Natural Enemies (Spirit Seekers Book 2)

by Janna Ruth

I clear my throat, and he steps back to grab a fresh pair of socks. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say.

  “What was it then?” He sits down on his bed.

  “I saw Rebeka sell filled spirit traps to a researcher at Aquincum.” He probably doesn’t know what that is. “It’s that old Roman settlement north of here. Anyway. Apparently, he does experiments on them. He melts down spirits.” I notice Wulf’s face has darkened severely.

  “Are you sure that’s what you saw?” It’s like he’s moving in slow motion now, having almost forgotten how to put on his second sock.

  “Well, I didn’t see it happening, but I heard them talk about it.” Gosh, I’m making a mess of this story. As I realise that I can’t even convey the necessary details, my throat starts to swell and the pressure around my chest returns. “She’s selling them to be experimented on. They already broke down the salamander.”

  Wulf gets up again, looking worried. “Okay, okay, we’ll figure it out. Look!” He grabs his phone. “I’m actually good friends with someone working at the SSA warehouse. I’ll text her to check what has been logged by Budapest since we arrived here, and if any spirits are missing, we’ll know.”

  As I watch him writing the text, I feel a little better. At least he’s taken immediate action. “Thanks.”

  “What’s your plan for today?” he asks.

  “Plan?”

  Wulf puts his jacket on. “Well, we’ve got to get you out of here.” It says something that even he knows I can’t stand being down here. “How about we try to jog your memory again?”

  I’m not really in the mood to walk the streets in another failed venture, but it beats staying at the convent. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Did the vials ever tell you something?” I ask Wulf as we interrupt our walk once again to test the waters of the Danube.

  He raises the glass vial from the river and corks it. “They do, actually. I took some yesterday, and according to the data, the spirit energy is less upriver than it is in the city.”

  “Does that mean those polluted spirits are located in the city?” It’s a chill day, and I fold my arms under my chest to keep warm.

  “It looks that way. Though it beats me why. Usually, the spirit energy is far more concentrated in rural areas.” Wulf stows away the vial. “Problem is, we know that one got away, and I’m afraid it’s not the only one left.” Neither of us mentions the dryads who told us before that more than one nymph was making trouble.

  I can’t really muster any enthusiasm for the hunt. I know that the polluted spirits pose a problem, but at the moment, I have such an aversion against the Budapest team, I don’t want to help them.

  “You look cold,” Wulf notes, his voice surprisingly gentle. “What do you think about finding a restaurant and having one of those hearty soups? My treat.”

  “Goulash?” I’m not really in the mood for the fatty stew. My stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday, though. “I don’t want to sit inside. But I’ve got an idea. Follow me.”

  I lead Wulf back through to the streets. We keep walking until I spot a street vendor selling lángos. “Have you ever had lángos?”

  Wulf shakes his head. “I’ve seen it at a Christmas market but never tried it.”

  “Oh, then you’re in for a treat.” I love lángos. It’s a very simple dough deep-fried in oil, which makes it golden-crusted and puffy. It is then basted with garlic oil and topped with sour cream and lots of grated cheese, like a mountain of grated cheese. That’s the traditional way, at least. Nowadays, you can order it with all kinds of toppings. Since the traditional version is still the cheapest, and in my opinion the yummiest, I order two of those for us.

  There’s no way to eat lángos gracefully. The bread is so wide you can only bite into it and hope for the best while smearing your mouth with sour cream and trying to stop the cheese from falling off. But my gosh, it’s delicious, hot, and filling.

  As ravenous as I am, I all but devour mine. Despite that, Wulf finishes his earlier, claiming that it’s the best thing he’s eaten here so far. When I laugh, he points at my face. “May I?”

  Told you there’s no way to eat this without getting messy. I hold still for Wulf to wipe off a blob of sour cream. His finger is just about to touch my face when a memory drifts to the surface.

  Her face full of laugh wrinkles, Eszti leans over to me and dabs off the cream from the corner of my mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. “Look at this mess, édes kicsikém.”

