sophisticated, tinged with a dialect of educated Hungarian. How strange to hear it in this isolated area of Rumania. I scrambled down the slope, kicking loose pebbles and clods of dirt, and then hopped over the stream on the unsteady stones.

“Careful,” she said as I approached. “We don’t want to both be crippled.” Her smile was radiant, displaying her perfect white teeth in an alluring young face. Her exceptionally long, raven hued hair shadowed her pale face and full, crimson lips. She reached up for my hand, standing up on her unsteady foot, her swelling breasts jiggling, enlivening the gorgeous, long green velvet gown reaching to her ankles. She wrapped one arm around my waist for support and brushed her long, raven hair back from her forehead. She smiled and looked at my face from the deep, liquid depths of her chestnut-color eyes. “I feel so foolish, getting myself into such a predicament, and then having to beg a stranger for help. How fortunate that you were passing by.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” I replied with my own smile. “Oh, I’m forgetting my etiquette. My name is Roy ... Roy Travis.”

“And mine is Valeska.”

“Valeska...who?

“Just Valeska,” she replied. “My sisters and I only use our first names. The rest of our names are too long and snobbishly pretentious, impossible for foreigners to pronounce.” She paused and grinned, “You’re an American, aren’t you?” There was a twinkle in her eye. “I can always tell.”

“By my accent?”

“Well, that, too. But mostly by your friendliness and courtesy.” She glanced toward the village now far behind me. “Those superstitious, uneducated village folk revile us, and would drive us out of this place, if they could.”

The wind was rising, making the branches above us sway and clack together, as if the wild breeze was crocheting the evening sky into a veil of gloom. I glimpsed the darkening clouds boiling overhead, shaking my head. “The sky is threatening a storm, and I was looking for shelter. Perhaps my slight assistance will provide an excuse for me to spend the night under your roof?”

“Of course. My sisters and I would be delighted to have your company.” As we moved slowly up the path, she swept her free arm in a semi-circle around us. “We so seldom have the privilege of entertaining guests in this forsaken desolation of forest and mountains.”

“Why then, do you live here?” It was a bold and discourteous intrusion into her life, but my ever-questing curiosity overruled my manners.

“Our great-grandfather built this mansion as a refuge from war and disease, during the turbulent times at the beginning of the previous century. My sisters and I often debated selling the property and moving to Bucharest, but then the Great War came in 1914, and we chose to remain here in safety.”

B-But,” I stammered, “that was 26 years ago. You look so young; you and your sisters must have been very small children then. What did your parents...?”

“Oh, I’m older than I look, but thank you for the compliment.” She gripped my arm with her free hand and hobbled forward. “Our parents had both died. Our caretaker, Karel, was a young man in those days, and accepted responsibility for us. He’s been like a father; so gentle, caring and trustworthy. He made us feel so safe. We couldn’t have stayed the last sixteen years without him.”

As if on cue, a gray-whiskered, brawny man in dusty black work clothes and jacket and calf-high boots on his feet, came rowing a boat across the wind-agitated lake toward us. When he stepped out of the boat onto the rocky shore, I could see he was tall, well over six feet, and powerfully built. In spite of his apparent middle age, he loomed as huge as a tower, yet moved with speed and agility rare in older men. He carried an antique, engraved hunting rifle in the crook of his right arm. The cartridge belt around his waist held a long row of bullets. Oddly, instead of the usual dull color of lead bullets, I could swear they were polished silver. He smiled and removed his wide-brimmed cap, revealing a thick thatch of gray hair.

“My dearest child, Valeska,” he called. “What has happened?”

“Only a twisted ankle,” she called back to him. “Do not be alarmed.” He came close, staring at me. He shoved his hat back on his head, smiled and extended his hand. “Thank you, sir, for assisting Lady Valeska. She is like a child to me, and I am grateful for your kindness to her.” He gestured for Valeska and me to step into the boat. As he swiftly rowed us to the island, she introduced us.

“Karel, this is Mr. Roy Travis, an American traveling through our land. I have invited him to stay with us until the weather clears.”

