by Kat Ross
“Hello?” Nathaniel called.
A door closed and footsteps approached. A middle-aged man emerged from a passage at the back, his dark hair shot through with streaks of grey. He stopped dead when he saw them, his face expressionless.
“Good afternoon,” Nathaniel said in German. “I am Lord Cumberland and this is my wife, Lady Cumberland. We’ve traveled hard from London.”
The innkeeper blinked. He glanced through the window as though hoping whatever conveyance had brought them here would still be waiting outside. When he saw the cart had left, his brows drew down in a frown.
“We’d like to take a room for the night,” Nathaniel prompted.
“I’m sorry, we’re full,” he said in heavily accented but fluent German.
Nathaniel looked around. There was no one else in the common room and no indication anyone was staying there. The man was obviously lying. Vivienne found her patience wearing thin.
“My ward lodged here,” she said curtly, taking the photograph of Anne from her pocket and holding it out. “Surely you remember her.”
The innkeeper barely glanced at it. “You must leave,” he said firmly. “Strangers are not welcome in Mara Vardac.”
“Now see here—” Nathaniel began.
Vivienne touched his sleeve. He followed her gaze through the window to the street, where a crowd was gathering in front of the inn. They were all men and most carried shotguns. The innkeeper crossed his arms.
“You can walk back to Satinari,” he said softly. “Or….” He shrugged, his face defiant.
The mob was swelling by the moment, its angry murmuring clearly audible. Vivienne reached into her cloak to produce her credentials just as the door banged open.
A roughly handsome man with thick, wavy black hair strode inside the common room. He was in his middle thirties, but grief lined his face, making him look a decade older. He hissed something in Magyar to the innkeeper, his eyes never leaving Vivienne.
She was used to hostile stares even in London, which at least had a small population of African descent. But here in the hinterlands of Romania, Vivienne guessed she was the first dark-skinned person this man had ever seen.
“We’re not here to cause any trouble,” she said calmly in Magyar. “If you’ll just let me—”
The man scowled. He gripped his shotgun loosely, but Vivienne had no illusions that he would hesitate to use it.
Nathaniel moved to stand in front of her, his face pale.
“If any of you lay a finger on my wife, it will be the last thing you ever do,” he snarled in German.
The newcomer gave no sign he understood — which was likely for the best. But then he forked his fingers at them in a sign to ward off the Devil, the watching crowd outside began to surge forward, and Vivienne felt the first stirring of true fear.
“What’s going on?”
A small man with a prosperous belly and hard eyes pushed through the mob. Vivienne thrust the dossier at him, forcing her hand to steadiness. His words had been spoken in Magyar and she replied in the same language.
“We’ve been sent by the British Crown, with the full approval of the authorities in Satinari.”
He eyed the papers with suspicion.
“Please, just take them.”
The man snatched them from her hand and studied them for a long minute. One bore the seal of Queen Victoria, mounted on horseback and holding a scepter. It authorized the bearer to act in her name on behalf of the Dominion Branch of Scotland Yard. That letter was in English, which she doubted he could read, but the second was from the constable in Satinari.
The man read it through several times. His face softened a bit. “It is Dobrescu’s mark. I recognize it.”
Both the innkeeper and shotgun-toter looked startled, then abashed.
“I am the mayor of Mara Vardac.” He handed the papers back. The tone was not precisely warm, but Vivienne sensed the tension ebbing. “I think we’d best speak privately. Excuse me for a moment.”
While the mayor went outside to settle down the villagers, Vivienne showed the innkeeper the photograph of Anne again.
“Miss Lawrence is my ward. I understand she stayed here.”
His shoulders slumped as he gazed at the cameo. “The English girl. Yes, she was here.” He sighed. “We already told everything we know. I am very sorry.”
Vivienne’s gut tightened. “Has she been found?”
He saw immediately what she meant and shook his head. “No, no. But my wife and I…. We fear the worst. You know what has happened in our village? The curse?”
