Kiss Of Life

---

Book excerpt

Prequel: Dracula Doesn't Live Here Anymore

On the 25th December 1989 the ruthless Communist dictator of Romania Nikolae Ceaucescu and his wife Elena, following a popular uprising were tried convicted and executed for crimes against the state. With the fall of communism, the country of Romania began a long and arduous trek towards freedom and democracy. Overnight, new churches sprang up and the people looked to religion to help them in their quest to rebuild a country shattered and brought to its knees by years of socialist dogma and mismanagement. International charities and Relief organisations poured money and volunteers into this benighted land in an effort to save the millions of children who lived in a state of penury within this so-called one time Socialist paradise. Food, medicine and clothing were shipped in by the truckload and slowly, very slowly Romania began to emerge from the dark days of Nikolae Ceaucescu's terrifying rule into the world of the twentieth century. There are many things about this land that are as yet unknown to the people of the outside world. Things that may be scorned by outsiders, things that are known of, but never spoken about. These things are not kept hidden under a veil of secrecy by the oppressors of communist rule. No, these are things that go back to the very dawn of the nation's history and so there are some things about Romania and its history that its own people would rather not discuss, even to this day.

***

October 2006

Dexter woke early though, if the truth be told, he hadn't slept much at all. How anyone could sleep in a bed like this was beyond his belief. The mattress resembled, in his humble opinion, something used in a nineteenth century asylum, and not for the Governor! Add to that the freezing cold which seemed to have numbed every one of his extremities, and Dexter was a very miserable specimen indeed.

What the hell am I doing here? he thought.

Less than two days ago he'd been warm and secure in his London apartment, (well, he thought of it as an apartment, though an estate agent would probably describe it as a studio), and now here he was frozen and bleary-eyed somewhere in the Rumanian outback, as he'd called it to himself on seeing the bleak countryside for the first time. Then again, he could have refused when Max Perryman had called and offered him the job.

“I need a good investigative reporter,” Perryman had said on the phone.

“I thought Hardy was your man “.

“Oh, he is, but he's out of commission for now. Fell off a twenty foot wall while trying to get incriminating photos of a certain diva at play with her latest lover. Broke his leg in two places. It'll be weeks before he's back in harness. Look Dexter, you've been pestering me for work for months, now I'm giving you a chance to earn a nice fat fee. Do you want it or not? If you do I want you in my office at two-thirty tomorrow, and make sure your passport's up to date”.

The conversation carried on for five minutes and, after accepting what he thought was a ridiculous assignment Dexter had boarded the first available flight to Bucharest, hired what had to be the world's oldest car, (heater inoperable of course), and followed the directions provided by fax from his 'contact' here in Romania. Why she hadn't met him in the capital he didn't know, but assumed it was because she wanted to get a head start on the job before he arrived. Anyway, she was due to meet him here this morning. He'd already composed a mental picture of her in his mind. When taking into consideration his first impressions of this country he could only envisage a rather large, coarse, and peasantish female with a rudimentary knowledge of English (all this despite the fact that she like him, was an investigative reporter, and should, therefore be at least of equal intelligence to Dexter), but what the heck, it was time for breakfast.

As he sat in the bar cum dining room of the little inn, trying his best to enjoy a breakfast of hot sausage and black bread, washed down with inky black, bitter coffee he pondered on various thoughts.

Was it normal in these parts for inns to be nameless? Perhaps it was, as there was no competition for trade, 'the inn' was as good a description as any.

Why had Perryman chosen him for the job, when there were certainly better known free-lance reporters around who could have done the job better then he? (He'd never admit that to anyone though).

Why did everyone he met look like something out of a Hammer horror movie? Where the hell was this female he was supposed to meet? And finally, who on earth believed in vampires in this day and age?

Alright, so five people had been killed in less than a month right here in Dracula country, all from what appeared to be attacks by someone (or something), that completely drained them of blood. Obviously a crazy at large. Why did the editor of The Sentinel think it worth sending someone all the way over here to investigate?

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a blast of icy wind as the door of the inn opened, and an apparition resembling the abominable snowman entered and stood shaking itself free of what appeared to be half a ton of snow which was duly deposited on the previously dry wooden floor. Next the creature began to divest itself of diverse layers of clothing until at last, to Dexter's great surprise, a woman appeared as if from a cocoon. Not just a woman, but to Dexter one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She was tall, maybe five feet six, very slim and with luxuriant dark hair which cascaded over her shoulders after she removed her Cossack-style hat. He suddenly realised he was staring and averted his gaze back to the lingering remnants of his breakfast sausage, but the sound of approaching footsteps told Dexter that the new arrival was heading his way. He looked up again, and there she was, no more than a foot from his table.

“Alan Dexter?' she asked.

“That's me” he replied.

“I'm Christina Radaluć, from the News Agency, I'm sorry if you've been waiting for me, but I took the chance to stay with relatives in the area before coming to meet you”.

“But”, said Dexter, offering his hand in greeting, “I thought you'd be a, er, that is…I didn't know you'd be…”.

“Don't worry”, she responded with a smile, “I promise I can do the job as well as any man, and I have been involved in this case since it started”.

Dexter was just a little flustered,

“I'm sorry, it's not that, you're just not quite what I expected, and your English is very good”, he added, trying to quickly mitigate his clumsiness.

“Ah, I see. You were expecting a typical East European javelin throwing athletic type with a terrible smattering of pidgin English”.

“Yes, well, anyway, I'm sorry”, said Dexter, “Please sit down, Miss Radaluć, and have some coffee with me, it's terrible sitting here all alone being watched by the old girl over there”, gesturing towards the innkeepers wife, who was standing behind the wooden bar polishing the glasses that hung from hooks above her head.

