by Kat Ross
Vivienne pulled her hood up. “Something terrorized Mara Vardac. And in my experience, it won’t stop until it’s put down.”
She wondered if Anne had discovered the pricolici’s identity. If so, she could have gone out to hunt it in the forest and been hurt. It was a possibility Vivienne had to face. But the tracks indicated the work of a single individual and she couldn’t believe Anne would fall victim to some jumped-up man-wolf. She was a daēva, faster and stronger than any human by many magnitudes. And she had her own powers, ones Nathaniel knew nothing about.
No, Vivienne decided, more likely she caught another scent and followed it without telling anyone. That would explain why there had been no more killings.
The road wound through a series of steep, wooded valleys and then rose toward the mountains again. Heavy clouds moved in and the snow grew thicker, settling in drifts that slowed the horses.
“I hope it isn’t much farther,” Nathaniel called over the wind. “The poor creatures are tiring.”
Vivienne studied the crude map Master Korzha had sketched for them. “It should be just ahead.”
They entered a sheltered pass where the snow was thinner. A few minutes later, the view widened again and she saw the abbey a quarter mile on, surrounded by hills of fir and oak. With its high stone walls, the Monastery of Saint George did indeed resemble a medieval fortress. Sturdy towers with thin slits for windows anchored the four corners. The road led straight to an imposing gatehouse with heavy wooden doors. They rode up, pausing to admire the archway and a painting above it, at least twenty feet high, of Saint George flanked by two angels. Nathaniel pounded a gloved fist on the doors until they heard a scraping sound on the other side. A moment later, a black-clad figure peered up at them through the falling snow.
“Good afternoon,” Nathaniel said cheerfully in German. “I am Lord Cumberland and this is my wife, Lady Vivienne. We’re staying down the road in Mara Vardac. We’ve come to speak with the abbot about a personal matter.”
The monk cast them a quick, nervous glance. He was of middle years and wore a long beard like Father Cernat and a flat-topped black cap of the Romanian Orthodox style, which looked rather like a stovepipe hat without the brim. He opened the gates wide and they spurred the horses through the outer wall. Once they were inside the gatehouse, he dropped a heavy wooden bar into brackets to seal the gate again.
They trotted through a second archway and emerged into the monastery grounds. Vivienne looked around, her keen gaze taking in every detail. To the right lay a vaulted refectory built in the Gothic style. To the left was a low stone building that housed the stables, and beyond it, the church itself. It looked like a miniature fortress, very tall and narrow with ornate engravings and a soaring bell tower. Scattered other outbuildings stood in the church’s shadow, the roofs capped with snow. The monk led them to the stables, where they dismounted and passed the reins to a teenaged boy who led the horses away.
Another wordless gesture signaled they should follow the monk to the refectory. Once inside, they passed into a deserted, bitterly cold dining hall. The monk signed at them to wait there and hurried down the corridor, turning the corner. They stood for a long minute, trying not to shiver.
“Chatty fellow,” Nathaniel remarked. “Perhaps he doesn’t speak German.”
“Oh, I think he understood perfectly,” Vivienne replied in a low voice. “When we see the abbot, you’d better do the talking. I doubt he’ll be comfortable around a woman and I don’t want to put him off.”
“At your service.” Nathaniel grinned. “You see, I told you I’d be useful—”
He broke off as the monk returned and led them from the dining hall and down a long passageway. The walls were bare stone but the floor was laid in a diamond pattern of intricately painted maroon and white tiles. The monk paused in front of a door and bade them to enter.
A small fire burned in a grate, though the room was still chilly. A stained glass window allowed daylight into the chamber, which was dominated by a large desk covered with neat stacks of paper. A man in his early thirties sat behind the desk, his black-sleeved arms resting on an open book. He had shoulder-length dark blond hair and a fine-boned, intelligent face, though his eyes were bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept. A pale beard covered his cheeks.
