Bloodlust and Secret Whispers

  Helen G. Huntley

  HGH Publishing

  Copyright © 2025 by Helen G. Huntley

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Contents

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  11. Chapter 11

  12. Chapter 12

  13. Chapter 13

  14. Chapter 14

  15. Chapter 15

  16. Chapter 16

  17. Chapter 17

  18. Chapter 18

  19. Chapter 19

  20. Chapter 20

  21. Chapter 21

  22. Chapter 22

  23. Chapter 23

  24. Chapter 24

  25. Chapter 25

  26. Chapter 26

  About the author

  Thank You

  Chapter 1

  She was dark and beautiful, and I wanted her with a hunger I could not tame. Something inside me rose and claimed her, fierce, reckless, blind. Had I known the price of a single kiss, I would have fled into the fire rather than lay my hands upon her. –from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The tavern was alive with noise, raucous laughter, the clatter of dice on wood, and the steady chink of coin changing hands. Claudiu, the proprietor, pumped the bellows of his concertina with gusto. The lively tune filled the smoky air as boots stomped in rhythm on the scuffed floorboards. The scent of sweat, spiced sausage, and sour ale mingled with the tang of wood smoke from the great hearth at the back of the room.

  At the center of it all sat Caliban Drakovar, his heavy hand slapping the tabletop as he roared with laughter. The candlelight flickered against his broad features. Unkempt locks of coal-black hair shadowed his dark eyes, deep-set beneath a furrowed brow. A short beard framed his mouth, the edges still glistening with ale. His powerful shoulders strained against the fine but wrinkled linen of his open-necked shirt, revealing a glimpse of the heavy gold pendant resting against his chest.

  Otilla twirled before him, the beads of her necklace clicking as she spun, her bare feet whispering against the worn planks of the floor. She was a beauty, in her way, sleek as a fox, with chestnut hair tumbling in wild waves down her back. Her dark eyes glittered as she moved, skirts flaring, hands raised, drawing whistles and cheers from the drunken men who watched. But her gaze always flicked back to Caliban, waiting for his reaction, basking in his attention. She lived for his indulgence, for the way he grinned when she pleased him.

  Caliban leaned back in his chair, one boot propped up on another seat, a tankard dangling from his fingers. “Dance, Otilla! Dance like the gods themselves are watching!” he bellowed, tossing a coin at her feet.

  At the far side of the room, Claudiu played on, his fingers nimble over the concertina’s buttons, filling the tavern with a lively tune. He sat near a group of men hunched over a game of cards, and he watched them with quiet amusement, his eyes gleaming in the flickering lantern light. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, built like a woodsman, his frame lean and powerful. With his thick beard and long, untamed hair, he had the look of a wild bear, yet steady, a man as at home in the depths of the forest as he was among the village folk.

  The players grumbled over their hands, cursing their luck, while Claudiu merely chuckled, his deep voice blending with the hum of the tavern. The Romanian gambling game septică was in full swing, silver coins stacked at the center of the rough-hewn table, waiting for a victor.

  “You’re bluffing, you old goat,” slurred one man, his bloodshot eyes narrowing.

  The accused man grinned, flashing his yellowed teeth. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Only one way to find out.” He flicked a card down onto the table, and the others groaned.

  Another man slammed his fist against the wood. “Damn it all! I was sure I had you.” He grabbed his drink and downed it in one gulp, while Claudiu chuckled and continued playing his music.

  The tavern walls, made of thick stone and darkened by age and soot, bore the marks of a hundred years of revelry and brawls. Dimly lit, the tavern was a smoky refuge, its low-beamed ceiling draped with shadows that flickered in the glow of oil lanterns and the fireplace. Above the bar, a massive pair of antlers stretched wide against the soot-darkened walls. Animal pelts of wolf, fox, and lynx hung from wooden beams, their fur worn and faded from years of exposure to pipe smoke and firelight.

  A great boar’s head loomed over the hearth, its glassy black eyes catching the glow of the flames, tusks gleaming like ivory blades. Wooden mugs, half-melted candles, and a scattering of yellowed bones cluttered the rough stone mantle beneath it, remnants of past feasts, or something darker.

  Everywhere, the scent of aged wood, damp fur, and powerful spirits mixed with the lingering aroma of roasting meat. In the corner, an old hunting spear leaned against the wall, its tip rusted but still deadly. The men’s murmured stories, voices laced with laughter and unease, filled the air because the wilderness in Bran remained unconquered.

  Caliban’s voice cut through the din. “Claudiu! More drinks! I’ve a thirst that could dry the Danube itself!”

  Claudiu, still playing his concertina, nodded at a serving girl to fetch another round, while Otilla’s dance slowed, her breath coming in quick gasps. She swayed toward Caliban, draping herself over his lap, one hand toying with the silver chain at his throat.

  “Enough drinking,” she purred in his ear. “Come upstairs with me.”

  Caliban smirked, lifting his tankard to her lips instead. “Drink first, then we’ll see.”

