“Is the Order functioning today?” Cian asked, leaning forward on his elbows. “Are there new members?”

“There—” Radu paused mid-answer and scratched his head. “Not for quite some time. I believe they died out around the same time the Basarab family lost their seat as prince. Though there is one family who claims to hail from that line—they are actually boyars here today. Now, now. Before we get too far ahead of ourselves, I do have some old poems that show the craft and cunning of the Order. Arsenic wasn’t the only trick they used in disposing of their enemies.”

He passed two pieces of parchment to each of us. Scribbled on them were poems in Romanian, which he promptly translated into English.

“Oh! I just love this one. I recall the first time my parents had introduced me… bother all that. Ahem.

LORDS WEEP, LADIES CRY. DOWN THE ROAD, SAY GOOD-BYE.

LAND SHIFTS AND CAVES DWELL. DEEP IN EARTH, WARM AS HELL.

WATER SEEPS COLD, DEEP, AND FAST. WITHIN ITS WALLS YOU WILL NOT LAST.

Blood frosted inside my veins. The words weren’t exactly the same, but they were strikingly similar to the chanting I’d heard snippets of outside my chambers. Thomas narrowed his eyes, ever in tune with my shifting emotions, and leaned back in his seat.

“Pardon, Professor,” he said. “What is the title of this poem?”

Radu blinked several times, bushy brows raising with the movement. “We will get to that in a moment, Mr. Cresswell. This is copied from a most special and sacred text, known as ‘Poems of Death.’ Poezii Despre Moarte. The original text has gone missing. Very strange and unfortunate indeed.”

I felt Thomas’s attention on me, but I didn’t dare meet his gaze. We were in possession of the very book Dăneşti had been searching for. How the missing woman from the village had had it in her custody was yet another mystery to add to our ever-growing list.

The Bianchi brothers scratched notes into their journals. This lesson apparently had just become more intriguing to them with the mention of death. I could hardly contain my own excitement. Radu’s incessant rambling might be worthwhile after all.

“And this text was sacred to the Order?” I asked.

“Yes. Its contents were used by the Order of the Dragon as a sort of… well… it was used to rid the castle of perceived enemies during medieval times. Is it something you recall, Mr. Cresswell? As one of the remaining—and almost secret, I believe—members of that household, your family would have known more about this text, I imagine. Your education must have been exceptional.”

It was subtle, but I did not miss the slight flicker of tightness in Thomas’s spine. Our classmates shifted uncomfortably in their seats, the revelation unnerving even to those who studied the deceased. No wonder Thomas wasn’t keen on sharing his ancestry. Hiding his ties to Vlad Dracula spared him from unwarranted scorn.

Radu apparently had done some research on Thomas’s matriarchal lineage. How intriguing. My body thrummed with alert. Radu was much less clueless than he appeared.

Thomas lifted a shoulder, taking on the air of someone who couldn’t care less about the topic of conversation or the tension now tugging at the room. He transformed himself into an emotionless automaton, putting on an armor against judgment. Nicolae glared at his sheet of parchment, not deigning to look at his many-times-removed cousin. I imagined that he’d known who Thomas was and hadn’t shared it with anyone.

“Can’t say the poem sounds the least bit familiar,” Thomas said. “Or particularly interesting. Though I do believe if used on one’s enemies, it might very well kill them over time. One more line from that book and I might collapse from boredom myself.”

“No, no, no. That would be most unfortunate! Moldoveanu wouldn’t be pleased if I caused the death of his students.” Radu clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes protruding. “Poorly timed use of words, though. After poor Wilhelm, Anastasia, and now Mariana.”

“Who is Mariana?” Thomas asked.

“The maid who was discovered the other morning,” Radu said.

He sealed his lips together, watching the Bianchi twins squirm in their seats. I’d forgotten that our classmates had discovered her body. Studying death and coming across corpses outside the laboratory weren’t the same, and the latter was hard to simply get past. I knew all too well the lingering effects of such a discovery.

“Perhaps that’s enough for today’s lesson.”

I scanned the second page of poetry, sucking in a breath sharp enough to pierce. I needed a few more answers before class ended. “Professor, the poem you read is called ‘XI.’ None of the poems appear to have titles other than Roman numerals. Why is that?”

Radu glanced from the page to the class, chewing his lip. After a moment, he shoved his spectacles up his nose. “From what I’ve gathered, the Order used this as a code. Legend has it they marked secret passages beneath this very castle. Behind doors marked with a certain numeral there would be… well—there’d be all manner of unpleasant devices or traps by which their foes would perish.”

