by Kat Ross
Father Gavra sighed. “Such things bring out the best and the worst in men. And there is another consideration. If it is indeed one of the brothers, revealing that we are hunting him could bring more bloodshed. There is nothing so dangerous as a cornered beast.” His gaze was curiously penetrating. “Do you have faith, Lady Cumberland?”
She hesitated for a moment, formulating an answer he could accept. “I believe there are forces for both good and evil in the world.”
He nodded. “As do I. Perhaps you were sent here to kill this creature.”
Yes, she thought — if only I had the first bloody clue how to go about it.
“Do you know any of the old lore about how one destroys a pricolici?”
“Only a few stories. None specified any particular method.” He barked a desolate laugh. “If my grandmother were still alive, I would ask her. But she has been gone many years now.”
Vivienne shared a look with Nathaniel. “I’ve seen risen dead, what you call nosferatu. The head must be separated from the body with an iron blade. But pricolici are new to me.”
The bells in the church tower began to toll. Father Gavra turned toward the refectory.
“The brothers are gathering for the midday meal. Come, I will introduce you as guests. No doubt rumors are swirling about you already.”
They crossed to the refectory and entered through a side door. It was barely warmer inside than out. Again, Vivienne was struck by the harsh life here. With nine services a day, scheduled around the clock, the monks must hardly sleep at all. She followed Father Gavra to the dining hall, where all the brothers were gathered at long tables for a meal of vegetable stew.
They were a mix of young and old, all wearing black robes and hats. It was a somber scene, silent except for the scrape of spoons in wooden bowls. As the abbot gave a terse speech in Romanian, she scanned their faces. Most avoided eye contact, discomfited by the presence of a woman. A few gazed back with expressions that ranged from curious to tense and uncertain. The killing had clearly shaken them.
One of you is not what he seems, she thought. But which?
Father Gavra beckoned and a monk in his late fifties rose to his feet. He had watery brown eyes and a timid face. Thin shoulders hunched inside his robe as he set his bowl aside and came over to them.
“Brother Florin, would you escort our guests to the library?” the abbot asked in Magyar.
The monk nodded, casting a nervous smile at the visitors.
“We can dine together later,” Father Gavra said, switching back to English. “But for now I will leave you in the good hands of Brother Florin while I attend to other matters.”
The shadow in his eyes left no doubt as to what those other matters might be.
“Please follow,” Brother Florin said in Magyar. His voice was soft and rusty as if he didn’t use it often.
Father Gavra signaled to a monk with a thick black beard and broad shoulders. He must be the other senior official the abbot had mentioned.
Brother Florin walked in the opposite direction, Vivienne and Nathaniel trailing behind. She could feel the monks’ stares and looked back once before they turned the corner. A young monk watched her with an intense expression, though he glanced away the instant their eyes met.
Goddess, she thought, the sooner we get out of here, the better.
5
Unlike Father Gavra, the librarian spoke neither English nor German. Vivienne understood enough Magyar to follow his stammered explanation that Anne had asked about books on local folklore, claiming to be a collector of old stories just as she had at Mara Vardac. The monastery didn’t have anything like that, he said, digging out the ones Anne had showed an interest in. Most of the works were religious texts, though there were a few histories in Latin and Greek.
Nathaniel had studied both languages at school and Vivienne was content to pass those to on him. She chose some old maps of the region and a book in Romanian on the history of Saint George’s. They took chairs near the narrow window, which admitted enough daylight to make out the spidery lettering in the books. Brother Adrian busied himself at a desk copying a manuscript, but she sensed he was keeping a sharp eye on her and Nathaniel.
The books must be extremely old. Her dear friend and colleague Cyrus Ashdown would have been thrilled to spend an afternoon with these dusty volumes. Vivienne, on the other hand, wondered if it wasn’t a waste of time. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Anne was somewhere close by, in trouble and needing her help. All her instincts warned her that something was amiss — worse even than at Mara Vardac.
