You are safe, my love. I have come to help you and David.’

The darkness wrapped around me, thick and heavy, until the world was nothing but shadows. Then a figure took shape within it—no more than a dim outline—and a scent of lavender and rosemary drifted to me, dragging me back to childhood.

My great-grandmother Ana—my dear Gran—stood there as though she had stepped out of memory itself. I could not see her beloved face, yet I knew her all the same: by the scent of her, by the steadiness of her voice, by the way my heart lurched at her presence. For a heartbeat, my breath failed me.

Five years had gone by since I last saw her; five years without her voice, without the touch of her hand or her stubborn good sense. Five years since she packed my few belongings and sent me away from Wallachia. I had long since ceased hoping to look upon her again. And now, against all reason, she stood before me, whole and real, as if time and distance had never parted us, precisely when I needed her most.

It took me a few moments to register that I had heard David’s name, and then a knot tightened in me until it hurt.

David.

The boy I met soon after I left home—near my own age, from a neighbouring village—who had fallen into step beside me on the road and, over months of hunger and cold, become as close as any brother. We had crossed half of Christendom together, spent a year in Paris while he searched for his cousin, and at last came on to London side by side.

Yet of late, we had grown apart. And when he vanished weeks ago, I went looking for him all the same, as though stubbornness could serve where sense failed. I asked after him in taverns, at the royal court and everywhere else I could think of, only to come up empty. It did not matter. Minutes earlier, the truth had been forced upon me in the worst possible manner: David was dead.

My throat tightened at the thought of never seeing his cheerful face again. I tried to push the image aside, but the shock remained, raw and gut-wrenching, like a wound that refused to stop bleeding.

‘Gran…’ My voice sounded small in the dark.

Gran’s voice softened but only for a heartbeat. ‘You must listen.’ Then the iron returned. ‘You are not alone.’

Not alone… yet minutes earlier, I had stood just inches from the very thing Gran warned me of: Vlad Dracula, the Devil wearing my uncle’s face. In the space of a few breaths, I had learnt the truth of his deception and of David’s fate, and I had never felt more alone in my life.

‘Puiule, are you well?’ Gran asked, breaking my thoughts and pulling me back to the present.

I blinked. The lane, the damp brick, the stench of the city at night—all of it rushed back. For a few heartbeats, I could not tell where I was. I shook my head hard and searched the darkness for her, but still, I could not make out her face—only the suggestion of her shape nearby.

Was she truly there, or just a trick of grief and terror? She had lived in my mind all these years. Every time I needed guidance, I would hear her voice as I stared up at the stars, “The stars are constant; they will always be there for you, as will I.” And for a second, the world would seem a little brighter.

‘Gran… is it truly you?’ I whispered into the darkness.

A shadow stirred and drew near, and then her arms closed around me. There could be no mistaking it; it was her. I suddenly felt safe—safe in a way I had not felt in years, perhaps not since I left our home in Wallachia all those years ago. Tears stung my eyes as I clung to her as I had when I was a child. I was a grown man and towered over her, but at that moment, I was reduced to a boy again.

‘Da, puiule, I am here. I will not allow him to harm you,’ she murmured, her touch gently caressing my face. I knew who she meant: Vlad.

Like a child, I let her smooth my hair.

‘We must get moving before anyone sees us,’ Gran urged, as practical as ever, drawing me deeper into the alley.

Only then did I notice a stocky fellow trailing behind us, likely the one who had hauled me out of sight just moments before. I could not fathom Gran possessing that kind of strength, but then again, I had been mistaken about many things regarding her. She was an impressive woman despite her advanced age. She must be well past her eightieth year, I thought.

Again, I tried to see her face in the darkness, to reassure myself of her presence. Yet I still could not.

The events of the past few hours had left me unsettled, and doubt clouded my thoughts. I began to fear for my own wits. Had I dreamt the whole thing? Or was it hope—the hope that what I now knew was not real? That it had all been a bad dream?

‘Sebastian, puiule, why are you so slow?’ Gran hissed, her frustration evident as she urged me onward.

We swiftly moved through narrow back lanes, dim and foul, each seeming worse than the last.

The memory of my last day in Wallachia came to my mind. It was the day Gran finally revealed to me who I truly was: not the shepherd and farmer I had believed myself to be, but the great-grandson of Vlad Dracula—Vlad Țepeș, the Impaler. She swore I was in danger, that a shadow hung over our bloodline, and she drove me from home to London to find my only surviving kin beyond her—my father’s younger brother, Aaron. I was near sixteen then, pleading to stay, pleading for answers, yet Gran offered only scraps: dark hints of powers I barely understood—sight of what had not yet come to pass, the bending of a thread of time, the calling of a breath back to a dying body—and of an enemy I was not to name aloud.

Since that day, nothing in my life had been simple; those powers were both a blessing and a curse, a burden I never asked for, and a secret kept close between Gran, Aaron, and me.

