"The Blood is the Life Affair" Part 3

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Part 3: Blood, sweat and tears.

“Damn, that was some dream?” he muttered, still feeling tired as he rose from the bed.

He washed and shaved, noticing a bruise on his left wrist and upon closer examination, he found a cut that looked like small slice.  He couldn’t quite recall when he received the minor injury...perhaps from the carriage ride, as they had been jostled quite a bit.

He dressed into a more casual change of clothing, a polo shirt with a cardigan and a pair of slacks. Both he and Illya didn’t pack much as they thought they would be returning to New York almost immediately.

Kolos was seated in the hallway as if waiting for the the guests.  “Your companion’s room is there,” he said, pointing across the hall.

Napoleon yawned, “Excuse me...umm thank you.”  He rapped their standard code against the door then hearing his partners voice call to him, he slipped inside.

“Good morning tovarisch,” he tried mustering a smile.

Illya was seated at a desk reading through a pile of notes that Moríc had given him.

“That is debatable, as it is still storming heavily.” Illya grumbled. He finally looked up at his partner. “Napoleon, you look terrible are you ill?”

“No, just feeling really tired...I had the most bizarre dream last night.”  He looked around at Illya’s accommodations, finding them much more sedate and definitely lacking in the fiery color that seemed to be almost everywhere else. The sceneries of the wall hangings were much more placid and pastoral and the room was rather cozy as Illya had a fire burning in the fireplace.

“You have to go take a look at my room, the tapestries are a bordering on the pornographic side, if you ask me.” Napoleon said.

“Well they gave you the right room then did they not?”

“Very funny.”

Illya stood, walking over to him. “May I?” He asked, reaching his hand to his partner’s face.

Solo nodded his approval;  Illya touched his forehead and then his cheek.

“Napoleon, you are ice cold and very pale. I think you are coming down with something. Maybe from the carriage ride, a cold perhaps?”

“Just feeling very tired...speaking of the carriage ride, do you have any bumps or bruises after our little trip?”

No, why?”

“Well I woke up with this rather painful bruise and I don’t recall when it could have happened, I’m guessing during the carriage ride since it was so rough.” He held out his wrist, showing the mark to the Russian.

Illya put on his eyeglasses, taking a closer look at Solo’s wrist.

“Mmmm?”

“What?”

“Nothing...”

“All right  be that way,” Napoleon said.

“I am hungry,” Illya’s stomach rumbled, “perhaps we should go see if we can get some breakfast. A good meal might help your energy level.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door, “Adja meg kérem_ enter please,”Illya called.

Kolos appeared with a large serving tray of food for them; freshly toasted bread with cheese spread, véres hules... a black pudding-like sausage, an assortment of kolbész, deviled eggs, caviar, foie gras, pancakes, fruit salads and yogurts and well as champagne and pastries.

“Now that’s what I call perfect timing?” Napoleon said.

Illya eyed the amount of food with pleasure as Kolos placed the tray on the table “And that is what I call breakfast.”

“I will return shortly with tea,” the old man said, leaving without another word.

“Wow, this is a serious amount of calories,” Napoleon said.

Illya was already filling his plate, ready to dig in.

“Food’s never wasted on you tovarisch.”

“I have learned to take advantage of a meal at any opportunity as eating throughout most of my life was often a matter of luck, then a given.”

“Really?”

“You have never known true starvation Napoleon, and I hope you never do. Now let us leave it at that and enjoy the feast that has been given to us?”

Napoleon wasn’t quite sure what his partner was alluding to and thought it best not to question him as usual. At the moment, he didn’t have the energy for any sort of lively discussion anyway.

Illya’s appetite was hearty as always, eyeing the caviar as a prized treat, but Napoleon wasn’t really hungry and just picked at a few things.

He found the tea brought by Kolos a welcome sight as he was starting to feel very chilly.

“Napoleon are you sure you are all right?” Illya asked after swallowing his last morsel of food.

“Just really tired. I think I’m going to wander around for a bit, then take a nap later.”

“Now I know you are ill, you never take naps. I would have thought you’d be eager seek out the company of the lovely Terézia.”

“There’s the rub, I think I was dreaming about her last night, it was a weird one. The women in the tapestries came to life and we ugh, well...”

“No need to finish, I get the picture. I think I want to see this room decor of yours as now as you have me curious. Obviously if the tapestries were of an erotic nature, that planted the seed in your subconscious mind and ergo your dreams were....well you know what happened. I do have to repeat though, you do not look well.”

