Act Four: Under the Mask (Part 5)
five
In the night, Yakov, a light sleeper, was awakened by the intense heat beside him. He frowned, reluctant to open his eyes, and only reached out to feel around. Yubi hadn't slept with his arm around him tonight, but had instead slumped weakly in the middle of the straw mat on the floor. Yakov's fingers touched his face, which was as hot as freshly baked bread.
Upon noticing the abnormality, the blood slave immediately opened his eyes, rolled over, and placed the back of his hand on the spot. "Wake up," Yakov patted his cheek.
"Yakov, I'm so sleepy..." Yubi squirmed uncomfortably, trying to avoid the rough, hairy hand. "Don't wake me..."
"What is it now?" Schumeer, lying on the other side, looked up sleepily.
“He has a fever.” Yakov sat back down on the straw mat with a sigh. “It’s unbelievable.”
“How can a vampire have a fever? Did you turn the stove up too high? This room is already hot enough…” Schumeer closed his eyes and leaned back. “Think of something, get him some herbs or something…”
Yakov didn't even bother to glance at his unreliable companion. He grabbed Yubi's left hand and removed his ruby ring from his finger—would that do any good? As he expected, the vampire's unusual fever immediately subsided. The vampire slave had just breathed a sigh of relief and was about to say a few words of advice when he saw spiderweb-like black veins creep up Yubi's young, fair face like dissipating smoke—resembling Camilla's rotting head, a demon from a mural of hell, a terrifying monster from a ghost story.
Like the image in Yakov's nightmare.
He immediately shoved the ring back into Yubi's hand, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. Fortunately, the vampire before him instantly returned to its living form. The fragile fever returned to his face. Yubi lay there, breathing painfully through his mouth.
A nameless fire surged in Yakov's heart, causing the mark on his left chest to itch and swell, proclaiming his existence. This ring transformed the man-eating vampire into a perfectly beautiful doll, he thought. A doll that could get sick, whine, and cuddle, needing care and affection, needing pretty clothes, clean food, and kisses and tenderness. If his mother were here, she would surely think this was a perfect opportunity to express love and tenderness; perhaps this was her original intention in giving Yubi this ring—but Yakov thought, he wasn't a little girl indulging in playhouse. Wasn't a powerful and ruthless monster more alluring than a child dying in a shack? What use were love and beauty, that he had to protect them?
His imprint burned with this thought, making him feel as if he were on the stake, just as he had been helpless when Yubi cried, his anxious helplessness almost driving him insane.
Yakov stood up, forcing himself to stay awake. He kicked Schumer barefoot, causing the feigning sleeper buried in his bedding to groan unwillingly. The chainmail and undergarments were hanging in front of the fireplace, and Yakov carefully removed the heavy shells, layering them back on. The fabrics weren't completely dry, clinging damply to his skin.
“I’m going to get some wine, I’ll be right back,” Yakov said. “Keep an eye on him.”
He donned his helmet and headed towards the monastery's chapel. Sister Gianda had said he should be able to spot Pascal and the rest of the Knights Hospitaller there. The courtyard was pitch black at night, making the chapel's candlelight shine exceptionally bright. Yakov proceeded towards the light. Outside the door, he heard the sound of prayer—it was nearly dawn, and the nuns' evening prayers were just beginning. Yakov hesitated at the door for a moment, waiting until the first prayer was finished before bursting inside. The small wooden chapel was small, with four pillars at the four corners, and a crooked image of the Virgin Mary holding her child hung in front. He bumped into a young nun changing bandages on a leper patient. The girl, wearing a white headscarf, lifted the pus-soaked bandage, tearing it off along with the patient's festering skin, and threw it into the hot water, making the water murky. Yakov's brow furrowed discreetly beneath his helmet as he looked at the patient's exposed pink wounds. The entire prayer hall reeked of decay.
“You’re too late. The prayers are over.” Pascal’s sleeves were bunched up on his arms, and his hands were wet as he approached him. “You should have been punished by not eating today, but I’m not your commander, and this is a crucial time.”
“I have other things to do,” Yakov said sullenly. “Do you have any spirits?”
As he expected, a look of suspicion appeared on Pascal's devout face. "What do you need strong liquor for?" The green eyes scrutinized the cross on Yakov's helmet. "Don't tell me that members of the Knights Templar can disregard the rules to the point of drinking alcohol on their own."