  I’m a little annoyed having to hold still as she wipes my face since I still have more than half of the delicious lángos in my hands to go. But once she’s done, Eszti is happy to watch me eat, even though it takes ages for me to finish.

  When I’m finally done, she wipes my face once more. Then she takes my hand, and we walk back home.

  As I get up, I take Wulf’s hand in mine. “Bear with me,” I say, trying my hardest not to let go of the memory.

  Take the left one, walk past the little supermarket, then a turn to the right and past the park, the house at the corner. That’s where she lives, the third floor on the right.

  My finger hovers over the doorbell until it comes to rest next to one of the buttons. Juhász. Was that Eszti’s last name? I can’t remember.

  “Is this it?” Wulf asks quietly. He hasn’t said a word since I suddenly got up, respectfully letting me find my way.

  I nod. “I think so.” My finger is shaking. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m ringing at some stranger’s door and embarrass myself? What am I even supposed to say? Remember me? You might be my grandmother?

  Suddenly, I feel Wulf’s hand steadying mine. He looks at me and nods once. Then we turn our eyes back on the doorbell and Wulf’s finger pushes down mine.

  The person who opens the door upstairs is not Eszti. For one, he’s a man, and second, he’s not even close to her age. It’s been how many years? Fifteen or more? In my memories, the time stood still, but that’s not reality. In reality, people move away. My mum and I did, so why not Eszti?

  I’m so disappointed I don’t even know what to say to his expectant face. He needs an answer fast, or that door is going to be closed forever.

  I start by repeating his polite greeting, then I swallow. Wulf gives me a little nudge, unable to help me out with his lacking grasp of the Hungarian language. This has to come from me. “Hi, uh, we were looking for an old woman named Eszti?”

  Surprise softens the man’s facial features. “My mother was called Eszti. She lived here until her death ten years ago.” He studies me sceptically. “You know her from back then?”

  Oh dear, it’s even worse. Eszti never moved. She died.

  “I think I lived with her for a while. My name’s Rika.” I bite my lip, waiting for his instant dismissal.

  But the man’s face lightens up. “I remember you. You were that little Traveller girl.” He steps back and invites us inside. “Come on in. Let me get you some pálinka.” As he walks into the flat, he says, “Oh, by the way, I’m Imre, Eszti’s son. I took over the flat after… I’m sorry. I know you probably weren’t expecting her to be dead.”

  I nod, still unable to process. Not only is that kind, loving woman of my memories long dead, but it also buries the chance that my mother checked in here. She wasn’t even missing yet ten years ago.

  The flat has changed surprisingly little. Some of the furniture has been updated—the ugly couch is gone—but it’s still a similar set-up and style, with big cushy chairs a child could vanish in and a lace placemat running down the long wooden table. On a wood-panelled wall, painted plates are hung. A shelf shows a collection of unique, handmade vases, and I remember being allowed to pick one for the flowers we bought on our walk.

  Imre asks us to sit down and busies himself in the tiny kitchen. Wulf puts his hand on mine and says in a low voice, “What’s happening?”

  I hear myself explaining that Eszti died, and this is her son, but it sounds like
someone else is speaking through my lips. As Imre serves us clear-coloured pálinka, I can’t help but wonder about him. He seems to live alone here, judging by the lack of diversity in the shoes at the front. Was he the reason Eszti took me in for whatever time she did? Could he be my father? He’s old enough for sure, and Eszti always called me édes kicsikém, her sweet little one.

  He finally sits down opposite us. “Look at you, all grown up. Marika, was it?”

  “Yes, but everyone calls me Rika.” Everyone but Eszti.

  “I think I only saw you a couple of times when I visited home,” Imre explains. “I was studying in Prague at that time.” He studies me again. “She missed you.”

  The pálinka burns in my throat, but there’s no way to refuse his hospitality. “She did?”

  Imre nods, a sad smile on his face. “Oh yes, you were her sweet little girl. When I asked where you went, she told me that you can’t keep the birds from flying south, and you can’t keep the Travellers from moving around. But she missed you.” He picks up his glass. “Her memories were failing her at the end, but she’d always ask me if I’ve seen you. If you were coming back soon.”