Vivienne nodded.
“Then you understand why we are not trusting.” His eyes flicked to the picture again. “It was four weeks ago Miss Lawrence came. Such a nice girl, very quiet and respectful. She must have gone out on her own. We warned her not to.”
“No one saw her leave?” Vivienne asked.
Again, he shook his head. He beckoned them to a table by the window and sat down heavily. “She was interested in the old stories. She said she collected them.”
So Anne had not identified herself as an investigator of supernatural phenomena. No doubt a wise decision.
“Tell me all you remember of the day she disappeared.”
“Miss Lawrence took breakfast in the common room. Then she went up to her room. She liked to read her books there.”
“What was the weather like?”
“Snowing a bit, not very heavily yet. I went out to help the blacksmith shoe two of my horses. Elena was in the kitchen baking for most of the morning. Miss Lawrence must have gone out then, though we didn’t realize it until later. When she didn’t come down for supper, I knocked on her door. There was no answer. The storm outside had grown worse by then.”
He clasped his hands. “It made me worried when she wouldn’t answer so I fetched Elena. She knocked again, then went inside. Miss Lawrence was gone, but all her things were there. We thought she must have gone for a walk in the village. Her Hungarian was very good and she had a friendly way about her.”
Vivienne smiled. “Yes, Anne can be quite charming when she puts her mind to it.”
“We expected her to return at any moment. It was snowing so hard. When it began to get dark…. That is when we grew truly afraid. We went around the village, knocking on doors, but no one had seen her. We saw no footprints, but if she’d left early enough, they would have been covered by the falling snow.”
“But where could she have gone?”
“I do not know, Lady Cumberland. She said nothing to either me or my wife. By the next morning, the road was impassable. It was several days before we could summon help from outside.”
“What about the other deaths here? Did she ask about those?”
For the first time, he looked away, not meeting her eyes. “Yes, she did. She said she’d read a newspaper report about them. I told her it was wolves. That they get hungry in the winter and she should be very careful not to stray far from the village.”
“Have there been any more deaths since she disappeared?” Nathaniel asked.
The innkeeper crossed himself and shook his head. “Thank God, no. I still have her things, if you’d like them. The constable from Satinari looked them over but didn’t take them.” He looked up as two men entered with the mayor. “Ah, this is our priest, Father Cernat.”
The priest wore a black cassock and large silver cross on a chain around his neck. He had a bushy red beard and long, sharp nose.
“My son, Andrei.” The third was a young man in his mid-twenties with broad shoulders and his father’s dark eyes. He crossed his arms, barely suppressing a scowl.
“And my name is Alexandru Korzha,” the innkeeper said. He flushed. “I…I will help in any way I can.”
The mayor gestured to a long table near the hearth.
“Please, sit down,” he said.
Nathaniel held Vivienne’s chair, then took one next to her.
“I apologize for the disturbance, but the timing of y
our arrival….” He shared a look with the priest.
“I don’t understand,” Vivienne said.
“It is the full moon tonight. Miss Lawrence also disappeared on the day of the full moon. And the children….” The mayor swallowed.
Vivienne drew a deep breath. “Miss Lawrence is not only my ward. She works for an organization in London called the Society for Psychical Research, as do I. We have experience in dealing with creatures of the Devil. I might be able to help you find whatever it is that preys on this village.”
Father Cernat looked surprised. The son, Andrei, didn’t appear to understand German, for he frowned impatiently, muttering something to his father in Magyar. The innkeeper made a quelling gesture.
“So you have such things in England?” the mayor asked. “In truth, I didn’t expect you to believe.” He seemed about to say something more, but fell silent.
“Oh, I believe,” Vivienne replied dryly. “I’ve seen them myself. We call them ghouls. Spirits of the dead that return to plague the living.”
The mayor nodded. “Yes, here we call them strigoi. But—”
He cut off as a plump woman emerged from the kitchens. She wore a loose white blouse tucked into a colorful embroidered skirt. A scarf covered her dark hair.