“Thanks, I will, and please call me Christina. As for my English, I studied in England for a while, at the university in York. May I call you Alan?”

“Most people just call me Dexter”.

“Then Dexter it shall be then” said Christina, as she beckoned to the landlady to bring her a cup, which she proceeded to fill from the pot on Dexter's' table.

“Tell me”, asked Dexter, “you don't really believe there's a vampire at large do you? Such things just don't exist, we both know that, surely. It has to be someone trying to make it look that way for some reason, or maybe for no reason, if he's a mental case”.

“Look Dexter”, she replied, speaking softly yet earnestly, “You have to understand that we're on the border of the old Transylvania and Moldavia. The people here still hold the old beliefs. Come on, you've seen the locals here. We're miles from the big city, and for every mile you travel away from the city you can virtually go back a year in time. These people are still living in the nineteenth century as far as progress is concerned”.

“Yes, but come on, er… Christina, just because they believe it doesn't mean its' real does it?”

“No Dexter, but five men are dead, and the police are clueless, all that's known is that the bodies were drained of blood, and each one had puncture marks on their necks!”

“How do you know that?” he asked, “my editor told me that the police hadn't revealed any details, and that that was what had added to the mystery”.

“Ah,” said Christina, “my cousin Alex is the deputy head of the police force here in Vilna, he let me have a very quick look at the incident reports for the deaths”.

“And?” asked Dexter expectantly.

“That's all I'm afraid”, she replied, “All the victims were found completely drained of blood, and all had two puncture marks on their necks, quite deep, but apart from that the police have nothing to go on. No witnesses, no trace evidence, nothing”.

“So”, said Dexter sarcastically, “with such detailed police reports, I guess we're as much in the know as they are! Where do we go from here? I wish we could get a look at the bodies”

“No chance of that I'm afraid Dexter, the last murder was two weeks ago, all the bodies have been cremated”

“What? Not one burial?”

“Superstition Dexter, you know the legend, the corpse rising from the grave to become the undead and all that stuff. This way there's no chance of that”.

He liked the way Christina injected his name into almost everything she said to him. There was something about the way she said 'Dexter' that quite captivated him, almost as though just by saying it she was indulging in a form of intimacy with him. Quickly forcing such thoughts to the back of his mind, he said once again,

“So, where do we go from here?”

“I think we should go to Auschstadt. It's a small village where the last victim was killed. It's not far by car, we could be there in little more than an hour. We may have to stay there for a day or two, if that's alright with you”.

“Sure”, said Dexter, I'll bet it's got a charming village inn too, just like this one!”

“I'm afraid it has” said Christina, “Better than being out alone after dark though don't you think?”

“I know we've just met, but somehow I don't feel alone with you Christina”.

“I didn't mean totally alone Dexter, but I think I know what you mean. Come on, get your things and let's go”.

It took Dexter all of five minutes to collect his bag from upstairs, descend the stairs and pay the landlady for his one night of far from luxurious accommodation. He was surprised that his was the only car outside, but Christina explained that her cousin had dropped her off nearby and left her there, knowing that she would be meeting Dexter and that they would probably be using his car in partnership. Dexter thought it strange that he hadn't heard the sound of a car outside before her arrival, but put that down to the fact that he was busy pursuing his thoughts at the time and would have been oblivious to the sound anyway. The journey to Auschstadt took a little longer than Christina's estimation, almost two hours in fact, but Dexter was quite happy to have such beautiful company with whom to share the journey. She had asked much about Dexter and his life in England, and seemed surprised that he had no family back home, no-one to miss him as she put it. He in turn was surprised to learn that her family was one of the oldest in Rumania, and had once formed part of the nobility of that country some hundreds of years ago. She had spent five years living in England, arriving there just before going to university, where she had studied journalism, and staying for two years after graduating, living in Whitby, where her family had a home once owned by one of her ancestors. After a short spell working for a local paper she had been offered a job back in Romania by one of her Father's acquaintances who had connections with the head of the Central News Agency. That was nearly ten years ago, and she had rapidly risen through the ranks to become one of the best investigative journalists in her native land. Dexter was impressed.

“Here we are then”, said Christina, not much to look at is it?”

Dexter looked around as he drove into the tiny village, (hamlet would have been a better description he thought), and inwardly groaned. The place made Vilna look like a thriving metropolis! The road on which they had travelled hadn't been much to speak of, but here it just deteriorated into nothing but a muddy morass with hard snow mixed into it, surrounded by a few cottages, a minuscule church (the cross on the roof being the only thing to outwardly distinguish it from the cottages), and (horror of horrors), an inn, once again without a name, just the hanging sign with the picture of a tankard giving away the building's purpose, and even smaller than the one in Vilna (if such a thing were possible). He suddenly realised that he was still freezing, the car's heater still didn't work, and all his layers of clothes seemed impotent to stop the penetration of the icy chill, and he concluded that he would never be warm again until he left this country far behind and returned to his wonderfully centrally heated apartment (studio), in good old London.

Let's get this story finished, he thought, and get back home, bank Perryman's cheque, and return to a life of simple free-lance investigations into the murky lives of so-called celebrities and crooked businesses etc. etc.

“Your thoughts are miles away?” Christina's voice brought him sharply back to reality.

He even noticed that she hadn't called him Dexter this time.

“Sorry”, he replied, “feeling a bit sorry for myself actually, missing home a bit. Silly isn't it?”

“I think maybe our Romanian winter and lack of country conveniences is getting to you, and you've only been here for a couple of days. I think perhaps you don't really want to be here, this is maybe not your cup of tea, chasing an unknown vampire around the Transylvanian countryside”.