For three years in London, I tried to make an honest living. I worked first as an apprentice in Aaron’s apothecary, then set myself up in printing and bookselling, as if ink and paper might bind my fate to something ordinary. Aaron… who wasn’t Aaron.

All the while, I never understood why my great-grandfather would seek to harm me. In Wallachia, they told stories of Vlad Țepeș as if he were a storm long spent: a hero to some, a butcher to others—courage and stern justice in one mouth, cruelty and impalement in the next. Sixty years dead, they said. A tale to frighten children.

Gran had always known better. She had known all along that Vlad was not dead. And now I knew it too.

Nimic nu e cum am crezut—nothing is as I had believed. The words ran through me, cold as river water. Vlad Dracula had been there all these years, close enough for me to smell the bitter herbs on his hands and call him kin. Gran had sent me away to keep me safe, and in doing so—God help us—had led me straight to his door.

It was late summer, and the nights were turning cold, but I scarcely felt it. After the confrontation with Vlad and discovering his true identity, I rushed out of the house quickly, without a cloak. Yet despite the bite in the air, I sweated profusely through my shirt, my black hair plastered to my head. My heart pounded so fiercely I feared it might burst from my chest.

‘Matei,’ I heard Gran breathe, ‘do you have what we need?’

I thought I saw the quiet man nod, but I could not be certain. All I really saw was darkness. Who was he?

As if she had read my thoughts, Gran added softly and quickly, ‘This is Matei. He is family to me.’

Family? The word struck oddly. As far as I knew, we had no kin left but Uncle Aaron. But Gran was a woman of many mysteries, and perhaps at last, I would have the opportunity to learn more about her.

As a child, I never quite believed that Gran was what she pretended to be. To the villagers, she was a shepherd’s widow—her husband, my great-grandfather, being “lost to war”—yet there was something in her bearing that made her seem out of place among sheepfolds and fields. The villagers had sensed it too. Some crossed themselves when she passed. Some whispered vrăjitoare—witch.

I let myself believe we were only what we looked like: simple farmers and shepherds. Ordinary.

We were not. I was of royal blood, and by right and lineage, I ranked second in line to the throne of Wallachia, after my Uncle Aaron.

The mere thought of Aaron sent a surge of pain and anger through my veins, awakening the power within me. For a heartbeat, I lost control, and an outburst of energy escaped my clenched fist, striking the house we had just passed.

Gran heard the noise, glanced back quickly, and understood what had just happened. Without hesitation, she pulled me around a corner, and we stood still, waiting to see if anyone had seen us.

‘Ce ai făcut? What did you do?’ she snapped, her whisper tight with fury. ‘You must learn to master your temper.’

The inhabitants of the house rushed outside in a panic, seeking the cause of the noise. Dread washed over me as I saw flames rapidly engulfing the building. I heard the sound of snapping timbers, and I felt the heat on my face. I must do something, I thought, preparing to move to their aid and stop the fire from spreading.

‘You must remain still,’ Gran said firmly, her blue eyes sending daggers of warning in the darkness as she looked up at me. All I saw were two very blue flashes. She was so close I could smell her breath as she held my arm with what seemed like an iron fist. How was she so powerful at her age? The question nagged at me for the millionth time.

A thought I had never before considered struck me. Perhaps Vlad was not the only one in our bloodline with unnatural powers. Was it possible that Gran had powers of her own? No, it was not possible. I dismissed the notion, attempting to free my arm from her vice-like hold, her fingers digging into my flesh.

‘Nu, Gran, nu poţi să mă opreşti! I must help them. I caused this—’ I protested.

Her grip tightened. ‘You cannot expose yourself to anyone. You cannot help them. You must learn to control both your emotions and your powers. This is what comes of unbridled action: people are harmed. Stop behaving like a child. Nu mai eşti un copil.’

As the fire continued to spread, neighbours rushed out, hauling buckets of water and shouting, trying to contain the flames. Amid the chaos, Gran and I slipped away, followed by the silent man. How was that man related to us? Family… but in what way?

The unsigned letter in my pocket felt like a stone. It had come that morning, its message bare and cryptic:

Fleet Street.

Tomorrow night.

I pondered what it meant. Another snare? Another answer? Vlad had said he would be away for a while, but how long did I have? I still meant to go, unless he reached me first.

We picked our way through the dimly lit alleys, and I found myself reflecting once more on Gran’s long-ago confession and musing about her past. I wondered about the life she must have lived beside Vlad, a man infamous for his cruelty.

At last, we came to a bleak, shadowy house that appeared to dislike being looked at. Gran glanced around several times before guiding me inside. The front door opened, and we ventured down a narrow hall that stank of damp and old smoke. Matei kept to the shadows near the threshold as Gran led me inside. The door groaned shut behind us, and the darkness swallowed us.

I almost toppled over, and as I caught myself, something brushed my hand.

It felt cold.

And damp.