The Vampire's Mirror

By Alyne de Winter

"The mirror possesses me." Analise whispered...

Transylvania, 1580

One hundred years after the death of Vlad Dracule...

When young nobleman, Stefan stumbles on the ruins of Castle Drag, he ignores the advice of his friends not to enter, and finds an ornate, golden hand mirror lying in the grass. Dazzled by the beauty of the dragon-ish designs, he takes the mirror home as a gift for his fiancé, Lady Analise, a woman whose beauty calls forth an ancient evil that will not be denied....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alyne de Winter
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311502506

Alyne de Winter

Alyne de Winter is an author of Gothic Mysteries and Occult Thrillers featuring tormented beauties, eerie settings, night religions, secret histories... After years of drawing and painting, by a fluke ended up as an English major. She wrote and published award-winning poetry but always wanted to write fiction. The stories did not come to her until she went to Europe, then they flooded in and still haven't stopped. She loves the tradition of the writer establishing themselves with short stories while building the novels, so you will find many short stories on her page. The short story requires intensity of focus, economy of language (so every word must be effective) and must keep the plot lines tight. She likes to think of the short story as poetry's second cousin. Major influences: Grimms' Fairy Tales, Complete Works of Shakespeare, Angela Carter, Tanith Lee, Daphne du Maurier,Charles Dickins, Anne Rice, Theophile Gautier, Edgar Allen Poe, the films of Barbara Steele and other 1960s horror films. (Not a gore fan) Religion, History, costume, Ancient dance and folk cultures, and witchcraft. The Gothic novel has always been a love letter to the past, a grieving for lost beauty and an elegy to the soul.

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The Vampire's Mirror

Alyne de Winter

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © 2013 by Alyne de Winter

Cover Design: Robyn

Published by Alyne de Winter on Smashwords

The Vampire's Mirror c 2012 by Alyne de Winter



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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.  The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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The Vampire’s Mirror

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And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man's vanity. Away with it! And opening the window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below." ---- Bram Stoker, Dracula

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Transylvania

1580

The doors of Briarwood Manor slammed shut on poor Giselle, banishing her to the icy doorstep. She pulled the fur collar of her coat close around her shoulders and stared across the snow-glazed forecourt to the gate. Beyond the gate, the forest loomed, and the mountainside climbed into the mist. Somewhere out there was a village, but it was rumored that a plague walked there, making it no refuge.

Her badly shod feet were already numb.

Tears spilled down her face; she dashed them angrily away. It was her own fault, after all. She couldn't call herself a thief, but like a magpie, she was fascinated by bright, beautiful things: jewels and bangles, rings and beaded sashes, embroidered reticules and fans. The mere sight of a pair of earrings lying unattended on the dressing table would set her fingers fluttering to enclose them, secretly, in the palm of her hand, to be nonchalantly dropped in the pocket of her apron. Only cleaning, she'd tell herself. My Lady shouldn't leave valuable things lying around like that.

At night, in the privacy of her little hole under the stairs, she would admire each object: the gleaming softness of silk, strings of pearls, bracelets of diamonds and fine kidskin gloves... Pilfered gems sparkling in the light of her one meager candle inspired fancies of things magical and strange, adornments never for one as destitute as she.

In time, she'd gathered quite a hoard.

It was inevitable that Lady Cira would catch her. Screaming that she should drag the little wretch to the dungeon and leave her nasty, selfish, lazy little self to rot out of existence, her Ladyship chose the most expedient path, hauled Giselle out of bed and threw her out. Out into the dark, the morning dark, at the edge of the shivering world.

Giselle set her jaw and took her first steps toward the lofty, black curlicues of the gate. The sky had grown so heavy it seemed to be sinking the entire world under its clouds. A few snowflakes drifted down. Contemplating the endless vista of the wilderness, the dungeon seemed a mercy. And it was so early she hadn't even broken her fast.

Tears welled up again. Why did God punish her so? The rogue knights, raiding, killing everyone: her mother, her father, brothers, sisters... all were put to the sword. The kind Baron taking her in as maid to his beautiful young wife, Lady Cira, with her glossy midnight braids and violet eyes, had seemed a blessing. But it seemed she'd been spared one death, only to be confronted with another. She didn't mean to steal. There was just a hunger in her soul that couldn't be fulfilled. Everything had been taken from her. Everything. Leaving a void inside that hungered for things of beauty.

The gate was weighty as she pulled it against the snow bank, silent on its well-oiled hinges. More silent yet the cushioned earth, quieter still the tapering green of the pines, and other, barer, branches reaching up as if to beseech the higher powers for mercy. A breeze poured frost around her neck. She gulped her terror down and prepared to blend into the white as if she'd never been.

Perhaps she never should have been.

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Giselle did not know how long she walked along the strip of whiteness that was the only evidence of a road. It led deep into the trees, under cathedral branches arching over, groaning with the weight of accumulating snow. Her stomach growled. The hunger pains would pass. She’d fasted before, many times. Denying food was Lady Cira’s favorite form of punishment.

But the cold was another matter. Cast out so abruptly, all she had on under her coat was her nightgown, woolen leggings, and her shoes.

The sun rarely rose in winter. Yet the sky was white, as was the earth, as was the road that had long ago dwindled down to a narrow path on which her footprints could no longer be seen. Giselle’s eyes grew blurry with exhaustion. Where was she to go? There was nowhere.

Half asleep, she trudged on. There had to be a place to lie down. A warm place, an inside place with a fire and a big, cozy bed. Sleep dimmed her eyes. Everything appeared as in a dream, and as in dreams where sometimes wishes come true, she saw a royal gate splayed open, and across the courtyard, a castle.

Dear Holy Mother in Heaven, I thank thee, she whispered, falling on her knees in the snow.

Walled with silvered stone, rows of spiky towers and long pointed windows black with emptiness, gave the castle a forbidding aspect. But it held the greatest gift of all: inside.

Entering through the gate to the outer courtyard, Giselle felt a sense of dread. The stillness of the snowy day-night intensified here; the whole place seemed hard and pitiless. Shadows ran in