The hours passed and the light began to fade. She looked up as the door opened and Father Gavra entered. He smiled at Brother Florin. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
The librarian laid down his pen and shuffled out.
“I told Brother Constantin all of it,” the abbot said in a low voice. “He was naturally quite shocked. I asked if any of the brothers had behaved strangely in recent days, but he could think of no one in particular. I wish I’d known of the attacks on the village earlier. I’m afraid that if the trail did indeed lead here, it has gone cold now.”
“So no one was missing last night around the time of Brother Adrian’s death?” Vivienne asked.
“If they were, it wasn’t noticed. I ordered all the rooms to be searched under the pretext that someone had stolen food from the kitchens, but nothing was found.”
Vivienne suppressed her disappointment. “Will Brother Constantin keep it to himself?”
“I made him swear on a rosary. He understands the need for secrecy.” Father Gavra glanced at the books. “It’s nearly time for Vespers. I must lead the service. Have you found anything?”
“Only one reference by Pausanias,” Nathaniel said, brandishing a thick volume in Greek. “He relates the story of a young athlete named Damarchus who ate human flesh and was transformed into a wolf for nine years for his sin. As long as he abstained from cannibalism, he could regain his form as a man. But if he ate human flesh as a wolf, he would be condemned to live as a beast forever.”
“What did he choose?” Vivienne wondered aloud.
“The story doesn’t say.”
“It doesn’t seem much use,” Father Gavra said glumly.
“No, but it’s all I found.” Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know what Miss Lawrence was after.”
Vivienne reached up to return one of the books to its shelf. Her sleeve fell back, revealing the thick gold cuff around her wrist. She turned and noticed the abbot’s gaze.
“That’s an unusual piece,” he said, peering at it with narrowed eyes. “A winged griffin?”
She pulled her sleeve down and smiled. “An old family heirloom.”
“It has the look of antiquity.” He paused. “What do you wish to do? The hour grows late for a return journey to Mara Vardac. You’re welcome to spend the night in our guest quarters. The room is simple, but it has a hearth. You should be comfortable there.”
“That’s very kind,” Vivienne said. “We accept, don’t we, dear?”
Nathaniel took the hint. “Yes, thank you. I don’t fancy riding back down that road in the dark and I doubt the horses do, either. Do you think we might have a quick look at the church first? The village priest said it was famous.”
Father Gavra gave him a wan smile. “Of course. It is on the way. We have just enough daylight left to view the paintings.”
“I was reading about the history of Saint George’s,” Vivienne remarked as they left the library, which occupied the north end of the refectory, and crossed the inner cloister. Two monks passed on their way to the kitchens, carrying buckets of water from the well. Others were tossing handfuls of grain to some scrawny chickens. “It’s endured troubled times.”
The abbot nodded. “Yes, the first buildings date back to 1589. The defensive wall was erected some twenty years later after incursions by the Ottomans and the Tatars. The Voivode prince who built Saint George’s used it as a hiding place during his
wars with the Wallachians.” He stopped in front of the massive church. The exterior walls were covered with huge, vivid frescoes.
“That is the Hymn of the Dead,” he said. “And the Ladder of John Climacus.”
They paused to examine the second more closely. At the top, a host of saints and angels in red robes hovered above the rungs of a long ladder leading to heaven, their haloes painted in bright gold. Their outstretched hands assisted the righteous, while the poor sinners tumbled through gaps in the rungs where devils waited below to inflict torment. Some dangled precariously from the ladder halfway up, tempted by demons of worldly passions.
“Is that a monk?” Nathaniel asked, squinting at a figure being devoured by the devil.
“Indeed,” the abbot said quietly. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers of the present darkness, the hosts of wickedness in heavenly places.”
“Ephesians 6:12,” Nathaniel murmured.
Vivienne glanced at him in surprise.
“Sunday school.” He grinned. “I’m not a complete heathen.”
