Page 19 of Forbidden Fate

My trip has been mind-blowing so far. I’m on my last train of the summer, and I can feel it in my bones.

London feels like a lifetime ago. Rain on cobblestones, the smell of tea and old books, me pretending I belonged there. Paris was too beautiful, almost. I remember standing on the Pont des Arts at night, telling myself I’d never forget how the city glowed.

Barcelona was hot with beautifully strange architecture, and Venice was unreal. Prague was amazing. Gothic spires and narrow streets that felt like they were watching me back.

I let out a quiet breath and lean back. One last summer before vet school, before my real life begins.

The conductor walks by, muttering something in a language I can’t quite catch, but I give him a polite smile anyway. He nods, moves on.

I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, scrolling through the photos I’ve taken so far. It’s been so exciting, but Romania is going to be different.

I rest my head back and close my eyes for a second. This is the part of the trip that feels like stepping into one of those old films. Everything starts off feeling normal, until⁠—

The train lurches slightly, slowing again.

I open my eyes.

The friends I met and traveled with left me on this last leg. None of them were interested in Romania. Well, screw them.

I get off the train, go to my hotel, and settle in for the night.

Three days later, I’m immersed in the gothic feel of this amazing country.

I stood inside Bran Castle, traced my fingers along cold stone walls, imagining Dracula watching me from the shadows. Next was Sighișoara Citadel, the birthplace of Vlad the Impaler.

Then Peleș Castle.

That one stunned me.

I grew up wealthy, but a billion-dollar Texas ranch has nothing on this. It was ornate without being gaudy. Elegant without trying too hard. I felt small but in a good way.

The bus tour along the Transfăgărășan Highway scared the hell out of me with its sharp curves and endless drops. But still I kept my forehead pressed to the window and took it all in.

And the food⁠—

God.

I’ve eaten things I can barely pronounce. Sarmale, cabbage rolls that are warm and rich. Mici are grilled minced meat rolls that are smoky and addictive. Mămăligă is like polenta and is delicious. And papanași… Sinful. They’re just fried donuts with sour cream and jam, but oh. My. God.

Finally, in Bucharest, I took belly dancing lessons with a woman named Irina Vasilescu who taught me that the dance is more about feeling your body than about following rules. It originated as a celebration of childbirth, so she inspired me to let the music move through me instead of trying to master every step.

“You move like you’re thinking too much,” she told me. “Stop trying to control it. Let your body tell you what it wants.”

Easier said than done, but for a minute I felt freer than I ever have.

When I was getting ready to leave, she smiled. “Be sure to go to Umbra Neagra, a bar in Transylvania. Tell them I sent you.”

I promised her I’d check it out.

And now⁠—

I’m standing in front of Umbra Neagra, which means black shadow.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Just a dark wooden door tucked between older buildings, but when I push it open⁠—

Wow.

The entire space is lit only by candles flickering softly against deep velvet drapery. The air smells faintly of smoke and something sweeter underneath. Incense, maybe. Or perfume. Low music hums somewhere.