My red vision faded away. I stood on shaky legs and kicked my finger into the flaming lake
I dropped the sword as the pain came—terrible and fierce and unrelenting. Like an injured animal, I drew my hand to my breast and pressed it against my coat to stanch the bleeding. I was suddenly, shockingly aware of my surroundings and no longer brave but terrified. No longer in a daze, either, because now I saw my bedraggled father across the bridge. A horror-stricken look had contorted his face.
“Theodora!”
I started to race toward him, but an explosion rocked the cavern. I swung around to see the head of the dragon statue falling to floor and the entire cavern suddenly illuminated in a blinding flash.
Flames from the lake spread to the dripping cavern ceiling and flickered down cracks in the wall.
The entire cavern was on fire.
“Father!” I cried, backing up. Nowhere to go. Flames everywhere. The bridge was covered in smoke. I couldn’t see him anymore. I couldn’t even see the bridge.
“Theodora!” His shout echoed around the cavern. So far away. Where?
“I’m stuck!” I called back in despair. “There’s no way out.”
Out of the plumes of black smoke, a white shape emerged. Two pointy ears, shaggy fur, one eye. More wolf than dog.
Lupu!
She looked at me, turned, and disappeared back into the smoke.
Showing me the way out.
Walls of flame rose on either side of the bridge. Fire rained from the dripping ceiling. But the stone surface of the bridge itself was clear. Making myself small, injured hand clutched to my chest, I ducked and raced across the stone, jumping over lines of fire that seeped into cracks.
I coughed and stumbled. Between the smoke stinging my eyes and the blinding flames, I realized with terror that I’d lost my bearings again. I couldn’t see. Not Lupu. Not the edge of the bridge or the other side of the lake. I was surrounded by smoke and fire.
In a disoriented, panicked moment, I stopped running, teetering on the stone, bleeding everywhere—unsure if I was about to run over the edge into the water.
Suddenly, a long arm shot out from the black smoke. Father grabbed the front of my coat and jerked me forward, into the toxic smoke... and then through it. He pulled me along until I stumbled off the bridge.
My lungs seized and spasmed in turns as I struggled to draw in a clean breath. And then I was floating. Lifted. Carried like a child in one tree-trunk-sized arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
He repeated it over and over, limping through the cavern’s tunnel, carrying me away from the fire and smoke. Away from death. Away from the terrible power of Vlad Dracula’s ring. Away from it all, toward safety.
Richard Damn Fox.
Decorated American war veteran.
Brash explorer and adventurer. Wealthy antiquities collector.
Never met a risk he wouldn’t take or a challenge he couldn’t resist.
Forgiven.
27
GARA DE NORD WAS Aproper railway station. Not only was Bucharest’s terminus an interesting piece of nineteenth-century Romanian architecture on the outside—with massive columns and a winged golden eagle stretching over its facade—but inside, its main concourse stretched beneath skylights and an arched roof that kept out undesirable weather. Which was good, because it was snowing ferociously, and we had tickets for the Orient Express.
Night train to Paris. Departing at nine o’clock.
Me, Father, and Huck.
Our severed little family back together. At least for the moment.
