Dimitrescu's Daughter (Completed)

Chapter Four: New Name, New Home

(( Note: Apparently this isn't a well known thing and it keeps getting comments so I guess I'll address it. Women used to keep a handkerchief AKA A "hankie" hidden in their cleavage/ in their bras. We don't know how old Lady Dimitrescu is but I did some research and this practice was commonplace well into the 1950's. She's easily old enough to have lived through the era. So! When she pulls a handkerchief out of her boobs THIS IS NOT UNUSUAL. )) 

Still slow I lean away, suddenly aware of my open and ruined shirt one hand flies up to cover myself.

"It's alright, you're safe here."

"Safe," My voice comes out in a growl, "Where is mother Miranda?"

"She's not here. That's why you're safe."

By size alone this woman might be stronger but her complexion screams vampire and her predatory eyes glow in the dark. Her smile is vicious but her teeth are blunt. Her dark hair is fixed perfectly just above her shoulders and her lipstick is a classy shade of red. I try to avoid staring at her neckline which isn't plunging but plenty revealing.

"Where am I? Where is Miranda? What did- What is-"

"Shhh Iulia, you are safe," She murmurs and cups my cheek, "So warm."

I smack her hand and recoil from the pain in my own, hissing and baring my teeth.

"Don't do that."

"Who are you?" I demand, "Where am I?"

"I am lady Dimitrescu. This is my castle, your new home."

I don't doubt that for a minute. Everything about her clothes and mannerisms matches the old luxury of the castle. She exudes power and grace in everything she does, along with the smell of cigarette smoke.

"And you, little one, are my daughter."

Oh boy.

Those are the first two words that come to mind, because otherwise my mind is drawing a blank. Dimitrescu's hand gently patting my head and sweeping my bangs aside does not help any. Her smile is very sweet, and a little manic looking. Her eyes are distant.

"You don't look like the others. You look younger," She murmurs.

"I get that a lot."

I'm mistaken for a teenager on a weekly basis, if not younger in bad lighting or to people with poor eyesight. Young, and a boy. I blame my short scruffy hair.

Her eyes snap back to the present and she smiles again, "Now that you're awake you should eat. I'll have the maids prepare dinner."

"I'm not sure I'm hungry."

"You will eat. You're thin, and pale," Her gloved fingers come to hold my chin and tilt my head up, "You'll feel better after you eat. But before that you'll have to be made decent and since you've torn your nightshirt we'll have to find something else."

Little do I know this is the first of many times Dimitrescu will get down on her knees and dress me like her own little five foot doll.

"I do not like this," I remark, shifting and itching at the lacey dress she's put me in.

"I don't care if you like it, it fits and you look fetching." There is a certain bite to her tone that tells me not to argue.

"Now," Dimitrescu says, "Let us see how your little arms and legs work after being still for so long."

Walking isn't impossible but I make very slow progress and my head swims at the slightest inclination. Each step takes effort and I find myself gasping for breath and clutching at my chest a few feet from the covered bed.

"That's quite enough for today."

Dimitrescu ever so carefully scoops me up in her arms, cradling me like an awkward toddler. With a smile I assume is sweet she crosses the room in two strides and ducks through the doorway, momentarily smothering me.

By the time we reach the dining room the smell of food, real food, is wafting up. My mouth waters and I crane my neck to see.

I'm placed directly into my seat and given a bowl. Despite the smell the look is supremely unappetizing. It's difficult to mask the expression of a thankless child, especially with Dimitrescu staring at me so intensely.

"Would you like me to feed you?"

"No."

She sighs heavily, "I fed the others when they first woke. Their movements were very stiff and slow like yours. And then there was the transforming at random which made mealtimes quite trying for the first few months."

"Others?" Speaking about people in passed tense commonly suggests that they are now dead. If I'm to avoid the same fate I'd like to hopefully figure out how they died.

"My daughters," Dimitrescu says. Her smile is soft, "You'll help bring them back."

"Oh?"

I take the big spoon beside the bowl underhanded like a serial killer with a knife and steady it with both hands. Dipping it into the murky brown soup it comes up with bits of carrot and other vegetables. I've never been so glad to see things I wouldn't normally eat.

"Bela, Daniela, and Cassandra. They died, but mother Miranda has a plan to bring them back. She already made the preparations for Bela. Now we just need your blood."

The spoon clatters out of my hands and into the soup. Dimitrescu takes a napkin, ever so gently mopping up my lap and face and the table.

"I won't let her kill you to get it of course. It will simply mean that the process will take significantly longer."

"Thank you," I murmur softly, picking up my spoon. Now my hands are shaking even more violently at the thought of how mother Miranda plans to extract said blood.

In my chest where it feels hollow something is beating and thumping so fast I start to breathe like I'm running. Somehow I know it's not part of me, or it shouldn't be whatever it is.

"Don't cry dear, you're safe now. Mother Miranda was a doctor, and I promise she'll be gentle when she takes your blood or it will be the last thing she does."

Dimitrescu takes a handkerchief from her cleavage and uses it to wipe away tears I didn't know I'd shed. Her eyes are soft when she begins speaking, but by the end the yellow in her iris is streaked in hellish orange and red and her voice is cavernous and grating.

For now I may be out of the fire, but I get the sense this is the frying pan from hell.