Vivienne wondered what Anne had made of the image. She must have seen it. Did she suspect the pricolici was here? The explicit parallel with fallen monks could hardly have been lost on her. And it might explain why she said nothing of what had happened at Mara Vardac.
“Well, it’s a remarkable work, the colors have hardly faded,” Vivienne said as they continued on. “And the monastery’s namesake, Saint George? There was little mention of his origins.”
“For shame, Vivienne,” Nathaniel said with mock severity. “Every child knows he slayed a dragon. That’s how he came to be the patron saint of England.”
“Ah yes, the old dragon legend,” Father Gavra said dryly. “I suspect it was apocryphal. Saint George was a young soldier in the Roman army. When the Emperor Diocletian began his persecution of Christians, he refused to convert to the pagan gods and was martyred. The date of his execution, April 23, 303, is a very important holiday in our calendar. The people decorate their houses with greenery to celebrate the rite of spring.”
“The Romans crucified him?” Nathaniel asked.
Father Gavra’s lips thinned. “Decapitation. Would you excuse me for a moment?” He strode ahead to meet a tall, burly monk who’d just emerged from the refectory. Vivienne recognized him as the one Father Gavra had summoned in the dining hall.
Nathaniel shot her a look. “Ironic, don’t you think?” he whispered, blue eyes gleaming.
They stopped to watch as the abbot made a sharp gesture as if in reprimand. The other monk glanced at them, open hostility in his face. He had the burning eyes of a zealot. Father Gavra beckoned them over.
“Lord and Lady Cumberland, this is Brother Constantin,” he said, switching to German. “He is in charge of the novices.”
The monk gave them a brief, sour nod.
“Have any arrived in the last few months?” Vivienne asked.
“Two,” the abbot replied, looking pointedly at Brother Constantin. “They came at the end of the summer.”
The monk turned his heated gaze on Vivienne. “Karol and Vasile. But they are both good boys from good families. Their training keeps them under my eye all the time. Most likely the trouble comes from a stranger.” He eyed them hard as he said this, the implication being that they had something to do with it.
Father Gavra frowned. “That is certainly possible, but we must keep open minds on the matter. These people are here to help. Do you remember anything about the day the young English girl came?”
“I only saw a glimpse of her. She spent the afternoon in the library, then left.”
Vivienne noticed that he didn’t look at her as he spoke.
“Very well,” the abbot said. “Come to me straight away if you remember anything else.”
The monk gave a curt nod and strode away. Father Gavra turned back to them with a sigh. “Brother Constantin can be rough around the edges, but he means well. He’s just frightened. I trust him to keep quiet.”
“With your leave, I’d like to search the forest around the monastery in the morning,” Vivienne said. “It’s probably hopeless after four weeks, but there could be some sign of Anne.”
“You believe she was followed after she left?”
“If she was attacked not far down the road, she might have tried to run back to the gates. Or….” She trailed off. “I don’t know what I expect to find, but I must try.”
“There are paths through the forest,” Father Gavra said. “We can gather some of the younger brothers to aid in the search tomorrow.”
They walked to a small stone building near the infirmary and the abbot produced a ring of keys, unlocking the door and swinging it wide. “This is the guest house. I will have a meal brought to you. I’d thought we might dine together in the refectory, but perhaps it would be better if you eat in your room. I don’t want to disrupt the routine any more than it has been already.”
“Thank you,” Nathaniel said. “You’re most kind.”
Father Gavra gave a wry smile. “I cannot say I’m glad for the circumstances that brought you here, but it’s something of a relief to have someone with … experience in these matters. It is all so very strange. I hope Brother Constantin is right. The thought that such an abomination might be under our very roof….” He detached the key from the ring, handing it to Nathaniel. “After the meal is brought, you may lock your door from the inside tonight. May blessed Saint George keep you until morning.”
