Dracul by Finley Aaron Page B

and, as advertised, not too dry. Constantine washes his hands before pulling out decks of cards while I finish eating.
    “I will be the dealer.” He lays out the dining room table like a blackjack table, even going so far as to enlist the plastic deli trays of our discarded chicken bones to stand in for other players. “Henrietta,” he names one pile of bones. “And Mister Cluckins.”
    “I’m going to feel really stupid if I lose to Mister Cluckins.”
    “I will be playing for Mister Cluckins and Henrietta.”
    “I’m going to lose to Mister Cluckins,” I predict as I finish off the last of the chicken meat, resisting the urge to crunch down the bones. Chicken bones are quite tasty, and a good source of calcium, but I don’t want Constantine to see me eating them or he might ask questions, because last I checked, normal people do not eat chicken bones. Dragons eat chicken bones.
    But I don’t want Constantine to suspect anything.
    I add the bones to Henrietta’s tray, wash my hands, and refill our drinks before announcing I’m ready to play.
    “You have no blackjack experience?” Constantine confirms.
    “None.”
    “Then don’t worry about counting cards yet. Today, we will work on learning to play the game.”
    For the next few hours, Constantine deals the cards and makes betting and playing decisions on behalf of the chicken bones, both of which end up with higher winnings than I do. Several times, Constantine has to refresh my dwindling pile of chips (they’re not even potato chips or tortilla chips, but plastic betting chips similar to those used in real casinos).
    “I’m sorry I’m not any good,” I apologize when Constantine announces we’ve played enough blackjack for one day.
    “You are improving. Besides, it is not your job to win. It is your job to count. Don’t confuse the two.”
    While Constantine excuses himself to the restroom, I carry the chicken bones to the kitchen, and gobble up some of the crunchy spine pieces before I toss the rest in the trash.
    Mmm, those are so good. Seriously, it’s like I get some kind of vitamin deficiency when I don’t eat enough real dragon food.
    “Ready for translation?” Constantine asks from the kitchen doorway, way sooner than I expected him to return.
    “Re—dcck.” I cough on the chicken spines.
    Constantine grabs my water glass from the table and hands it over to me.
    I’m still coughing too hard to hold the glass, so when I wrap my fingers around it, he’s still holding on.
    His fingers are so cold where they touch mine.
    Almost ice cold.
    But that’s part of the vampire mythology, too, isn’t it?
    Clearing my throat is made more complicated by the fact that I don’t want Constantine to see what I had in my mouth, but I get enough control over my hacking to manage a sip of water. Once that goes down without stirring anything up, I drink again.
    “All better?”
    “Better. Thanks.” I set the glass on the counter and wash my hands. “Let’s get to that translation.”
    As I’d hoped, Constantine doesn’t waste any time, but opens the book and picks up right where we left off, with Mircea, Vlad, and Radu Dracula. He tells me the three sons of Vlad Dracul were raised to be military leaders, learning from a young age how to ride horses, fight with swords, and use a lance—a javelin-like spear most commonly used in the warfare of the day.
    “A skilled warrior,” Constantine notes, “would not just knock his enemies from their horses, but could actually impale them as he rode past. Vlad, in particular, became quite skilled with the lance.”
    This tidbit is unique to the rest. “His obsession with impaling began at a very young age?” I clarify, adding the words to my notes.
    “Ah, yes.” Constantine nods soberly. “He felt frustrated by the limitations to his power. He lived under constant reminders of the Ottoman threat, and when practicing the joust, he would boast about how many of the enemy he could impale. But it