“Knock it off, I’ll be fine. So what mischief are you planning to get into...going to hang out in Moríc’s lab.  He’s a bit of an odd one don’t you think?”

“No more so than the rest of the family. At the moment I plan to continue to read over these notes, then I would like to have a look at the Count’s car to see what I can do, as I really do not relish another carriage ride when we finally are able to leave this place.”

Illya turned away, put on his reading glasses again, burying his nose in the documents, thus ending his discussion with his partner.

Napoleon wandered out into the hall heading downstairs to the library where he overheard voices. He hesitated, waiting outside, attempting to listen in on the conversation.

It was Magdala and Moríc and they did not sound very happy, but unfortunately they were speaking in Hungarian. Napoleon knew very few words, though the ones he did understand gave him cause for concern.

“Lányok_girls, megszökött_escaped. What girls could they be referring to? They said there were no children...could they be holding someone prisoner here?” His thoughts went to Moríc for some reason, wondering if the man had been up to something nefarious.

“Hello Mr. Solo,” a female voice spoke from behind him. It was Terézia, dressed more casually but still in red, wearing a tight cashmere sweater and skirt that showed off her...assets very nicely.

“If I did not know better I would think you were eavesdropping?” He said in English.

“Me eavesdrop? No actually I didn’t want to interrupt their conversation and was waiting for a break before I walked in...as you recall I don’t speak Hungarian?” He smiled at her.

“Or so you say?” She smiled coyly back at him. “Come with me.” Terézia said seductively, taking hold of his arm.

.

Illya walked out of his room, across the hall to take a look at the tapestries Napoleon had mentioned.  He opened the door, and saw the red bed and curtains as his partner had described, but when he looked at the wall hangings, he saw nothing that came even close to erotic.  The tapestries illustrated the same such scenery as the ones on the walls in his own room. He thought that quite odd.

“Perhaps Napoleon was really ill after all, as it seemed as though he were having bizarre dreams but hallucinations as well?” Illya thoughts became concerned as he walked back out into the hallway.

He was met by the manservant Kolos who had just reached the the landing, having made his way slowly up the long staircase.

“Megkérderzhetem, ahol gróf Tedescu autója található_may I ask where Count Teduscu’s car is located?”

“It is out in the barn just down along the eastern wall of the house. You cannot go out sir as it is still raining heavily and it is not safe. There are many rocks and one could slip and fall, very precarious in this weather. The forest surrounding us is dangerous as well, there are things that walk in the shadows...”

“I will take my chances,”Illya said as he headed towards the stairs, thinking these people were country bumpkins subject to the power of mere suggestion.  He had one of the servants fetch his trench coat and headed out into the storm.

The wind was blowing a horizontal rain, as lightning continued to flash in the distance, while the Russian held on to his hat with one hand, pulling his collar tight about his face with the other as he walked along the outside walls of the house. He followed carefully what seemed to be a narrow path  as he continued around the corner of the wall. Farther back away from the house he spotted the muddy road that lead to the barn.

He continued onwards, leaning into the gusts of wind until he reached the large wooden door, pulling it open enough for him just to slip inside.

He could make out the shape of the car, covered with a tarpaulin. Beside the door was an oil lantern, taking a book of matches from his coat pocket he lit it, shedding enough light for him to see the car.

He pulled the tarp away, sending a cloud of dust up into the air, smiling when he saw the. It was a ARO M59, a Romanian built off-road vehicle, very similar to an American jeep.  It made sense, given the rough countryside that Tedescu would have this sort of vehicle rather than some sedan. “It was at least a 1959, so not that old,” he shrugged.

Illya lifted the bonnet, examining the condition of the engine. He was familiar with this sort of vehicle and confident that given a little tinkering, he could get it running, then they could get out of this place.

He was surprised that he was looking forward to getting back to New York, and he smiled thinking that a certain red-head that had been transferred from London recently that had something to do with that. He seemed to be attracted to red-heads as of late, although at this exact moment the color red he found hardly appealing.

He looked around, finding a small tool box; looking through it he satisfied himself there was enough for him to work with.

Illya removed his hat and coat, hanging them up on a nail protruding from a wooden support column that was behind him, then he buried his nose in the engine, checking all the connections.

He had been working for a while, when came upon a fitting that seemed to be frozen and grabbed a wrench trying to loosen it. His hand slipped, cutting it on a piece of metal. His instinct was to put the bloody finger in his mouth, but stopped himself as his hands were dirty.