“The nobleman traveling with me is ill,” Yakov said, with a strange disdain in his voice, as if responding to these rigid rules. “I need wine to cure him.”
“I see. Then I must apologize for my presumptuous assumptions.” Pascal was easily persuaded. He turned and went to the back of the church. “Come with me, let’s ask Mother Gianda if she has any in stock.”
Yakov followed behind him, thinking to himself that the more devout a person is, the easier they are to deceive. The two men, clad in armor, walked through the church porch and across the small courtyard with the well. The snow continued to fall lightly, accumulating a thin layer on the eaves like a silver cloth.
"Why didn't you stay in Brasov?" Pascal asked, his tone still subtly sarcastic. "I thought Lord von Brunel wanted to keep you here."
"He's not a good partner," Yakov commented casually.
Pascal glanced back at him. “You’re right. He’s neither pious nor faithful.” A slight smile played on his lips. “I’m pleased to hear a brother who believes in God speak of him this way.”
Yakov fell silent, his mind preoccupied with his murder and escape. The Hospitaller, however, seemed much better. “I remember his name, Yubi, don’t you? But I haven’t heard of his surname.” Pascal’s hair was just past his shoulders, tied in a very short braid at the back of his head. The braid swayed lightly with his steps. “What illness did he have?”
“It’s probably typhoid fever.” Yakov didn’t want to look at him, his eyes darting around the church corridor under his helmet. “He has a high fever.”
“Perhaps you should bleed him,” Pascal stopped in his tracks. “Alcohol only makes people hotter.”
“I’m not going to give it to him to drink, I’m going to rub it on his body,” Yakov said. “That will cool him down quickly.”
“That’s right. This is truly…” Pascal pondered, a strange and incomprehensible expression on his face, “very Slavic.”
The word "Slav" made Yakov extremely uncomfortable; the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. As they spoke, they arrived at a door. Pascal stopped and knocked on the wooden door. "Mother Gianda, it's me, Pascal," he said, leaning forward slightly, "Are you there?"
Mother Gianda responded from inside, followed by some rustling sounds. She opened the door, revealing a face etched with wrinkles and sunspots beneath her headscarf, with red-rimmed eyes that suggested she had just been crying, yet she forced a gentle smile. Yakov was momentarily speechless and took a half-step back. Pascal, who was not as tall or strong as him, stepped forward.
"Granny, what's wrong?" He carefully placed his hand on the nanny's shoulder. "Are you worried about the Tatars again?"
"I'm fine, child, I'm fine." Granny Gianda patted the hand on her shoulder, which was white from being soaked in water. "You're all busy, what are you doing here?"
“The nobleman traveling with this Knights Templar has a high fever,” Pascal explained gently and considerately. He leaned slightly forward, close to Granny Gianda’s ear, and deliberately softened his voice, “We want to ask you for some strong liquor… not for drinking, but for treatment. I swear on my character, you must agree!”
This obedient and clever demeanor made Yakov feel nauseous. It was perhaps the thing he was least good at. But he thought, a handsome face like that, while useless on Lord von Brunel, was utterly invincible on women. This reminded him of the outrageous lies Schumeer had told him.
“It’s almost Christmas, so even if you really do take it and drink it, I have nothing to say!” Mother Gianda was immediately amused by Pascal’s words, her tears lessening considerably. She swayed back to her room and pulled a heavy bunch of keys from a drawer. “Come on, knights of Christ,” Mother Gianda led them down the corridor. “Our girl’s brewing skills are no less than those of the taverns outside!”
The three descended the steps and entered the cellar. The light was dim, and Yakov's helmet covered his head, making it almost impossible for him to see anything. Mother Gianda groped her way through the doors, finally pulling out two heavy glass jars from a large chest. "This isn't ordinary wine. We brewed it, then distilled it again; only these two jars." She placed the jars in Pascal's arms, then noticed Yakov standing there, stunned. "Why didn't you take off your helmet?" she asked kindly. "I wanted to secretly taste it with you two. To be honest, I haven't had any yet!"
Yakov clutched the edge of his helmet, feeling extremely uncomfortable. He hesitated, wondering whether to repeat Schumer's blush-inducing lies again—it would be excruciating. Pascal, however, walked up to him and piled both glass bottles into his lap. "He has some unspeakable reason for not taking off his helmet," Pascal said, seemingly giving a wink in the darkness, though Yakov couldn't see it clearly. "I'll tell you all about it after we drive the Tatars away."
