by Kat Ross
“And the children?”
“The same.”
A terrible moan erupted from the young woman. She turned to Vivienne and Nathaniel with blazing eyes.
“Leave my house,” she hissed, pressing her hands over her ears. “For the love of God and the Saints, I cannot bear to hear another word. Just get out!”
Vivienne stood smoothly, murmuring apologies. She thanked Cristian, who stared at his wife with pity and embarrassment. He did not reply.
“I’m sorry—” Father Cernat began as they stepped into the twilight.
“Please, don’t be,” Vivienne said firmly. “She had every right to throw us out. I wouldn’t have troubled them at all if it wasn’t necessary.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”
“Do you have children, Lady Cumberland?” he asked as they walked back toward the inn.
All the shutters of the cottages were firmly latched now, glimmers of light coming through the crevices.
“No, though I think of Anne as a daughter.”
He nodded solemnly. “And you believe us?”
“I do.” She glanced at Nathaniel. “As does Lord Cumberland. Don’t you, dear?”
He started. “What? Oh yes, of course.”
She followed his gaze to the palisade of sharpened stakes. A group of men were driving a wagon into the gap where the road entered the village.
“They will keep a watch tonight,” Father Cernat said. “With dogs. Cristian’s must have scented the pricolici.”
Vivienne nodded in approval. “Yes, dogs have a nose for the unnatural. They would give us a warning.” She glanced at the priest. “Did they bark on the night Anne disappeared?”
“No.”
She frowned in thought. “You said suspicion immediately fell on the woodcutter, but was anyone else unaccounted for at the time of the killings?”
He gave a tired shrug. “These families go back generations. Everyone knows everyone. Nobody was seen out that night, but it doesn’t mean they weren’t. By the time Cristian found the bodies, enough time had passed for the devil to creep back under cover of darkness.” He stared out at the palisade, where men were lighting pitch torches and placing them around the perimeter. “There was no wall then.”
“But surely the murderer would have been covered in blood,” Nathaniel said.
“One would think so,” Vivienne said thoughtfully. “It must have created much discord here.”
“The fear is a poison that eats away at us,” the priest agreed sadly. “Neighbors no longer trust each other. Old grudges are being aired. There have already been two drunken fights at the inn. Master Korzha stopped serving beer.” His face darkened. “I pray this devil came from elsewhere, but if he walks among us, we will catch him tonight.”
“What do you think?”
“I think the pricolici is an outsider,” he said, although she detected a slight hesitation. “I cannot believe any of my parishioners could be such a monster.” They reached the end of the lane and he pointed. “That is our church. We have a very beautiful organ.” There was pride in his voice.
“Might we see it?” Vivienne asked.
Father Cernat hesitated.
“We won’t stay long.”
“For a few minutes,” he agreed reluctantly. “Then you must go to your rooms and lock the door, as all godly folk will do this night.”
The church was a humble whitewashed building, though it boasted a tall steeple. Vivienne’s gaze lingered on the three fresh graves in the cemetery. Father Cernat saw her looking.
“The children were buried with silver crosses, to protect them. Their family is poor, but good Mistress Elena insisted they accept the gift.”
“And the woodcutter?” Nathaniel asked.
“We drove a stake through his heart,” Father Cernat replied grimly.
“Does that work?” Nathaniel mouthed at Vivienne as the priest strode ahead of them.
She shook her head.
They entered the church and he showed them the organ, which was indeed splendid. Bright, intricate paintings of various religious themes adorned the walls.
“What other villages are nearby, besides Satinari?” Vivienne asked.
“There is one about ten miles away, over the passes. And the Monastery of Saint George, of course.”
“How many monks live there?”
“About thirty.” He frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing,” Vivienne said quickly. “But I wonder if Anne showed any interest in it?”
He thought for a moment. “Not directly. She came to see the church and was admiring the paintings. I told her that Saint George’s is famous for its frescoes.” He smiled. “They’re much grander than ours.”
