“Didn’t I tell you? She was a gymnast, from Walachia. She’s dead now. You can’t hurt her.”
Walachia. The birthplace of his ancestors.
It had to be true, she was of his line. But her last name—Marin.
“Your father is American?”
“Yes.”
He felt excitement, a sense of victory, very close now. “Hold still and it won’t hurt. I’ve become very good at this.” He pulled out a kit to take her blood, swabbed alcohol on her tethered arm, then expertly drew off a vial. He needed to run it immediately.
“What are you doing?”
Roman said, “You’re the daughter of a gymnast from Walachia—is your mother Nadia Gabor?”
“Nadia Gabor Marin.”
He pulled up a chair beside her. “She was Gypsy stock.”
Isabella said nothing, stared as he ran a long white finger down the length of her arm. A fine red drop of blood sat in the crook of her elbow. “What are you going to do with my blood? What is this all about?”
“How far back do you know your bloodline?”
“What?”
“Answer me!”
“I don’t—not very far. If you’re at all familiar with Romanians, you’ll know many of the records are lost. The only way we can find each other is through online DNA testing, which of course we’ve done as most everyone has. It didn’t reveal very much, only a few matches.”
“Excellent. I will look on your computer and see what I can find. I want to see every match you’ve made.”
“Tell me what this is all about. You’re taking my blood and you’re probably going to kill me anyway. Why not tell me why you’re doing this?”
Roman smiled at her, patted her arm right above the Band-Aid he pressed down. “You won’t die, not for a long time.” He studied her a moment, recognized her on some very deep level.
“Why not tell you the truth? My brother, my twin—Radu—suffers from a rare form of hemophilia, one untreatable by modern medicine. The Voynich tells how to cure blood illnesses, but there were missing instructions, missing ingredients. I’ve read the pages you supposedly found, and you know what? The instructions are now complete. I can mix the potion and know it’s correct. But I always knew Radu’s illness was different from the others in our line, not like the blood diseases discussed by the twins in the Voynich. When it became clear that only blood from our line would help him, I began a search all over Eastern Europe. It appears Romanians live everywhere. Wherever I’ve traveled, I’ve taken Romanian blood, but have never found a perfect match.
“And now I have you. If you are my perfect match, then with the final instructions in the pages, the potion, and your blood, we’ll cure Radu.”
Her pages held the final answers? Her blood was his perfect match? No, it was crazy. He believed she was of his familial line? “Why can’t you use your own blood?”
“Because my blood has the same defective gene within it, though I don’t suffer from the disease. As I said, I need blood from our familial line.”
“What line are you talking about?”
“And here I thought you were clever. Whose do you think?”
She shook her head.
“You and I and Radu, I believe we are all direct descendants of Vlad Dracul III. And once I’ve tested your blood, I will prove it.”
She was afraid, her stomach hurt from the falcon’s sharp claws, and yet this astounded her. “You know he’s not really Dracula, don’t you?”
He wanted to strike her but didn’t. Other than Radu, she was the most important person in the world, at least her precious blood was. He managed to shrug while he thumbed a tab onto his tongue. “And how do you know? We are living proof—direct descendants, one with diseased blood, another, the stronger, who will cure him.”
“So you think you’re a vampire?”
“You stupid woman, you think I’m mad? Of course I’m not a vampire in the movie sense, nor is Radu. I told you, Radu and I are descendants of Vlad Dracul, a very real man. Am I born to blood? Do I drink it?” He smiled at her and shrugged again.