“Brother Grigori says you came from Mara Vardac,” he said in excellent German. “I am the abbot, Father Gavra.”
“Thank you for seeing us. Lord Cumberland of Sussex, Father,” Nathaniel said with a little bow. “And this is my wife, Lady Vivienne.”
The abbot gave Vivienne a respectful nod. “It is a pleasure,” he said, switching smoothly to English. “What brings you all the way to Saint George’s? We have few sightseers in the dead of winter. This countryside is unforgiving if you stray from the road.” He glanced out the window. “Snowing hard again. You were brave to risk it.” When he looked back at them, his eyes held curiosity and a slight wariness.
“We traveled from London in search of our ward, Anne Lawrence,” Nathaniel explained. “She disappeared from her room at Mara Vardac a month ago.”
Vivienne produced the cameo and held it out so he could see.
Father Gavra’s brows creased. “Of course, the English girl. You mean she didn’t return?” He stared at them with a stricken expression.
Vivienne’s heart beat faster. “Anne was here?”
“Oh, yes. She came on foot.” He seemed a little bewildered by this. “Alone. She spent the afternoon here. I urged her to stay in the guest quarter and leave the next morning, but she insisted on going.”
“What did she want?”
“She asked the see the frescoes, but she seemed more interested in our library. It is very fine and old.” He hesitated. “All the brothers have taken vows of silence save for the two most senior who are responsible for the day-to-day affairs of the monastery. You are welcome to speak with them. Miss Lawrence spent most of her time here with our librarian, Brother Florin.”
The abbot rose and led them out of the study into the passageway. “Forgive me if I seem distracted, but we suffered our own tragedy last night,” he confided as they walked through the refectory. “Our infirmarian, Brother Adrian, was killed by a wolf. It is not unheard of, though never inside the monastery walls.” He frowned. “No one saw or heard anything. We still haven’t determined how the beast got in. One of the brothers must have forgotten to latch the postern gate.”
Nathaniel shot a look at Vivienne, who nodded.
“Father Gavra,” he said, touching the abbot’s sleeve and drawing him to a stop. “Did Anne bring you any news from the outside?”
He shook his head, perplexed.
“There was an attack on Mara Vardac. Two children and a man are dead.”
The abbot crossed himself. “When did this happen?”
“Late December, about a week before Christmas.”
Father Gavra shook his head. “I’m surprised Miss Lawrence didn’t mention it.” He studied Nathaniel’s face. “There’s more. Was it a wolf?”
Nathaniel paused. “The villagers think there’s a pricolici on the loose.”
The abbot’s brows lifted. Vivienne watched his reaction closely, but it was difficult to read.
“What is their reason for believing so?” Father Gavra asked evenly.
“They say the wolf tracks turned to those of a man.”
“I see.” The abbot fingered the silver cross around his neck. “Did you observe these tracks yourself?”
“No, but Lady Cumberland spoke with the children’s father. He was adamant and said a dozen men saw the tracks and would swear to it. But that is not all. The attacks on the village occurred on the night of a full moon. Anne’s disappearance came four weeks later — also on a full moon. And you say a monk was attacked last night.”
The abbot shifted uneasily. His gaze grew distant. “Only Brother Adrian’s footprints were visible leading out to the garden. I saw no other tracks, but assumed they were covered by the
falling snow. He was not found for some hours.”
Vivienne stepped forward. “Father Gavra, I must ask you to have faith. We came for Anne Lawrence, but also to find the truth of what happened in Mara Vardac. The village was spared last night, but it seems the hunting grounds have moved.”
He gave a reluctant nod. “As I said, wolf attacks in these parts are not unheard of. The poor children…. Well, they would be easy prey. But it is rare for wolves to approach a full-grown man.”
“Where are you keeping the body?” Vivienne asked.
“In the infirmary.”
“With your permission, we need to see it.” She fished a card from her pocket. It had The Society for Psychical Research in black cursive with the emblem of the Greek letter psi, which resembled a trident. “I represent an organization in London that investigates such things in collaboration with the Crown and the British government. Things beyond the scope of ordinary understanding. I don’t know if it is indeed a pricolici, but I have dealt with similar creatures.”