“Did she say anything about going there?”
He shook his head. “Not to me. It’s a distance of about six miles by the road. A hard walk in the snow.” He looked at the door. “I think you’d best return to the inn now.”
“Yes, thank you for everything, Father Cernat, you’ve been very kind.”
“I wish I could have been of more help. I will pray for Miss Lawrence tonight.” His chin lowered to his bushy red beard. “For all of us.”
They stepped outside into the darkness. Six men were hunkered down around a fire near the wagon. One of them was the innkeeper’s son Andrei, who looked at them without expression for a moment before turning away. Vivienne saw the gleam of shotguns. A pair of sheepdogs sat on their haunches nearby, tongues lolling.
Over the black wall of the Carpathians, a full moon was rising.
Master Korzha and his wife waited in the common room. The moment they stepped inside the door, he slid the bolt shut. “Did you speak to Cristian?” he asked anxiously.
Vivienne nodded. “He told us everything.”
Master Korzha’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have warned Miss Lawrence. Perhaps she would not have gone out if I had. But I feared she would never believe me.”
Vivienne gave him a kind look. “It’s not your fault. I’m sure Anne suspected the truth. It sounds as if she made her own quiet inquiry.”
He nodded, relief on his face.
“I have to confess, I’ve never encountered this situation before, but I hope to get to the bottom of it.”
“Do you think the beast will come back tonight?” Elena asked anxiously.
It might already be here, Vivienne thought, but she refrained from saying the words aloud. These people were frightened enough.
“If it does, I’m sure the dogs will catch the scent,” she said reassuringly.
The innkeeper and his wife bade them goodnight and retreated to their quarters on the ground floor as Vivienne and Nathaniel climbed the stairs to their room. She lit the candles and dug out her pack of Oxford Ovals.
“Goddess, I’ve been dying for a smoke,” Vivienne murmured, exhaling a long stream of smoke.
“Give me one of those,” Nathaniel said. “I wish I had a tot of stiff brandy to go with it.”
Vivienne smiled and took a silver flask from her valise.
“Darling,” he sighed, lighting his own cigarette. “Now I remember why I married you.”
They sat on the bed, smoking and sharing the flask.
“Shouldn’t we be manning the barricades?” he asked.
“Those men don’t want us there. If anything happens, we’ll hear the barking.”
“I might take the dogs from the kennel when I return to Eridge Castle. Let them sleep with me.”
Vivienne laughed. “That old heap is already full of ghosts and they haven’t troubled you yet.”
“True. But this place is getting to me. When the old blind woman started talking about the pricolici, the hair on my neck stood up.” He shook his head and took a long drag. “Why are wolf-men so bloody terrifying?”
Vivienne swallowed a swig of brandy, feeling the warmth spread through her chilled limbs. “They symbolize the beast that lurks i
n all of us. The one civilized society pretends doesn’t exist.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “The Earl of Pembroke is hairy enough to be half wolf. He left fur on my sheets.”
She frowned. “You make a jest of everything.”
Nathaniel sobered. “I know. Men like Dr. Clarence, you mean.”
“He was something else entirely.” She sighed, pushing the bitter memories of her last case away. “I think we should go up to that monastery tomorrow. It’s the only place of interest for miles and Anne clearly left of her own accord.”
“I brought a guidebook, let’s see what it says.”
Nathaniel rummaged through his bag while Vivienne collected Anne’s books together and reclined on the bed, scanning the titles.
“Korzha thought Anne was an innocent, but she suspected before she even arrived.” She brandished The Book of Werewolves: Being an Account of a Terrible Superstition by Sabine Baring-Gould.
“Have you ever come across one? A real one?”
“No, but I’ve seen enough strange things in my life not to rule anything out.”
It was quiet for several long minutes as they read in the flickering candlelight. Vivienne first scanned the book on Transylvanian superstitions she’d brought from London, searching for references to pricolici, then moved on to Sabine Baring-Gould.
