The Historian

　　"Late one night, exploring her father's library, a young woman finds an ancient book and a cache of yellowing letters. The letters are all addressed to "My dear and unfortunate successor," and they plunge her into a world she never dreamed of - a labyrinth where the secrets of her father's past and her mother's mysterious fate connect to an inconceivable evil hidden in the depths of history." "The letters provide links to one of the darkest powers that humanity has ever known - and to a centuries-long quest to find the source of that darkness and wipe it out. It is a quest for the truth about Vlad the Impaler, the medieval ruler whose barbarous reign formed the basis of the legend of Dracula. Generations of historians have risked their reputations, their sanity, and even their lives to learn the truth about Vlad the Impaler and Dracula. Now one young woman must decide whether to take up this quest herself - to follow her father in a hunt that nearly brought him to ruin years ago, when he was a vibrant young scholar and her mother was still alive." "What does the legend of Vlad the Impaler have to do with the modern world? Is it possible that the Dracula of myth truly existed - and that he has lived on, century after century, pursuing his own unknowable ends? The answers to these questions cross time and borders, as first the father and then the daughter search for clues, from dusty Ivy League libraries to Istanbul, Budapest, and the depths of Eastern Europe." Parsing obscure signs and hidden texts, reading codes worked into the fabric of medieval monastic traditions - and evading the unknown adversaries who will go to any lengths to conceal and protect Vlad's ancient powers - one woman comes ever closer to the secret of her own past and a confrontation with the very definition of evil.

　　我親愛而不幸的繼承人：

　　不論你是誰，很遺憾地，可以想見你閱讀我不得不寫在這兒的描述時，會有什麼樣的反應。這份遺憾有些為了我自己──因為如果這東西落到你手中，我一定是遇到不測，或許死亡，也可能陷入更可怕的處境。但我的遺憾同樣也是衝著你而來，這位我尚無緣認識的朋友，因為唯有需要如此邪惡的資料的人，才可能會讀到這封信。即使你不是我名正言順的繼承人，你也很快就會步上我的後塵──不管你是不是認為我在胡說八道，我都要很痛心地將我本人罪惡的經驗傳承給你。我不知道這樣的命運為什麼會落在我的頭上，但我希望終有一天能夠撥雲見日，找出個答案來──或許就是在我寫信給你的時候，也可能在往後的發展之中。

　　一名少女在父親的書房中發現了一本中古世紀的無字天書，這本古書上只畫了一條龍，並且夾了一張寫給「親愛又不幸的繼承人」的字條，從此女孩就身不由己地捲入了中古世紀以來最黑暗的秘密，同時也展開了一場離奇的身世追尋之旅。

　　《歷史學家》第一條故事線主要圍繞著海倫和保羅，她倆在一九五零年代初期，企圖尋找吸血鬼卓九勒的墳墓和他所保守的秘密，希望能藉此解開保羅的恩師羅熙的失蹤之謎；羅熙在1930年代也曾追蹤過卓九勒的傳奇。第二條故事線則是保羅的16歲女兒，她在1972年父親突然出國考察後，也展開了一場冒險，她認為父親其實是要重新展開尋找吸血鬼研究。故事中，卓九勒顯然無所不在，他出現在他們所閱讀的歷史文件中，在他們所拜訪的各個場所中，還有在企圖阻擋他們的人的臉上。最後證明，他的殘忍超出他們的想像，而他對他們的生命所造成的影響更是大到無法估量。

　　《歷史學家》中所描述的吸血鬼卓九勒真有其人，他是瓦拉其亞英勇的戰士，佛拉德伯爵，於1476年死於對抗鄂圖曼土耳其的戰役之中，當地人民對之又愛又怕，既當他是英雄又當他是兇殘的敵人，他最喜歡給敵人處以穿心極刑，作者柯斯托娃將之比喻為史達林。

　　本書時代橫跨1930到1970年代，對土耳其、羅馬尼亞、保加利亞、匈牙利的歷史、地理、宗教以及文化著墨甚多，全書充滿了善與惡、愛與恨的強烈衝突，並且將大量虛構的小說情節，交織在史實當中。而其中最主要的一條故事線就是，凡是接觸過那本無字天書的人，都會情不自禁地著迷於研究穿心魔佛拉德，並且惹禍上身。

作者簡介

伊麗莎白．柯斯托娃（Elizabeth Kostova）

　　1972年，退休教授大衛．強森帶著家人在當時還被稱為南斯拉夫的斯洛凡尼亞做交換教學。為了打發漫漫長夜，他每天晚上都對著三個女兒講述貝拉．盧古西主演的吸血鬼老電影裡，令人毛骨悚然的故事片段。並且帶著他們在巴爾幹半島一帶旅行。

　　那個時候伊麗莎白才七歲。

　　33年後，當年灑下的這些種子，成長茁壯為極度出色的一本恐怖懸疑小說。

　　伊麗莎白表示，她一直忘不了小時候父親跟她講過的吸血鬼故事。有一天，當她跟保加利亞裔的先生和狗狗在北卡羅萊納州的山上健行時，腦中突然出現了一位父親跟女兒講吸血鬼故事的畫面，然後一個念頭突然閃進她的腦海：如果講故事的時候，吸血鬼也偷偷在一旁聆聽呢？她不由得渾身冒起雞皮疙瘩，隨即立刻拿出背包中的筆記型電腦開始寫了起來。