The abbot accepted the card, though he barely glanced at it. He looked shaken.
“My parents told stories — everyone has one, about the friend of a distant cousin who saw a pricolici or vampire — but I’ve always taken a more modern view.” He gave a faint smile. “You are surprised? Well, we are not all still living in the Dark Ages, though it might appear so. I studied theology at Balliol College in Oxford.” He sighed. “And yet now I find myself a child again, afraid of shadows in the night.”
So that explained his fluency in English. Vivienne found herself liking Father Gavra. He had an earnest, open-minded quality that was far from what she’d expected in such a remote backwater.
“We won’t disturb the body, only examine it,” she promised. “Perhaps it will help rule out any supernatural explanation.”
“I hope so,” the abbot said wearily. “I cannot believe God would allow such a monster into his house.”
They went to the infirmary, which occupied a separate building adjacent to the refectory. Like the rest of the monastery, it was frigid inside. Father Gavra gestured to the cold hearth.
“We only set a fire when there are patients to care for,” he explained.
The rectangular room was divided into two sections. The closer part had shelving with jars and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The rear had six beds in two rows of three pushed against the wall. Five were empty. The last held a figure laid out under a sheet.
“It is a difficult sight,” the abbot said quietly, making the sign of the cross. “Poor Brother Adrian.”
“Perhaps you could tell us exactly what happened,” Vivienne said.
“Of course.” Father Gavra visibly gathered himself. “He was last seen at Miezonoptică, what you call the Midnight Office. The brothers assembled in the church for the service, then returned to their cells. When Brother Adrian did not appear at Matins, I grew concerned. He never missed any of the canonical hours. I stopped in his room after, but it was empty, his bed unslept in.”
“What time was Matins?”
“About four-thirty. It was still dark out when it ended. I feared he might have fallen ill. A search was mounted, first of the church and refectory, then the outbuildings. Two of the brothers finally found his body in the infirmary herb garden, lying near to the stone wall. The body was blanketed in several inches of snow so he must have been dead for some hours.”
“And no one else missed the Midnight Office or Matins?” Nathaniel asked.
Father Gavra shook his head. “But there was a period of roughly three hours when the brothers had returned to their cells to rest. He must have been attacked then.”
“Didn’t you wonder why he’d gone out to the garden in the middle of the night?”
“Of course. But it seemed obvious he’d been attacked by a wild animal.” Father Gavra’s voice grew cool. “If I had known that three others were dead in the village, I would have ordered greater precautions. Your ward should have told us of the danger.”
Why didn’t she? Vivienne wondered. It was yet another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.
“How long was Brother Adrian the infirmarian here?” she asked.
“About ten months now. He had his training from Brother Nicolae, who held the office for decades but is growing old and frail. When I saw Brother Nicolae’s mind was becoming cloudy, I suggested he take on an assistant. He made no objection. That was several years ago. Over time, Brother Adrian took on most of the duties. I gave him the formal title…. Oh, I’d say it was last April or May. He was a bright young man. It’s a terrible loss for all of us.” Father Gavra gazed at the white-sheeted form and let out a sigh. “I suppose we’d better get on with it.”
He gently folded the sheet back. Vivienne braced herself, but Adrian’s face was untouched. He had thick black hair and sharp cheekbones. The skin was very white, as expected considering the degree of blood loss. Father Gavra drew the sheet down further and she saw his throat had been savagely torn, exposing the windpipe. It would have been an immediately fatal wound.
Father Gavra swallowed hard at the deep gouges across the monk’s chest. The body had been washed and a set of four claw marks were clearly visible.
“It does appear to be consistent with an animal attack,” Vivienne said.
“Bear or wolf,” Nathaniel agreed. He drew a deep breath. “Though if it was driven by hunger….” He trailed off.