“Find anything useful?” Nathaniel asked, tipping the empty flask to his lips with a disappointed sigh.
“Here’s a relevant passage. ‘First cousin to the vampire, the long exploded were-wolf of the Germans is here to be found, lingering yet under the name of the Prikolitsch. Sometimes it is a dog instead of a wolf, whose form a man has taken either voluntarily or as penance for his sins.’”
“Who would voluntarily take the form of a wolf? And how would one even go about it?”
“Not a clue.” She yawned. “Sell one’s soul to the Devil, I suppose.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in the Devil.”
“Not with a capital D.” She thought of the Duzakh. “But I do believe in evil. Have you ever heard of Gilles de Rais?”
Nathaniel shook his head.
“The case is mentioned in here.” She waggled the Baring-Gould book. “He was a French baron who lived in the early 1400s. Fought alongside Joan of Arc during the Hundred Years’ War against your Lancaster ancestors. They eventually appointed him Marshall of France.” Her gaze darkened. “He also had a taste for murdering children. His victims are thought to number in the hundreds. Everyone knew about it, but he was powerful enough to fend off justice for years. He was finally tried and hanged in 1440.”
“Bastard. But why is he in the wolfie book?”
“I honestly don’t know. He was never accused of lycanthropy. I’m merely making a point. There are plenty of human monsters in the world.” Vivienne closed the book. “As for the others, it’s mainly cases of lunatics who committed murder under the delusion they were wolves. The author isn’t a believer, but he does pen a witty turn of phrase.”
She lit another cigarette and read aloud in a plummy voice. “The werewolf may have become extinct in our age, yet he has left his stamp on classic antiquity, he has trodden deep in Northern snows, has ridden rough-shod over the medievals, and has howled amongst Oriental sepulchres. He belonged to a bad breed, and we are quite content to be freed from him and his kindred, the vampire and the ghoul.”
“A bad breed,” Nathaniel echoed softly.
“There’s more…. ‘Yet who knows! We may be a little too hasty in concluding that he is extinct. He may still prowl in Abyssinian forests, range still over Asiatic steppes, and be found howling dismally in some padded room of a Hanwell or a Bedlam.’”
“You’re giving me the shivers again, darling.”
“So we could be dealing with a man who thinks he’s a wolf.” She closed the book with a sigh. “Or simply real wolves. Though I believe them about the tracks and those are rather hard to explain away.” She frowned and looked over his shoulder. “What about you?”
Nathaniel cleared his throat theatrically and tilted the book so she couldn’t see it. “The Monastery of Saint George dates back to the rule of Stephen the Great, mid-sixteenth century. Like Father Cernat said, it’s quite famous for its murals. Scenes from the Old and New Testament … blah, blah, blah. Here’s something. It seems the Romanian princes were crafty buggers. When the Turks forbade them from building fortresses, they went ahead and did it anyway but claimed they were monasteries. Saint George’s is one of those. It has enormous buttresses.” He waggled his blond eyebrows.
“You’re a silly man.”
“I hope so, you’d be bored of me otherwise. Now listen. After Stephen died, all the provinces fell under Ottoman rule, but they permitted a large degree of autonomy. I bet lots of loot was stashed away in the monasteries to hide it from the conquerors.”
“Are you game to ride up there and find out?”
“Of course.” He paused and looked heavenward. “Though I’m such an awful sinner, God might strike me down if I try to enter.”
“Just keep your hands to yourself,” she laughed. “Half those monks are awful sinners, too.”
Nathaniel grinned and crawled under the covers, setting his revolver next to the bed. Vivienne donned her nightgown, a white cotton shift with lace at the bosom. She unbraided her hair, which immediately sprang back into tight curls. Then she positioned an iron dagger so that she could roll over and grab it at a moment’s notice. Vivienne blew out the candle and listened to Nathaniel’s even breathing, but it was a long time before she fell asleep.