Two bottles of distilled spirits—they weren't free. Yakov thought. Perhaps it was Pascal's fault. The closer his relationship with the Abbess and her sister, the harder it was to refuse their requests. If Pascal had fought the Tatars and died in a remote monastery in the mountains, would his soul have regretted not returning to Brasov? But that's how believers are, Yakov realized helplessly; Pascal must only feel that he died a martyr for his Lord and deserved to go to heaven. As if life were something that could be cut off at will, like weeds.
The fake knight, carrying wine, walked towards his room, seemingly preoccupied with the weakened vampire inside, whether by some unspoken imprint or his own emotions. He reached the door, pushed it open with his shoulder, and a blast of white, chilling air swept in.
Schumeer sat upright in front of Yubi. Yakov took off his helmet and frowned. When did this Jew become so considerate and responsible? Yakov walked around to Schumeer with his wine, only to find him holding Yubi's hand, dozing off with his eyes closed, like a statue.
"You can fall asleep sitting up?" Yakov put the bottle on the ground to wake him. Schumer jolted awake and shook off Yubi's fingers.
"How is he? Is he alright?"
“See for yourself.” Schumeer pinched his temple hard. “If I saw anyone else with a burn like this, I’d start arranging to dig up their graves.”
Yakov threw his gloves on the ground and touched Yubi's forehead and face. It was so hot there that his palms were slightly sweaty, and the inscriptions felt burning. "Wake up, Yubi," Yakov called his name anxiously. "You can't fall asleep now!"
The vampire's brows furrowed, and he opened his red eyes, his eyeballs bloodshot, the whites of his eyes pink. "I feel so awful..."
"Where do you feel unwell?" Yakov asked.
"I feel terrible all over." Yubi struggled to move her limbs. "My hands, feet, waist, back—every part of me aches..."
“A high fever often causes this,” Schumeer said wearily from the side. “What are you going to do with the wine?”
“Go and make the fire bigger.” Yakov took a roll of cloth and placed it behind Yubi’s head. “I’ll wipe his body with wine.”
He began to dismantle Yubi's heavy, elaborate clothing: cloak, shawl, corset, coat. The belts and buttons were warm from Yubi's body heat. Yakov's clumsy fingers were ill-suited for such delicate work, and he couldn't quite figure out how the drawstrings and pins were fastened. Schumeer brought back more firewood and threw it into the stove; soon, Yakov was drenched in sweat, whether from the heat or nervousness, he couldn't tell. Yubi listlessly let him work on him, but it still took Yakov considerable effort to finally pull him out from the mountain of fabric. His familiar pale skin now had a sickly pink hue.
Yakov poured the wine onto a clean cotton cloth and carefully and gently applied it to Yubi's neck and chest, then rubbed it in. As he did this, he thought with disappointment, "You devil's swine, I've really become your personal maid. Damn it."
The smell of alcohol wafted from Yubi's feverish body, filling the room with a rich, pleasant fragrance. After wiping him down, Yakov rolled Yubi over in his arms. "Feeling any better?" Yakov asked, gesturing for him to lie face down on the pile of clothes. He heard the vampire give a muffled "hmm." "You really care about me, Yakov…" Yubi stammered, "I know you definitely didn't want to do this…"
A warm current, like wine, burned down Yakov's throat, making his heart pound wildly with the mark. He didn't say a word, and, with the firelight behind him, continued to pour wine onto the cotton cloth and wipe it along Yubi's back.
His hand immediately froze.
He had seen Yubi's body many times. Perhaps the noble young master was used to being waited on, or perhaps he was proud of his appearance and never shied away from letting others see him. The vampire's child had clean, statue-like skin, sparse body hair, and no spots or moles. Yakov now thought that even if he were injured and developed sores, they would all heal completely if he took off the ring, leaving no scars.
Now, on that back, as white as wood pulp paper, near the lumbar spine, two dark marks suddenly appeared. They grew symmetrically, like birthmarks or tattoos. Yakov leaned closer to examine them carefully. They formed a strange pattern—the shape of two wings. Yakov suddenly realized. They were two black bat wings.
Ecstasy and fear surged into his heart like a tidal wave. Gianda's wine was indeed potent. Yakov thought that once Yubi's fever subsided, he would have to sneak a sip sooner or later.
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