　　伊麗莎白從來沒有看過史蒂芬．金的小說，這並不是因為她不喜歡恐怖小說，而是因為她不喜歡血腥，因此當她開始寫吸血鬼的時候，她決定只要在書中灑一小杯鮮血就夠了。

　　柯斯托娃初試啼聲的這本小說，從出版社搶標預付金，到由Little, Brown以兩百萬美金的天價拔得頭籌開始，就已經注定了它不凡的氣勢，而且出版界也宣稱，《歷史學家》的出現，已經為其他的吸血鬼小說上了穿心極刑。

　　畢業於耶魯大學，後來又得到密西根大學藝術碩士的學位的柯斯托娃表示，我們永遠不會對跟人類很相像的惡魔感到厭倦，每一個人心中都有黑暗的一面。儘管死亡是人之所以為人的一部分，但是人類永遠都會好奇如果能永生不死會是什麼樣子。

本書中譯本《歷史學家》由大塊文化出版。

In 1972 I was sixteen-young, my father said, to be traveling with him on his diplomatic missions. He preferred to know that I was sitting attentively in class at the International School of Amsterdam; in those days his foundation was based in Amsterdam, and it had been my home for so long that I had nearly forgotten our early life in the United States. It seems peculiar to me now that I should have been so obedient well into my teens, while the rest of my generation was experimenting with drugs and protesting the imperialist war in Vietnam, but I had been raised in a world so sheltered that it makes my adult life in academia look positively adventurous. To begin with, I was motherless, and the care that my father took of me had been deepened by a double sense of responsibility, so that he protected me more completely than he might have otherwise. My mother had died when I was a baby, before my father founded the Center for Peace and Democracy. My father never spoke of her and turned quietly away if I asked questions; I understood very young that this was a topic too painful for him to discuss. Instead, he took excellent care of me himself and provided me with a series of governesses and housekeepers-money was not an object with him where my upbringing was concerned, although we lived simply enough from day to day.

The latest of these housekeepers was Mrs. Clay, who took care of our narrow seventeenth-century town house on the Raamgracht, a canal in the heart of the old city. Mrs. Clay let me in after school every day and was a surrogate parent when my father traveled, which was often. She was English, older than my mother would have been, skilled with a feather duster and clumsy with teenagers; sometimes, looking at her too-compassionate, long-toothed face over the dining table, I felt she must be thinking of my mother and I hated her for it. When my father was away, the handsome house echoed. No one could help me with my algebra, no one admired my new coat or told me to come here and give him a hug, or expressed shock over how tall I had grown. When my father returned from some name on the European map that hung on the wall in our dining room, he smelled like other times and places, spicy and tired. We took our vacations in Paris or Rome, diligently studying the landmarks my father thought I should see, but I longed for those other places he disappeared to, those strange old places I had never been.

While he was gone, I went back and forth to school, dropping my books on the polished hall table with a bang. Neither Mrs. Clay nor my father let me go out in the evenings, except to the occasional carefully approved movie with carefully approved friends, and-to my retrospective astonishment-I never flouted these rules. I preferred solitude anyway; it was the medium in which I had been raised, in which I swam comfortably. I excelled at my studies but not in my social life. Girls my age terrified me, especially the tough-talking, chain-smoking sophisticates of our diplomatic circle-around them I always felt that my dress was too long, or too short, or that I should have been wearing something else entirely. Boys mystified me, although I dreamed vaguely of men. In fact, I was happiest alone in my fathers library, a large, fine room on the first floor of our house.

My fathers library had probably once been a sitting room, but he sat down only to read, and he considered a large library more important than a large living room. He had long since given me free run of his collection. During his absences, I spent hours doing my homework at the mahogany desk or browsing the shelves that lined every wall. I understood later that my father had either half forgotten what was on one of the top shelves or-more likely-assumed I would never be able to reach it; late one night I took down not only a translation of the Kama Sutra but also a much older volume and an envelope of yellowing papers.

I cant say even now what made me pull them down. But the image I saw at the center of the book, the smell of age that rose from it, and my discovery that the papers were personal letters all caught my attention forcibly. I knew I shouldnt examine my fathers private papers, or anyones, and I was also afraid that Mrs. Clay might suddenly come in to dust the dustless desk-that must have been what made me look over my shoulder at the door. But I couldnt help reading the first paragraph of the topmost letter, holding it for a couple of minutes as I stood near the shelves.

December 12, 1930

Trinity College, Oxford

My dear and unfortunate successor:

It is with regret that I imagine you, whoever you are, reading the account I must put down here. The regret is partly for myself-because I will surely be at least in trouble, maybe dead, or perhaps worse, if this is in your hands. But my regret is also for you, my yet-unknown friend, because only by someone who needs such vile information will this letter someday be read. If you are not my successor in some other sense, you will soon be my heir-and I feel sorrow at bequeathing to another human being my own, perhaps unbelievable, experience of evil. Why I myself inherited it I dont know, but I hope to discover that fact, eventually-perhaps in the course of writing to you or perhaps in the course of further events.