“Certainly, certainly.” He paused in his rowing to pump my handshake, grinning and nodding. When we stepped out of the boat he reached for my backpack. “Here, let me take that.” He slid the straps off my shoulders and slung it over his own shoulder. “Welcome, Mr. Travis. I hope you will enjoy our hospitality.”

I was taken aback by their enthusiasm and eagerness to invite me into their dwelling, but I attributed it to their lonely isolation. “Please,” I replied. “Call me Roy. I prefer that. ‘Mr. Travis’ makes me feel old... .Oh!” I blushed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to compare...”

“Karel isn’t ashamed of his age,” Valeska said. “We both know you didn’t mean any offense.”

“This is Rumania; the heart of Europe,” Karel said. “Unlike America, our culture honors the old. Gray hair like mine is a crown of distinction.”

A movement in the lake caught the corner of my eye. I snapped my head around just in time to see part of a large, dark form lift above the waves, then plunge back into the depths. I glanced back at Valeska and Karel, but apparently, they had not seen it. In spite of my ever-active curiosity, I chose not to mention it.

The mansion was quite close now, and I shifted my attention to its details. We reached the shore and climbed out of the boat. Reaching almost to the edge of the lake was a flight of stairs, spacious, dark grey stone steps ascending to the wide, weathered oak door. It was studded with iron spikes in the medieval manner, their blunt, lozenge-shaped heads set closely in a diamond-spaced pattern. The black handle was immense, crafted for some giant’s hand. Flanking the door were two small windows, set deep in the three-foot thick walls. Behind their glass panes, close-set iron bars protected the mansion from intruders.

The three-story high walls spread out on each side; so far I could not easily guess the measurements. Standing guard on each corner were fat, massive round towers stretching far up into the clear mountain air, crowned with steep, conical roofs. Their shingles glowed dark red in the failing light. The outer part of their bases actually extended into the lake on each side, the ink-dark water lapping at the stones. Windows pierced the walls at various heights. These, too, were protected by bars, even though they were far out of reach.

“This seems to be a very large place for you and Valeska’s sisters to live,” I said to Karel. “How many are there of you?”

Valeska nodded to him, and he answered. “There’s Lady Valeska, here, and her twelve sisters, and myself, of course.”

Valeska tilted her head at him and lifted one eyebrow.

“And the housekeeper and cook,” he added.

“Yes,” Valeska replied with a swift, restless glance at him, “Our young, delicate cook, Rozalia, and our old housekeeper, Mara, and her servant girls.” She nodded, “And finally, Vidov, our elderly butler.” She smiled with only a touch of smugness. “You have to give us credit, Mr. Travis, we are civilized and sophisticated, even here in the Transylvanian wilderness.”

“That’s all of you?” I said. “Your mansion is quite large. I would have guessed it required an army of servants to keep it tidy and cared for.”

“We don’t actually live in all the rooms, sir.” Karel smiled and pointed at the upper floors. “Not those. We mainly stay on the lower floors. Easier if we don’t have to trudge up and down all those flights of stairs—and warmer in the winter, too.” He scowled at the sky. “Mountain winters are fierce and cruel. And the wolves prowl along the shores of our lake. When the snow blankets the ground, it is fatal to enter the forest without this.” He patted his rifle.

I glanced at the massive towers. “And those?”

“Storage,” Valeska said. “Four generations of my family accumulated a lot of possessions in the last hundred and fifty years. I’d be heartbroken if we had to dispose of them.” She sighed.

I caught the swift glimmer of a mysterious smile on Karel’s lips, then it vanished.

Karel and I each took one of Valeska’s arms and helped her limp up the steps. The terrace between the steps and the front door was higher above the ground than my head. There must be an enormous cellar under the main floor, although I saw no windows for it. Karel pounded the brass goat’s head knocker on the oak door and I could almost hear a hollow echo down in the vale behind us. He kept clenching his fists impatiently while we waited for a response.

I looked back at the already-shadowed forest behind us, and saw lightning flicker behind the near hills. It was quite dark now, with black, roiling clouds over the mansion, and the approaching thunder already rumbling in the valley below us to the west. I felt very vulnerable, standing out here in the open air. I would be grateful for whatever was waiting for me inside.