She thought about Alec and wondered what he was doing at that moment. She could sense him through the gold cuff around her wrist, but faintly. The permanent ache in his right leg was the strongest sensation. It was a product of the bonding process, which maimed Alec but not Vivienne. In theory, the cuff also gave her control over his elemental magic, though she never abused that.
Vivienne idly stroked the cuff, tracing the roaring griffin with one fingertip. It was the sigil of the Persian emperor Artaxerxes II, though few would recognize it now. She and Alec had been bonded for a very long time, yet there were parts of him she still didn’t fully understand. His quiet demeanor masked deep currents. And their last case had taken a heavy toll on him.
Vivienne closed her eyes and tried not to think of Dr. Clarence.
In the small hours of the night she dreamt of a dog barking and lurched into wakefulness, one hand groping for the iron blade next to the bed, but all was quiet.
4
A light snow was falling outside when Vivienne woke the next morning. She braided her hair and donned a high-necked wool gown and thick stockings. The water in the wash basin was freezing cold, but a quick splash to her face banished the last remnants of sleep. Nathaniel murmured groggily as she tweaked his ear, swatting her hand away.
“What time is it?” he groaned.
“Time for lazy lords to get up,” she said, yanking the covers back.
He wore only a short linen nightshirt, open at the throat, and Vivienne had a fleeting but heartfelt pang of regret that their marriage was a sham. Nathaniel sat up, raking a hand through his blond hair.
“Nothing happened last night?”
“No, I’m sure we would have heard a commotion.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps it’s not what they think.”
“Or the beast struck elsewhere,” he said darkly, peering out the window at the drifting snow.
The wagon was still in place at the palisade, but there was no one about. The men must have headed back to their homes for a hot breakfast once daylight came. Vivienne could see the cold remains of the bonfire.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said, lacing up her boots and sliding the daggers into hidden sheathes cunningly sewn into her skirts.
A fire roared in the common room and Vivienne held her palms to it, relishing the warmth. A minute later, Mistress Elena emerged from the kitchen and greeted her with a smile.
&nb
sp; “Any news?” Vivienne asked.
“The men patrolled all night, but it was quiet.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Is Master Korzha about? I’d like to ask him something.”
“He went out, but he should be back shortly. In the meantime, I give you breakfast.”
Vivienne took a table by the window and Mistress Elena brought a bowl of porridge called mamaliga, along with fried eggs and thick slices of ham. Nathaniel wandered down and ate with her, his blue eyes bright with anticipation. He loved to ride and was no doubt eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of Mara Vardac.
“Master Korzha,” Vivienne said as the innkeeper bustled in, stamping snow from his boots.
“Ah, good morning. It seems you bring us luck. The village was spared last night.”
“It’s a good omen. I was hoping to hire two horses. We plan to visit Saint George’s Monastery today and view the murals. It’s possible the brothers might have seen Miss Lawrence.”
He frowned. “Are you sure it’s safe to travel alone? The beast—”
“Strikes on the full moon, which is now past. It’s not so far. We should be back well before dark. If not, we can stay the night there.”
He innkeeper nodded reluctantly. “Come to the stable when you’re ready, I have a pair of geldings you can take.”
Nathaniel didn’t bother haggling over the price, though it turned out to be exorbitant. They were Master Korzha’s only horses and he seemed to think there was a fair chance he might never see them again. A short while later, they rode out through the gap in the palisade, turning north this time into the foothills of the mountains. A layer of fresh snow blanketed the road. Other than the tracks of birds and small animals, they saw no sign that anything had come near Mara Vardac in the night. The scene was tranquil, the sun occasionally breaking through the clouds.
“Maybe it was a wolf after all,” Nathaniel said. “If the beast came upon the woodcutter and chased him, that might account for the tracks.”
“They said the feet were bare.”
“I’ll admit that’s peculiar. But we have only their word for it.” He glanced at the village dwindling behind them. “I think those people were prepared to believe the worst. I’m not mocking them, but they are rather backwards.”