“My wife, Elena,” Master Korzha said. “She has prepared an early supper for us.”
Nathaniel gave her a charming smile. “Thank you, Mistress Korzha.”
The innkeeper’s wife brought out grilled sausage and cabbage soup, followed by a pork stew flavored with garlic and onions. A dusty bottle of red wine completed the meal. The food was plain but delicious. Nathaniel ate with gusto, praising Elena’s cooking and declaring that he wished to bring the recipe back to his own cook. He did his best to make conversation, but there were few takers. Master Korzha wore a frozen, distracted smile. The mayor declined to eat anything, staring into his cup of wine.
Vivienne sensed mounting tension in the men, but it was no longer directed at her and Nathaniel. Andrei kept glancing out the window, his knee jittering beneath the table. The setting sun turned the sky a pale rose that tinted the snowy mountains and fields. Again, Vivienne was struck by the wild, desolate beauty of this country.
“Who found the children?” she asked gently, pushing her plate back half-eaten.
“Their father, the poor man,” the mayor replied.
“Might it be possible to speak with him? I don’t wish to intrude on his grief, but it’s important that I know every detail.”
The mayor seemed doubtful, but he nodded to Father Cernat.
“I will go ask them,” the priest said softly. He rose and went out the door.
“Perhaps we can see Anne’s room while we wait,” Nathaniel suggested.
Master Korzha nodded wearily. “You may stay there tonight. I left it as it was. I kept hoping she might return.”
He led them up a dark, narrow flight of stairs to the second floor and showed them into a surprisingly large room with a double bed and wardrobe. A wooden cross in the Byzantine style was fixed to the wall over the bed. A trunk sat against one wall. He pointed to it.
“That was hers. Please, rest and refresh yourselves.” Master Korzha left, closing the door behind him. They heard his footsteps retreating back downstairs.
“He seems a decent enough fellow,” Nathaniel said.
“He’s hiding something,” Vivienne replied, walking over to the trunk.
“Do you think he had something to do with it?”
“I don’t know. At least he’s human, though I wonder about the rest of them.”
Nathaniel gave her a sharp look. “How can you be sure?”
“Ghouls are crude facsimiles. They can pass, but only in dim light and if you don’t look too closely. They’re the weakest spirits, preying mainly on animals, children and the elderly. Wights are more evolved. They’re faster and stronger and a few can speak in their victim’s voice. Both can be subdued with iron.” She shrugged. “After you’ve encountered enough of them, you simply know.”
Vivienne unlatched Anne’s trunk and opened the lid. It held clothes and a toiletry case with a silver comb and brush, along with a stack of books. She piled everything on the bed and Nathaniel helped her sort through it. Knowing Anne’s fondness for hidden compartments, Vivienne ran her hands along the sides and bottom, but it was only an ordinary steamer trunk. There was no diary or half-finished letter hidden away — no clue at all as to where she went.
“That was a beastly journey, and an even beastlier arrival,” Nathaniel muttered, eying the bed with longing.
“I should have been better prepared for it,” Vivienne said with a wan smile. “But don’t get too comfortable, love. No rest for the wicked. Not just yet.”
A soft knock came on the door, summoning them back down to the common room where Father Cernat waited.
“The family will see you,” he said. “But we must go now, before full dark.”
3
Nathaniel fetched Vivienne’s cloak and his own greatcoat, and they followed the priest into the village. As before, the lanes were empty of people, but frightened, hostile faces watched from the windows, shutters banging closed as they passed. More than one made the sign of the evil eye.
“The father’s name is Cristian,” Father Cernat said. “But he doesn’t speak German.”
“I know some Hungarian,” Vivienne said. “Will that work?”
The priest nodded. “Marius and Daniela were their only children.” He crossed himself, touching the silver crucifix around his neck. “It is a terrible tragedy.”