  The night stretched on. The tavern roared with revelry, the cards flipping, the drinks flowing, and the scent of spilled ale and sweat thick in the air. Outside, the wind howled down from the mountains, rattling the shutters and whispering secrets only the dark could understand.

  Caliban Drakovar, broad-shouldered and half-drunk, sprawled in his chair like a king at a feast. He propped his heavy boots against the next seat, a half-empty tankard hanging loosely from his fingers, his other hand lazily resting on Otilla’s hip, as she swayed against him. The woman was all fire and mischief, chestnut curls tumbling over her bare shoulders, a thin shawl slipping down her arms as she leaned close, lips brushing against his ear.

  “Caliban, my love, you know I am impatient for you. Come now, come upstairs with me,” she murmured again, her fingers tracing slow circles against his chest.

  Caliban smirked, tilting his head back to take another long gulp of ale before setting the tankard down with a clatter. “You’re insatiable, woman.”

  Otilla grinned, her dark eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “And you love it.”

  He chuckled, then, with a groan, he pushed himself to his feet. “Claudiu! My room key.”

  The innkeeper barely looked up from his concertina, tossing a rusty key in Caliban’s direction. Caliban caught it midair and wrapped an arm around Otilla’s waist as she laughed and let him lead her toward the narrow wooden staircase at the back of the tavern.

  The revelry carried on below as they climbed the creaking steps, the sounds of the tavern muffled once the heavy door to his room shut behind them. The chamber was small but well-kept. There was a sturdy bed, covered in a thick, well-worn quilt, standing against one wall. A carved wooden table with an oil lamp cast a warm glow across the room, illuminating the polished surface where a bottle of wine and two glasses waited. A woven rug softened the wooden floor, and a single window overlooked the moonlit rooftops of Bran. The cool night air drifted in through the slightly parted shutters. The room wasn’t extravagant, but it was comfortable, a private haven he kept just for them.

  Caliban wasted no time. He grabbed Otilla by the waist, pulling her close, his lips crashing against hers, tasting of ale and desire. She laughed against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair as she pressed against him, the frigid air of the room forgotten as warmth spread between them.

  They tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, the mattress groaning beneath them as their shadows danced wildly against the walls in the flickering glow of the oil lamp. There was no tenderness, no hesitation, only heat, raw and unrelenting. He breathed raggedly against her skin, her nails digging into his back, and the air between them crackled with the force of something deeply familiar. She moved with him like she knew the rhythm of his chaos, like she could pull him back before he slipped too far. And tonight, like so many nights before, she did. And for this and many other reasons, he loved her.

  ***

  Caliban woke before dawn, the pale blue light of morning barely creeping through the window. Otilla lay beside him, curled beneath the quilt, her breath slow and even. For a moment, he simply stared at her, at the way her hair fanned across the pillow, at the soft rise and fall of her chest.

  She was warmth, a living presence beside him.

  Carefully, he slid from the bed, wincing as the floorboards creaked beneath his weight. He dressed quickly, pulling on his boots and throwing his cloak over his shoulders. He paused at the door, glancing back once. Otilla stirred, but did not wake.

  Without a word, he slipped out.

  The tavern was quiet now, save for the oc
casional snoring from a drunken patron slumped over a table. The fire had burned low, embers glowing softly in the hearth. Caliban moved through the shadows, stepping into the chill of the early morning, his breath curling in the chilly air.

  He had tied his horse just beyond the tavern, where it waited. He mounted swiftly, guiding the beast toward the road that led up into the mountain, toward Castle Bran.

  Caliban Drakovar did not look back.

  By the time he reached the castle, the sun was rising, casting a pale light over the valley below. The structure loomed before him, dark and unwelcoming, its weathered stone towers silhouetted against the sky. He rode through the gates, the iron creaking as he passed, the sound echoing in the still morning air.

  Dismounting, he left his horse in the empty courtyard. The crunch of his boots against the gravel was the only sound. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors, stepping inside, where the chill seeped into his bones, colder than the air outside.

  Silence.

  His home was always like this, empty halls, dust gathering in the corners, the scent of old stone and long-dead fires. Shadows stretched along the corridor as he made his way through, his steps slow and deliberate.

  Memories lurked in every corner, ghosts of laughter that had long since faded, of voices that would never speak again. He could almost hear his father’s booming voice, his mother’s gentle laughter, the echoes of a time when the Drakovars had ruled with power, before it all fell to ruin.

  His hands curled into fists as he stepped into the great hall. The fireplace was cold, the long wooden table coated in dust, the chairs standing like empty sentinels. Once, there had been feasts here, goblets clashing in toasts, music, and merriment. Now, there was only silence.

  He hated it.

  The castle loomed in the darkness as Caliban climbed the crumbling steps, his boots heavy on the stone. The warmth of Otilla’s touch still lingered on his skin, fading with each step, like a dream slipping through his fingers.

  In the hollow silence of the great hall, the memories stirred, cold, sharp-edged things, but he clenched his fists and kept walking.

  He turned away from the grand staircase, his steps carrying him to a narrow side corridor where a broken door hung on rusted hinges. Beyond it, a stairwell spiraled upward, vanishing into the gloom.