He grabbed a handkerchief in his pants pocket, using it to apply pressure until the bleeding subsided then he continued with his work. But giving him a moment's pause, as he looked at the blood on his hand. All this talk of mass murderers and vampires suddenly made him feel just a little bit uncomfortable being alone, even though he knew it was nothing but superstitious nonsense.

Though any time the talk of Nazis and their demented work was ever mentioned, that definitely unsettled him, as old memories of suffering at their hands as a child would resurface.

About an hour later he was damp with perspiration as he wiped his hands, cleaning away some of the grease with a nearby rag, and satisfied that he had done everything possible to get the machine in working order. Now it was time to  attempt to start the car.

At first there was nothing, then it clicked. The second try it tried to turn over then after the third try the engine roared to a start, bringing a smile to his face.  But at quickly as his moment of satisfaction arrived it ended, as the car sputtered then stalled.

He tried to start it again but the M59 wouldn’t to turn over, this time being completely uncooperative.

Then he wondered if there was fuel in the tank, remembering to check the gauge. It was on empty.

“Chyort!” he grumbled. It would figure after all that work, there was no petrol.  He looked at his watch, deeming he’d wasted enough time for the day. He was wearing a turtleneck but was finding himself chilly from the damp weather and perspiring from the work.

“Perhaps a hot cup of tea would be good right now?”he thought.

Illya turned to where he had hung his coat and hat, but found them gone. He looked around on the floor of the barn, seeing if they had fallen but his clothing was nowhere to be found.

“Chtoebat’_what the fuck?” he cursed out loud, drawing his Walther immediately, checking his surroundings for an intruder.

He turned in place quickly scanning the area, but saw nothing. There was no choice but to head out into the pouring rain and head back to the house, but this time he did it with his weapon drawn.

“Der’mo,” he mumbled as he stepped out into downpour. “Such a rain was falling,” his babushka would tell him was “because the angels were crying.”

Illya followed the driveway to the path, slipping a few times on the wet rocks he had been warned about, then finally made it to the door soaking to the skin, his hands and knees covered in mud. He hadn’t noticed before that the door knocker was in the image of what looked like a screaming face as he reached for it, but as it happened when they first arrived, the door opened before he put his hand up to knock. This place was really starting to make him uncomfortable.

Illya stepped inside, apologizing to Kolos as he was leaving a puddle dripping on the floor.

“Please sir, wait here and I will fetch something so you do not drip throughout the house.”

Illya shot a look at him. “Like it would really matter in this shit hole of a house?” he thought, but stayed there as he was asked anyway.

Though the title of Count bothered Illya for personal reasons, the condition of the Tedescu home did little to give the impression that the family was noble.

Under Communist rule most of the aristocracy had been disposed, including Illya’s grandfather, Count Alexander  Kuryakin had been, though that was fact he shared with no one for safety reasons. In Russia, it as best that no one knew he was a descendant of dvoryanin_nobility as it would have only caused him problems.

Living in New York, no one cared about nobility, but he still felt it safer to keep his little secret, one of many that he had.

He was technically a Count being the last living member of the Kuryakin line, but as he told his partner that title meant nothing. Little did Napoleon know that Illya was making the remark was in reference to himself. There was much of Illya’s past that he shared with no one, even Napoleon.

The less people know about you, the longer you live. That was the code that he lived by, his motto, just as the Tedescu had the blood is life as theirs. Both referenced survival, but in different ways.

Kolos reappeared with several throw blankets, helping Illya to wrap one around his waist, then draped the other around his shoulders.

“You should change quickly sir before you catch a chill. The house is quite damp and it would not be good for you to become ill.”

“Yes thank you Kolos.” Then Illya sneezed loudly.

“May I help you upstairs sir or do anything else for you? Perhaps some chicken soup?”

“No thank you...ugh actually yes to the chicken soup. Kolos there is something else that you could do for me. When I was working on the car I had hung up my coat and hat, then when I went to leave, they were gone. Could you find out who might have been out there and taken them? Oh yes and one more thing, is there any petrol to be had for the car?”

“I will ask sir, and there are several canisters of petrol in the rear area, where the automobile is housed.”

Illya held the blankets around him, feeling his shoes squish and squeak as he walked upstairs to his room. He looked at Napoleon’s door as he walked past, then decided to change as Kolos had said before he did catch a chill. He would see Napoleon after he’d dressed into some dry clothes and eaten his soup