translator—but who could possibly translate it better than the man who wrote it in the first place?
Assuming Constantine actually is the author, which would mean he actually is a vampire, which I’m still not sure about.
“Coffee first.” I head to the kitchen with a sigh, and Constantine follows me, thoughtfully bringing his empty hot cocoa mug from earlier.
“And then I read a bit for you?” He holds out his cup while I pour coffee for each of us.
I switch off the coffee maker with a decisive flourish. “You read me a sample of Viața , then I decide.”
We settle in with our mugs of coffee at the dining room table. I pull out my phone.
“What are you doing with that?” Constantine asks.
“I’m going to record everything you say.”
“Why?”
“I need a record of the translation. Or were you planning to type up a translated edition of the book for me?”
Constantine scowls. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want another copy of this information to exist in any form. It’s too dangerous.”
“But I have to have a copy of it in some form. My professor expects me to use a real, tangible source. If I don’t have an authentic link to this material, how can I prove I didn’t just make everything up? What if she asks to see the book? I’m already on shaky ground because my bibliography listed Melita Thorne’s translation, not the Romanian original.”
“If she asks, tell her the library didn’t have the translation, so you had to revert to the original. I will even go with you to let her look at the original, and read to her the translated material. Tell her you took notes as it was translated. That is the best I can do.”
“You want me to take notes instead of recording you?”
“If you want me to translate, yes. Frankly, I don’t understand why you’re resisting my terms. I can find anyone to go to Vegas with me, yet this is the only copy of the book you need. You should be begging me to agree to this deal, not the other way around.”
So I stare at my phone and think about it, my over-tired thoughts spinning with caffeine-fueled confusion. What are the odds that the lone copy of this book would show up on my doorstep just when I needed it? If Constantine’s theory is correct, the vampires followed me home when I went in search of Melita’s translation.
And Constantine followed the vampires.
So he kind of is a stalker, but he wasn’t stalking me, not directly. He was stalking the vampires…who were stalking me.
Super creepy.
“Fine.” I pull out a notebook and a fresh pen. “Translate. I’ll take notes.”
So Constantine starts reading in old Romanian, and for a few seconds I’m transfixed as a shiver ripples up and down my spine. Sure, I’ve been to Romania plenty of times and heard the people speak the modern equivalent of the tongue. But this?
This is like jumping back in time. Call me gullible or overtired, but it doesn’t take much imagination to believe the guy sitting across the table from me actually lived hundreds of years ago, as he claims.
I shake off my stupor and gulp a long draught of coffee.
The words are mostly foreign, but I can pick out a few recognizable Latin cognates. Most noticeable, though, are the names. I recognize Vlad. And every time Constantine says, “Dracul,” I flinch internally, almost as though I’ve been struck. Vlad Dracul was Vlad Dracula’s father. In my research, I’ve had to take pains to keep track of which one was which one.
Dracul means dragon .
Dracula, son of the dragon .
Dracula was Vlad Dracul’s son. What a family.
After several long sentences, Constantine switches to English. “Shortly before dawn on February 8 th , 1431, Prince Vlad of Wallachia, the son of Mircea the Great, was inducted into the Order of the Dragon at the imperial fortress in Nuremberg. This secret society, founded by the Holy Roman Emperor, was highly selective. There were only 24 members from
Assuming Constantine actually is the author, which would mean he actually is a vampire, which I’m still not sure about.
“Coffee first.” I head to the kitchen with a sigh, and Constantine follows me, thoughtfully bringing his empty hot cocoa mug from earlier.
“And then I read a bit for you?” He holds out his cup while I pour coffee for each of us.
I switch off the coffee maker with a decisive flourish. “You read me a sample of Viața , then I decide.”
We settle in with our mugs of coffee at the dining room table. I pull out my phone.
“What are you doing with that?” Constantine asks.
“I’m going to record everything you say.”
“Why?”
“I need a record of the translation. Or were you planning to type up a translated edition of the book for me?”
Constantine scowls. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want another copy of this information to exist in any form. It’s too dangerous.”
“But I have to have a copy of it in some form. My professor expects me to use a real, tangible source. If I don’t have an authentic link to this material, how can I prove I didn’t just make everything up? What if she asks to see the book? I’m already on shaky ground because my bibliography listed Melita Thorne’s translation, not the Romanian original.”
“If she asks, tell her the library didn’t have the translation, so you had to revert to the original. I will even go with you to let her look at the original, and read to her the translated material. Tell her you took notes as it was translated. That is the best I can do.”
“You want me to take notes instead of recording you?”
“If you want me to translate, yes. Frankly, I don’t understand why you’re resisting my terms. I can find anyone to go to Vegas with me, yet this is the only copy of the book you need. You should be begging me to agree to this deal, not the other way around.”
So I stare at my phone and think about it, my over-tired thoughts spinning with caffeine-fueled confusion. What are the odds that the lone copy of this book would show up on my doorstep just when I needed it? If Constantine’s theory is correct, the vampires followed me home when I went in search of Melita’s translation.
And Constantine followed the vampires.
So he kind of is a stalker, but he wasn’t stalking me, not directly. He was stalking the vampires…who were stalking me.
Super creepy.
“Fine.” I pull out a notebook and a fresh pen. “Translate. I’ll take notes.”
So Constantine starts reading in old Romanian, and for a few seconds I’m transfixed as a shiver ripples up and down my spine. Sure, I’ve been to Romania plenty of times and heard the people speak the modern equivalent of the tongue. But this?
This is like jumping back in time. Call me gullible or overtired, but it doesn’t take much imagination to believe the guy sitting across the table from me actually lived hundreds of years ago, as he claims.
I shake off my stupor and gulp a long draught of coffee.
The words are mostly foreign, but I can pick out a few recognizable Latin cognates. Most noticeable, though, are the names. I recognize Vlad. And every time Constantine says, “Dracul,” I flinch internally, almost as though I’ve been struck. Vlad Dracul was Vlad Dracula’s father. In my research, I’ve had to take pains to keep track of which one was which one.
Dracul means dragon .
Dracula, son of the dragon .
Dracula was Vlad Dracul’s son. What a family.
After several long sentences, Constantine switches to English. “Shortly before dawn on February 8 th , 1431, Prince Vlad of Wallachia, the son of Mircea the Great, was inducted into the Order of the Dragon at the imperial fortress in Nuremberg. This secret society, founded by the Holy Roman Emperor, was highly selective. There were only 24 members from
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