“Why didn’t it eat him?” Father Gavra finished quietly. “I wondered about that myself.”
He’d left the sheet covering the young monk’s torso for the sake of decency. Vivienne studied the wounds. Ghouls drained their victims through puncture marks at the throat or wrist, but she’d never seen this kind of mutilation.
“Are we done here?” Father Gavra asked, clearly uncomfortable.
“Almost. May I see his hands?”
He nodded reluctantly and lowered the sheet another few inches. The monk’s hands lay folded across his bare torso.
“There.” Vivienne pointed. Both Nathaniel and the abbot leaned in closer. “What do you make of that?”
Across the fleshy pad of the thumb joint, several indentations were clearly visible.
“My God, they look like human teeth marks,” Nathaniel said softly.
Father Gavra’s face paled nearly to the color of the corpse. He looked on the verge of fainting. Vivienne raised the sheet so it covered the body again.
“Come, Father,” she said quietly. “Let’s step outside for some air.”
The infirmary door led to a garden enclosed by a low stone wall. Dry stalks of lavender and other herbs she didn’t recognize poked through the snow. They waited while the abbot took several deep breaths.
“I’m sorry to put you through that,” Vivienne said. “But you see now that the men of Mara Vardac spoke truly. This is no ordinary wolf.”
“By all the saints, I cannot believe it,” Father Gavra said hoarsely. “And yet I must.”
Vivienne scanned the rectangular garden. It took only a moment to spot the place where the monk had been attacked. The snow was trampled down and a fresh coating failed to obscure the pinkish tint where blood had been spilled.
“Were any traces of blood found inside?” she asked.
Father Gavra shook his head.
“So he was either chased out here or he went to meet someone,” she said thoughtfully. “Had he been chased, he would have raised the alarm, so the latter seems more likely. I’d guess he was killed quickly. The wounds to his throat would have rendered him unable to cry out.”
“That seems plausible,” the abbot agreed. His voice was stronger, though his face was still ashen.
Vivienne hesitated. “I know you don’t wish to consider the possibility, but—”
“This demon likely walks among us?” he interrupted, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “I would prefer not to, but I cannot reject it outright. The evidence certainly points to someone familiar with the routine h
ere.”
“Can you think of any monks who have behaved strangely, out of character in any way, these last months?”
He considered the question for a long moment. “None come to mind. But my duties here revolve around overseeing the monastery as a whole. Other than conducting the daily services, I don’t deal with the brothers as closely as our senior monks.”
“Who would that be?”
“Brother Constantin and Brother Florin.” He frowned. “I must tell them everything. We will conduct an investigation, but quietly. You must understand that this is a place of strict routine. Our day is structured around the canonical hours. Some people believe the calling to God is a life of ease, but that is not so. There are nine services a day, corresponding to the life, death and resurrection of Christ our Savior. When the brothers are not at prayer, they are hard at work in the kitchens, stables and elsewhere.”
“How many monks live here?”
“Twenty-seven. We used to have thirty, but a plague came at the end of the summer and claimed three lives. It was only thanks to Brother Adrian that the number was not greater. He quarantined the sick and risked himself caring for them.” A look of deep sadness came into his eyes. “Brother Adrian had no enemies. Everyone liked him.”
“Can we speak to the senior brothers? They might have seen something amiss.”
“I’ll arrange it. You might as well start with Brother Florin. He’s the librarian. I think I already told you, Miss Lawrence spent most of her time with him.”
He gave Vivienne and Nathaniel a firm look. “But I would ask you not to reveal anything about Mara Vardac until I can tell him myself. I will say only that you have come looking for your missing ward. Our brothers are country folk, steeped in the old peasant superstitions. I’ve already heard mutterings about a pricolici despite the vows of silence. If these rumors are confirmed, it would cause a panic.”
Vivienne nodded her agreement. “Yes, the villagers are living under a cloud of mutual suspicion. The tavern was closed after several fights broke out.”