They bade him goodnight and surveyed the stark quarters. There were two single beds of straw thatch, each with a large crucifix looming down from the wall above, and a rickety table with a bowl for wash water. Nathaniel lost no time lighting a merry fire in the hearth. A few minutes later, a knock came on the door, and one of the monks silently handed him a tray with two bowls of vegetable soup and a hunk of brown bread. Once he’d retreated, Vivienne turned the key in the lock and set it on the table.
“Do you really believe Anne is out there somewhere?” Nathaniel asked, tearing off a bite of bread and dunking it in the soup.
“No, but it would be foolish not to make a search.” She set her bowl aside and lit a cigarette. “The pricolici is here, Nathaniel. I’m sure of that.”
“But if it looks like a man, how can we tell who it is?” He balanced the soup on his knees and held his hands to the fire, rubbing them briskly together. “I don’t fancy staying here four more weeks until the beast shows itself again.”
“The fact that Brother Adrian was killed precisely between the end of the Midnight Office and the start of Matins implies this person has some degree of control over the transformation. So far, the killings have all occurred during full moons. Perhaps that’s when he’s at the height of his powers and can’t resist the bloodlust. But we don’t know for a fact that he can’t change between the lunar cycles as well.” She scowled. “We know almost nothing. I wish we had Cyrus. He’d know every bit of lore there was.”
“There must be a way to tell. We just haven’t found it yet.”
Vivienne drew deeply on the cigarette. “We’re not dealing with something in the same class as undead ghouls. This is a living man. How he came to be a wolf … who bloody knows? But assuming he is one of the monks, he looks entirely normal between cycles. And that bite mark implies that the change is not perfect.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Maybe we need to start with the last victim, Brother Adrian. The children were almost certainly chosen because they left the safety of the village. The pricolici couldn’t have anticipated their dog would escape and that they would follow. He might have killed the woodcutter first, and that’s what riled up the dog. But it seems clear he preyed on the man because he lived in isolation.”
“That makes sense,” Nathaniel agreed. “But you’re right. Why Brother Adrian? He seems a much greater risk than the other victims.”
“Precisely.” Vivienne frowned. “The abbot said he was well-
liked, selfless and devoted, but there was something about his face that bothered me. A kind of sensuous arrogance that seemed odd for a monk.”
“The poor bugger was killed horribly,” Nathaniel pointed out. “His final expression wouldn’t be one of serenity.”
“I suppose so. But why him in particular?”
“It could have been another crime of opportunity.”
“Perhaps.” She tossed the cigarette into the fire.
“And if we don’t find any trace of her tomorrow?”
“Then we must return to Bucharest and send letters to Cyrus and Henry Sidgwick. Track down some of the S.P.R.’s foreign agents locally. Maybe Alec is back in England by now. At the least, Cassandane can come.” She was Cyrus Ashdown’s bonded, a veteran fighter of the undead. “If the pattern holds, we have nearly four weeks before the next killing. What we need most is information.”
Vivienne was grateful to have Nathaniel, but she felt uneasy without Alec. They always hunted together. Always. And she couldn’t help but wonder why, if werewolves were real, they had never encountered one before. Again, Vivienne felt a tickle of apprehension.
“It’s awfully convenient the monks have taken vows of silence,” she said with a scowl. “We must rely on the abbot to conduct the investigation.”
Nathaniel stretched out on the straw bed. “My money’s on Brother Constantin. I think he was lying when he said he hardly talked to Anne.”
“So do I. Though he also obviously dislikes women.”
“I caught that too. Sad bugger.” He unbuttoned his coat and laid a palm on his shirtfront. He had nice hands, strong and tan even in winter. “They could all use a good shag, I’d reckon.”
Vivienne laughed. “Temptation in heavenly places,” she said, thinking of the grim mural on the church. “Don’t assume they’re as godly as they pretend.”
“You have a filthy mind.” He looked at her with amusement. “And we can’t discount Father Gavra himself. He seems a nice enough chap, but I don’t suppose that means much.”