  His words leave me with an enormous lump in my throat. I’d never even thought of Eszti all these years. As she said, Travellers move around. We meet people along the way, and if they’re family, we return to them. But we don’t follow a schedule, something that’s hard to grasp for those settled in their homes.

  “Do you... do you know why she took us in?” I can’t ask him directly whether he’s my father, that’s for sure.

  “Oh, gosh, I asked her that.” He sets down his glass, looking sheepishly at me. “You know, when you’re young, you’re full of opinions. When I heard that my mother was taking care of some random child she found on the streets, I tried to talk her out of it.” He’s obviously feeling bad now. “She told me, ‘Imre, when you see someone in need of help, you help.’ Apparently, you begged her for money in that icy winter when we had a thin sheet of ice on the Danube for a couple of days. Instead of giving you money, though, she took you and your mother in. Then in spring, your mother took you away again, but she brought you back in autumn for two or three years.”

  That sounds like my mother, always moving, never staying too long. “Did my mum ever come back?” I force myself to ask directly, “Did she come by in the last eight years?”

  I’m not terribly surprised when Imre shakes his head. “No, not that I know of.”

  Wulf gently squeezes my hand. To be honest, I had forgotten that he was there. He hasn’t understood a single word of what Imre told me, but he obviously gets my disappointment. This is not the news I hoped to hear. His presence gives me the strength to smile at Imre. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry we intruded here. We’d better…”

  “Drink your pálinka,” Imre laughs.

  The glass isn’t even half-empty yet. “Right. Sorry.” It’s a good one, if I can say so with my limited experience. Very fruity.

  “I might have something for you,” Eszti’s son says all of a sudden and gets up.

  While Imre is gone, I fill Wulf in on what I’ve learnt.

  “I’m so sorry, Rika,” he says as Imre comes back with an old flat box that he puts on the table.

  Inside are several old photo albums filled with primarily black and white images. There are a couple of coloured ones from more recent years, the years I lived with Eszti. Imre flicks through them until he finds a couple that he passes to me.

  I’ve never owned pictures. My memories have all the pictures I need, or so I thought. Now, looking at these pictures of me, I wonder how I could’ve ever gone without. They are pictures of me, little Rika with her long, brown hair in two braids, and Eszti. There’s one where I sit on her lap, and we read a book about the Magyars together. It’s beautiful, like from another life, but the image that takes my breath away is the next one I look at.

  It shows me in a beautiful dress, almost entirely white with blue stitching, puffy short arms, and a lacy skirt. I remember how much I loved this dress. I wore it until its hem rode up to the middle of my thighs, and I couldn’t possibly squeeze into it without tearing it. In this picture, the dress still falls to below my knees. My hair is braided and tied with long blue ribbons. And around my waist, two arms are holding me. My mother’s face looks at the camera from where her chin is nestled against my neck.

  She hasn’t done her hair like mine. Instead, her blonde locks curl onto her shoulders. Her eyes are the same as mine, blue as the sky. And she’s laughing, not just smiling, but outright laughing as she holds me tight.

  “You can keep them if you want,” Imre says.

  I nod at him, unable to say anything.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WULF LEAVES ME time to process as we walk back to Margaret Island. I hold my treasured photos in my hands, flicking through the pictures every so often as I come to terms with the fact that the trace I was hoping to find has gone cold long ago, has never existed at all. If I want to find my mother, I’ll need to go back to Berlin and pick up the ends there. I’ve got a picture of my mum now, which could help. Maybe Wulf could help me get access to places where an underaged homeless girl couldn’t go.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” I mutter softly. He didn’t have to do it, but he kept his promise.

  Wulf glances at me, a gentle smile on his lips. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad we were able to find something at least.” He looks at the pictures. “So, you’re a brunette?”

  The comment is so out of place it makes me chuckle. “Did you think I had natural blue hair?”

  “It wouldn’t have surprised me,” Wulf says, playing along. “It’s a bold colour.”