  The tower.

  As he climbed, the familiar scents met him, damp earth, crushed leaves, the faint metallic tang of old iron. Halfway up the stairwell, a broken archway opened onto a rooftop, the flat, crumbling top of an older wing of the castle. A terraced garden sprawled there, half-wild and windswept, its twisted vines clawing at broken stones and its stubborn flowers bowing under the chill morning breeze. Moonlight poured across wild tangles of vines and pale blossoms swaying in the night breeze. Twisted herbs grew between stones, reaching desperately for the sky. The garden had once been orderly, tended by a surer hand. Now it was a battleground of survival, and yet it lived.

  He knelt by a cluster of thorny stalks, frowning as he pulled away a choking weed from the base of a night-lily.

  “Easy, little one,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “You have enough enemies without that fool wrapping itself round your throat.”

  The plant shivered, as if in response, the pale petals trembling.

  His hands stilled over the leaves as the memory of Otilla pressed against him, the curve of her body warm against his, the soft sigh she gave as she slept, the way her fingers had tangled briefly in his hair before she drifted off.

  For a moment, the ache inside him shifted, deepening into something hungrier, something darker, a need he barely understood and could never trust.

  He dropped his hand from the vines and forced himself upright, letting the chill of the wind strip the heat from his skin.

  There was no place for that kind of hunger here. No place for softness, or longing, or the dangerous dreams they summoned.

  The memory stung sharper than the thorns. She had seen something in him, something better. Something he had long since stopped believing was there.

  “If you only knew,” he whispered to the night, to the flowers, to no one at all.

  As he rose to move on, something caught his eye, a pale rose, small and struggling, half-strangled by creeping vines. The flower’s petals were soft, a fragile blush of silver and pink, defiant against the tangle trying to drag it down.

  Without thinking, he dropped to one knee again. Carefully, tenderly, he untangled the vines, freeing the delicate stem. His large hands — hands that could crush stone — brushed the dirt away, scooped a hollow in a safer patch of soil, and replanted the rose there.

  He pressed the earth down around it gently, like a man sheltering a flame against the wind.

  “Fight,” he murmured under his breath. “You’re too beautiful to be lost.”

  For a moment, he crouched there, staring at the tiny rose in the moonlight. Then he pushed himself to his feet with a last glance at the moon-silvered garden, he continued up the tower steps, the scent of earth and crushed petals clung to him, soft and steady, a small, stubborn comfort against the emptiness inside.

  The alchemy room waited at the top of the tower. A chamber filled with cluttered tables, cracked beakers, and ancient books bound in flaking leather. Glass bottles lined the walls like a silent audience, catching the firelight and splintering it into a thousand fractured stars.

  Caliban crossed to the workbench where he had left his notes. Those sprawling scrawls of formulas, half-tested theories, botanical sketches. He picked up a vial, turning it over in his hand.

  The potion inside shimmered faintly, a failed experiment, much like the others.

  He set it down carefully so he would not break it.

  Instead, he reached for his mother’s old journal, a heavy tome with cracked bindings. He opened it to a bookmarked page. His finger traced the faded script, a prayer whispered in an old tongue meant to heal the soul before it poisoned the body.

  He spoke the words aloud, not because he believed they would save him, but because saying them let him hold onto a thin shred of hope, a hope he could not yet bring himself to kill.

  His hand trembled as he closed the book. Tonight, the hunger would rise again, and he would dance with blood before the dawn. No garden, no prayer, no potion would save him from it.

  Caliban pulled a dark leather-bound book toward him and opened it. This was his journal, the one thing that kept him from losing his mind. He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began to write:

  The tavern was loud, the ale bitter, the music clumsy, but for a few hours, I almost believed I belonged among them again.

  Otilla’s smile lingers more stubbornly than the wine. The warmth of her body, the way she tucked herself against me like I could keep the night at bay. I wonder what lies she told herself to fall asleep so peacefully beside a man like me.

  The garden clings to life as I do, stubborn, unwanted, growing wild among the ruins. I tended it this morning with hands that wil be soaked in blood before the next dawn.

  The moon is full tonight. God have mercy on my soul.

  Chapter 2

  The moon rose, and something ancient rose with it. My bones shattered; my soul splintered. I was not myself, and yet I was more myself than ever before. A beast was born in me that night, and I have never fully caged him again. – from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The bell above the door jangled frantically as another gust of cold air blew into the shop.

  Ishtak Cohen glanced up from the counter, his thick hands steady, as he wrapped another bundle of garlic in rough brown paper. The small store was packed elbow to elbow, villagers shuffling between the narrow aisles, grabbing what they could, voices low and urgent.

  “Silver, you said you had silver?” a woman demanded, her face pale and drawn.

  Ishtak nodded toward the display near the counter, a newly arrived shipment of tarnished silver candlesticks, spoons, and lockets. Already half of it was gone, snatched up like holy relics by desperate hands.

  “Take what you need,” he said gruffly, not bothering to haggle. “But mind, silver only slows the cursed ones, and it doesn’t kill ‘em unless you strike true.”