Transylvania, June 7, 1415
“Papa, you must come quickly! A baby boy is about to be killed. You must stop her,” said Alyssa, Jermaine’s daughter, from inside the monk’s dream. “Hurry, Papa. We haven’t much time.” Alyssa had no idea that the baby boy was actually supposed to be destroyed either before or at birth, or else the world would come to great peril. She was an innocent child trying to protect the life of who she considered a very special boy.
Jermaine woke with a start, gasping for air. His dark brown skin was moist with tiny beads of sweat. He hadn’t dreamed about the spirit of his daughter in at least a few months and never with such clarity. Something was wrong.
He hurried out of bed and pulled on his ceremonial robe before racing into the next rooms to awaken his Brethren. “Get up! Get up! We have a mission to fulfill and we must hurry.”
“Jermaine, what is this nonsense,” said Alexander, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“The time has come. The prophecy has come to light. We must go to The Sacred Cemetery and stop a terrible crime,” he explained, remembering where his daughter was buried so many precious years ago.
Upon getting ready, they all thought it peculiar that there was a baby boy in the cemetery, a live baby boy that had no place in graveyard. Unless of course it was abandoned by it’s mother after she found out how unusual the boy was and could not handle a boy so “gifted” with magic powers.
Without question Alexander and Bastian dressed and hitched up Zurek to the wagon. The monks climbed into the wooden contraption and took their respective places; Jermaine was the driver and the other two sat where they could. They were nervous about this trip but they well remember the words The Prophetess had spoken the year before about a dark child. The monks figured if they could get their hands on the baby they could raise him properly and stop the turmoil that was said to come about from his birth.
The dirt of Arayah and Jerard’s unmarked grave loosened up as the elements below began to thrust out the newly born child. Nature, however, never wishing to be labeled a killer, called upon the trees and animals to make a temporary shelter for the unnatural child.
It was a rather cool night with a bright full moon and the gentle caressing sounds of the crickets’ song. All was peaceful in the cemetery until the pale skinned baby began to cry out of hunger from his cradle of straw. The willow tree beside him reached out her droopy limbs to retrieve the child, but abruptly repressed her nurturing instinct as a misty lady figure manifested and hovered by the baby.
“Be quiet, child,” snapped Luchedia. “Oh, you are an ugly thing, aren’t you?” She looked around the cemetery to make sure Arayah’s spirit wasn’t around to try and stop her. She hadn’t seen the gypsy’s spirit once learned the gypsy had died. Luchedia figured the fortune teller must have crossed over and was unable to come back, though this did not mean Arayah’s spirit couldn’t watch her son grow. The Prophetess could still carry out her vow and torture all who belonged to the cross bloodline.
Though the gypsy’s spirit was not present. Luchedia could see small white, translucent figures peering from out behind gravestones. She paid them no mind and picked up the naked, crying baby boy. She held him out at arm’s length and inspected him.
She thought of the prophecy she had told the monks only a year ago about this child and how he could not be killed no matter how evil. She had lied. He could be killed, but only by fire or by some other unknown means of eradicating the magic in his blood.
Luchedia cringed at the grayish, stretched skin of the baby. He was repulsive to the sight except for the sparkling life in his deep blue eyes and then there were the curious glistening objects near the corners of his mouth. They were sharp and very white as the light of the full moon reflect off the glossy fangs.