  I wonder how long he must’ve wanted to talk about my hair but didn’t because he was too polite to do it. “Well, I generally consider myself bold.”

  “I’d agree.”

  We walk down the ramp to the island. I take a glance at him, shoulders hunched a little, hands in his pockets, the ever-present staff on his back. I wonder if he goes anywhere without it or if he always expects to be attacked. “Would you now?”

  I love how his ears turn red when he’s flustered. He probably got a lot of grief for it during school, but it’s cute now. Wulf clears his throat, getting a bit caught up in the cough. “I…”

  “You don’t need to elaborate,” I say, letting him off the hook with a laugh. “I’ll just take it, maybe frame it, and put it up in my room at the citadel.” I mimic the picture by waving my left hand. “I consider Rika a bold woman, quote by Wulf Bachmann.” I giggle.

  “I never said that,” Wulf protests, but he can’t help the grin slipping onto his face. “I said I’d agree.”

  Playfully, I frown at him. “But that’s a shitty quote. You sure you want to be immortalised like that?”

  Instead of answering, he bumps his elbow against my arm. He’s still grinning when he gets a text. As he looks at his phone, though, I can see the grin slipping off.

  “What is it?” I try not to crane my neck and check for myself. You know, being polite and all.

  He puts the phone away, back to a frown. “That was Carmen, my friend at the SSA office. You’re right. Budapest never logged the salamander and only eight of the eleven dryads they caught yesterday. I assume Rebeka is the one responsible for the shipments. She’s their trapper, so there’s the possibility it’s her side hustle.”

  We don’t discuss it any further as we go down the stairs. Once we found the others, Wulf asks the Varga brothers to speak with them alone, and Iván leads us into an adjacent room containing an electronic map of Budapest and several spare staffs. As he closes the door behind him, I notice a particularly short staff amongst the others, and a queasiness settles over me.

  Wulf starts by showing Iván and József the records of the missing shipments. “As you can see, several spirits have been unaccounted for in the logged trap shipments. Last night, Rika followed Rebeka to… What was that place again?”

&nbs
p; “Aquincum. She met with someone from the museum there. Or lab. I didn’t get a proper view,” I explain.

  “Right.” Wulf nods to me before he continues, “It looks like Rebeka is selling off spirits to civilian researchers, which, as you know, is a gross violation of the SSA code of conduct.”

  The brothers both stare at him, caught in surprise. Then Iván clears his throat. “I take full responsibility for this… digression. Rebeka acted on my command.”

  “What?” József looks at him, aghast. “Have you gone mad? You can’t sell spirits like that.”

  Wulf crosses his arms, his frown deepening. “I need to report this to the office.” He’s not happy about it. Iván’s confession clearly caught him off-guard, and as usual, he hides behind regulations and proper conduct to deal with it.

  Iván scoffs. “Of course you do. Gosh, you’re such a rule-stickler. That’s what you get when you're a German, I guess.”

  “Iván, he’s right,” József says. “This isn’t just some stupid prank. Do you know how dangerous it is to give away spirits to untrained personnel? That researcher is lucky to be alive.”

  “Oh, shut it, Józsie. I don’t need you to lecture me.” Iván shakes his head. There’s still so much frustration he’s keeping in. “Go ahead, Wulf, report me! Then my brother gets the position he’s always wanted, and everyone can be happy.”

  I can see how overwhelming the direct confrontation is for Wulf. He’s a good man, not a snitch, but he believes in those rules with all his heart.

  József has less patience with his brother. “I don’t want your position!”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Seriously,” József is angry now. “I was happy for you when you got it. Yes, it’s weird. I would’ve preferred to work in another team…”

  “Like in Berlin,” Iván mocks.

  József’s face darkens. “You always pull this bullshit. What is this, Iván? A stunt for attention? What is the money for? Parties? Drugs?”

  Wulf looks like he’d like to be anywhere but here as we watch this brotherly feud play out. However, he doesn’t step in, leaving it to József to bear down on his little brother.