“Can you give us examples?” Erik asked, first in Russian and then in English.

“Of course! They would appear to have died of natural causes, though the way in which they’d come to their end was hardly natural. It’s rumored that Vlad—a member of the Order, just like his father—would send a noble down beneath the castle with the promise that he would find treasure there. Other times he’d send corrupt boyars to these chambers to hide, saying an army was outside the castle walls and they should take shelter. They’d follow his instructions, enter the marked chambers, and meet their deaths. He could then pass their demises off as an unfortunate accident to other boyars, though I’m sure they suspected otherwise. He had quite the reputation for razing corruption from this country in sweeping ways.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed, focus now latched on to Radu as if he were a starving mutt with a bone. I knew precisely what that expression meant.

“What of the poetry, though?” I asked. “What did it signify to members of the Order?”

Radu pointed to the parchment with stubby fingers, careful to not smudge the ink. “Take this one here.” He translated the text from Romanian to English once again:

XXIII

WHITE, RED, EVIL, GREEN. WHAT HAUNTS THESE WOODS STAYS UNSEEN.

DRAGONS ROAM AND TAKE TO AIR. CUT DOWN THOSE WHO NEAR HIS LAIR.

EAT YOUR MEAT AND DRINK YOUR BLOOD. LEAVE REMAINS IN THE TUB.

BONE WHITE, BLOOD RED. ALONG THIS PATH YOU’LL SOON BE DEAD.

“Some believe this poem refers to a secret meeting place of the Order. One in the woods, where they hold death rites for other members. Others believe it refers to a crypt beneath the castle: a crypt only because once unsuspecting guests traveled inside, they were locked in by the Order until they rotted away. I’ve heard villagers claim their bones were turned into a holy site.”

“What sort of holy site?”

“Oh, one where sacrifices are made to the Immortal Prince. But not everything you hear is to be trusted. The dragons-taking-to air bit is metaphorical. Translated plainly, this means the Order moves about stealthily, stalking and protecting what is theirs. Their land. Their God-chosen rulers. Their way of life. They are transformed into ferocious creatures who eat you whole and leave your bones. Meaning, they murder you and the only thing left is your remains.”

“Do you suspect the Order of the Dragon maintains the tunnels to this day?” I asked.

“Goodness. I don’t believe so,” Radu said, laughing a bit too loudly. “Though I suppose I cannot say for sure. As mentioned earlier, the Order first fashioned themselves after Crusaders. In fact, Sigismund, king of Hungary, later became Holy Roman Emperor.”

Before Radu could go off about the Crusaders, I blurted out another question. “Exactly what methods of death did the tunnels contain?”

“Oh, let’s see, Miss Wadsworth. Some passages contained bats. Some were overrun with arachnids. Wolves are said to have hunted in other passages. Legend claims the only way to escape the water chamber is to offer a dragon a bit of blood.” He smiled ruefully at the thought. “I don’t believe the creatures would be able to live underground without a source of food or care. If the passages exist today, they are likely harmless, though I’d not suggest searching for anything this book contains. Most superstitions have some basis in fact. Hmm? Yes? Take strigoi, for instance—there must be some truth behind these rumors.”

I wanted to point out that the legends regarding strigoi were likely the result of not burying bodies far enough underground during winter. Bodies became bloated with gases and pushed out of their graves; nail beds receded, making hands look like claws—ghastly and vampiric in appearance but not practice. To the uneducated, it would most certainly seem that their loved ones were trying to climb out of their graves. However, science proved that was simply myth.

The clock outside tolled the end of our class. Guards wasted no time making their presence once again known. I collected the pieces of parchment Radu had given us and tucked them into my pocket.

“Thank you, Professor,” I said, watching him closely. “I rather enjoyed this lesson.”

Radu clucked. “My pleasure. I thank you. I now have—is it really three o’clock? I was hoping to get to the kitchens before retiring to my chambers. They’re making my favorite sticky buns. Off I go!” He grabbed an armful of journals from his desk and vanished out the door.

I had turned to Thomas, ready to talk through everything we’d learned and discuss Radu’s possible involvement, when Dăneşti waved from the doorway. He grinned at Thomas, taunting my friend in a way I knew he wouldn’t resist.

“Să mergem. We do not have all day.”

Thomas inhaled deeply. There was only so much goading he could withstand. Before I had time to react, he opened that cursed mouth of his.

“Lapdogs do as they’re told. They have nothing to do but sit and wait and beg for their master’s next orders.”