At last, they reached a small, poor house at the edge of the village. Smoke came from the chimney, which tilted at an off-kilter angle from the thatched roof. Two skinny pigs rooted in the muddy yard.
Father Cernat called out a greeting and the door was opened by the same man who had nearly shot them two hours before. He drew a sharp breath, studying Vivienne and Nathaniel with an intense stare, then took a step back and wordlessly gestured for them to enter.
The room was dark and cold despite the small fire burning in the hearth. A young woman sat staring into the flames. Her head turned as they entered, but her expression was one of utter weariness and disinterest. A very old woman sat next to her, holding her hand. A shawl covered her bony shoulders and her eyes were cloudy with cataracts.
“Thank you for allowing us into your home,” Vivienne said in Magyar. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
There was no reaction from the younger woman, but Cristian nodded brusquely. “Father Cernat said you came to hunt this devil.” His fists clenched. “If that is so, I am willing to answer your questions.”
They took stools near the fire. Cristian stood next to his wife, one hand resting on her shoulder. She stared into the flames again, her eyes distant.
“How much do you know?” he asked.
“Almost nothing. Only that the children were killed by some kind of beast.”
His jaw set. “Then I will tell you all of it. It was eight weeks ago, just a few days before Christmas. We had a dog, full-grown but still a pup. Around dusk, he went into a frenzy of barking. I went outside to see what had set him off, but he’d scrabbled at the gate and somehow managed to open it. The children were playing in the back while I chopped wood for the stove. Marius was twelve, old enough to be trusted. He wanted to go look for the dog, and I let him, God help me.”
The young mother’s eyes tightened for a moment. She seemed in another world, but she was listening.
“Daniela insisted on going, too. I told them to come back by dark no matter what. I figured the dog had caught the scent of a deer. When they didn’t return an hour later, I went looking for them.” He drew a deep breath. “It was a full moon and I could clearly see the tracks of the dog and the children in the snow. They had crossed yonder field” — he pointed out the window — “and entered the forest. I’d only gone a short way into the trees when I found the dog.”
Cristian drew a sh
uddering breath. “He’d been gutted. I found the children not much farther on. The blood … it looked black in the moonlight. There was so much, I knew they were gone. But I touched them to be sure. The poor wee things were so cold.”
He broke into a sob and Father Cernat rose. “If it is too hard, we can return tomorrow.”
“No!” His voice was savage. “I’ll not tell the tale again. Better to finish it and be done.” Cristian wiped the sleeve of his threadbare coat across his eyes. “I ran back to the village and got help. A dozen men went to the forest with me and brought the poor things back. We put them in the church and set a vigil. The next morning, we oiled our shotguns and went out hunting the wolf that killed them. No fresh snow had fallen. In the light of day, the tracks were clear. Great paw prints leading deeper into the forest. We followed them, determined to bring the beast to bay.”
He paused, an oddly defiant look on his face. “The tracks changed from paws to the bare feet of a man. Two dozen others saw them. They’ll swear to it. The tracks led a mile or so into the woods and then vanished into thin air at the edge of a ravine.”
“It is a pricolici,” the blind grandmother said in a strong voice. “That much is clear.”
Vivienne raised her eyebrows.
“A werewolf,” Father Cernat said. He gave her a steady look, as if daring her to contradict it.
“An unclean thing,” the grandmother muttered. “In the day, they walk as a man. But the beast lives inside. When the moon comes, it brings the change.”
Nathaniel had gotten the gist of it. He shared a disturbed look with Vivienne.
“Do you believe the pricolici comes from this village?” Vivienne asked.
Father Cernat replied. “Naturally, the people were very afraid. Suspicion fell on a woodcutter, a solitary fellow who lived alone in the forest not far from where the children were discovered. The men went to his house, intending to drag him back here for questioning. They found him dead, torn up in a similar fashion.” He gave a sigh. “I examined the body myself. It was clear this was no ordinary wolf. The savagery….”