ASOCIAL VAMPIRE

The smell of smoke woke me before the screams did.

I remember that. I remember everything about that night. The way the smoke curled under my bedroom door like living things searching for warmth. The way the moonlight painted silver stripes across my wooden floor. The way my mother's lullaby was still echoing in my ears from an hour ago when she tucked me in and kissed my forehead.

And then the screaming started.

Not the playful screams of village children at play. Not the drunken shouts of men celebrating a harvest. These were wet screams. Desperate screams. The kind of screams that end suddenly, as if someone has turned off a candle with their thumb and thumb and the flame just— stops.

I was seven years old. But seven-year-olds in Wallachia learn quickly that the world is not kind.

I pushed my blanket aside. My small bare feet touched the cold stone floor. The castle walls were thick—my father always said they could withstand a siege for months. But sound travels through stone when the stone itself is trembling.

Something was shaking the ground.

Hooves. Hundreds of hooves.

I crept to my window. The glass was old and warped, making everything look like a dream. Or a nightmare. Below, our village was burning. Thatched roofs blazed like torches. Figures ran between the houses—some in the flowing robes of peasants, others in armored vests and curved helmets.

Janissaries.

I knew that word before I knew how to read. My father spoke of them in whispers. The Sultan's elite. His iron fist. And now that fist had closed around our home.

The door to my room burst open.

My mother stood there, her face pale as moonlight, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. She was still wearing her nightgown. There was blood on her cheek—not her own.

"Vlad," she breathed. "Come. Now."

I didn't ask questions. I never asked questions when my mother used that voice. She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the hallway. Our castle—our home—was chaos. Servants ran past us carrying sacks of grain, silver plates, anything they could grab. A maid I didn't know was crying so hard she couldn't see where she was going; she crashed into a suit of armor and it toppled with a sound like thunder.

"Leave everything," my mother commanded. "Just get to the cellar."

But we didn't go to the cellar.

She dragged me through the great hall, past the portrait of my grandfather—the one with the unsettling eyes that seemed to follow you—and into my father's study. The room smelled of old leather and pipe smoke and something else. Something metallic.

Blood.

My father was there. Standing in front of his bookshelf, but the bookshelf wasn't a bookshelf anymore. It had swung outward, revealing a dark opening behind it. A hidden passage.

"Vlad," my father said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes right before a storm. "You need to go inside."

"Where?" I asked. "Where does it go?"

"Somewhere safe."

"But Mama—"

"Your mother will be right behind you." My father knelt down so his eyes were level with mine. His face was sharp, angular, with a jaw that could cut glass. But his eyes were soft. They were always soft when he looked at me. "Listen to me, my son. You are going to go into this passage. You are going to crawl until you reach the end. And then you are going to wait. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Do not come out until I come for you. No matter what you hear. No matter what you see. Promise me."

"I promise, Father."

He smiled. It was a sad smile. The kind of smile that knows it's lying.

My mother kissed my forehead one more time. Her lips were trembling. "I love you, my little dragon."

My little dragon. That was what she called me. Because Vlad meant "ruler" but I was small and fierce and I bit the village boys when they pulled my hair.

"I love you too, Mama."

My father pushed me toward the passage. I climbed inside. The space was narrow, barely wide enough for my small body. The stone was cold against my palms. I crawled forward, my knees scraping against rough rock.

Behind me, I heard my father say, "Close it. Quickly."

A grinding sound. The bookshelf swung back into place.

And then—darkness.

Total darkness. The kind of darkness that has weight, that presses against your eyes, that makes you wonder if you've gone blind.

I kept crawling. Forward. Always forward. My hands found stone steps. I climbed them. And then I reached a small chamber—no bigger than a closet—with a tiny sl*t of a window that looked down into my father's study.

I pressed my eye to the sl*t.

And I watched.

The Janissaries broke down the study door with a battering ram. Wood splintered. Hinges screamed. Men poured into the room—a dozen of them, maybe more. Their curved swords were drawn. Their eyes were wild with bloodlust.

My father stood in the center of the room, unarmed.

My mother stood beside him.

"Where is the boy?" one of the Janissaries demanded. His voice was deep, guttural. He had a scar that split his lip in two. "The Sultan wants the boy. Hand him over and you will die quickly."

My father laughed.

He laughed.

"You think I fear death?" my father said. "I am of the House of Drăculești. We were old when your Sultan's grandfather was still suckling at his mother's teat."

The scar-lipped man's face twisted with rage. "Then you will die screaming."

He lunged.

My father didn't move. He just stood there as the curved sword arced toward his neck. I wanted to scream. I wanted to close my eyes. But I couldn't. My body wouldn't obey.

The blade bit into my father's throat.

Blood sprayed across the room—across the books, across the portrait of my grandfather, across my mother's face. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, as if she were praying.

My father fell to his knees. His hands went to his throat, trying to stem the flow of blood. But it was useless. The wound was too deep. Too wide.

His eyes found the hidden bookshelf.

He looked directly at the sl*t where I was hiding.

And he spoke his final words:

"Find the room, Vlad."

Then his body toppled forward and did not move again.

My mother lasted longer.

Not because she fought. She didn't. She just stood there as the Janissaries tore the study apart. They pulled books from shelves. They overturned furniture. They ripped paintings from walls. They were looking for me. Looking for the hidden passage.

My mother watched them with empty eyes.

"Where is the boy?" the scar-lipped man demanded, grabbing her by the hair.

She smiled. It was a terrible smile. The smile of someone who has already left, whose soul has already departed, whose body is just waiting to catch up.

"You will never find him," she whispered. "He is already gone. Already beyond your reach."

The man's face contorted. He drew a dagger from his belt—a small one, curved like a crescent moon. "Last chance, woman."

My mother closed her eyes.

"Find the room," she said softly. Not to him. To me. "Find the room, my little dragon."

The blade flashed.

My mother fell beside my father, her blood mixing with his on the stone floor.

And then there was silence.

I don't remember much after that.

I remember the Janissaries searching the study for another hour before giving up. I remember their voices fading as they left the room. I remember the smell of blood growing stronger and stronger until it filled the small chamber and I couldn't breathe without tasting copper.

I remember crying.

I remember screaming until my throat was raw.

I remember banging my fists against the stone until my knuckles split open and bled.

And then I remember nothing.

Darkness took me. Not the darkness of the chamber, but the darkness of sleep. The darkness of escape. The darkness of a mind that has seen too much and simply stopped.

When I woke, I didn't know how much time had passed.

Hours? Days? Weeks?

I crawled out of the hidden passage. The study was empty. My parents' bodies were gone—taken, probably, to be burned or buried or left for the crows. The blood had dried to dark brown stains on th