He couldn’t look his friend in the eye like that, feeling too much like Marcus Brutus on the Ides of March.
Below him, the wolf stood, jostling his mind out of regret. She trotted off beyond the town’s entrance, bolting into the swaying greenery as the sky took its first steps toward a bright November morning. It would’ve been chilly if not for the diminishing fire beside him.
Timothy followed her retreat with a twisted neck.
Raven, unlike the creatures living in Rodica, had the freedom to attack during the day, so the sun didn’t spell safety any more than he believed her withdrawal to be genuine.
He used caution when shimmying down the building’s side, hitting the ground and sprinting for the inn to salvage whatever he could take. That was Garrick’s satchel and a few weapons. In the interest of buying time, he spread a layer of silver coins across every windowsill and doorway. It wouldn’t stop the wolf, but if it brought her to even nominal pause, it was a worthy strategy.
Sebastian’s hands were curled around the thin bed sheet and the foam gathered on his face was deflating one bubble burst at a time. His eyes were frozen wide and looking straight at him as he entered.
“I’m sorry.” Timothy started, but swallowed the rest of the excuse whole. There was a choice here. He could succumb to the guilt and give up, meaning that Garrick and Sebastian had died in vain, or make a break for Constanta to reach the Order of Osiris.
I owe the fallen that much.
He slid Garrick’s dark doublet over his blood and sweat-mixed clothes, and took dual holsters off his old friend. He apologized again while strapping them to his belt. Then he loaded the guns, thinking he’d need every shot available to put Raven down. The blunderbuss ate the remaining shards of silver and his heart offered an excited jitter at the thought of pulling the trigger in Raven’s face.
Timothy slipped Garrick’s holster free and attached it across his chest. The hunter’s basket-hilted blade sat on the floor beside his corpse. It would do nicely if he had the chance to go at Raven in close quarters again.
Do you truly expect to kill the one that seven of you could not?
He hadn’t intended to disturb Garrick’s body any further, but decided that he wanted the silver vambrances over his wrists in case the wolf got up close and hungry.
Among all the weapons, there was enough silver ammunition for nine shots.
They had thrown six times that amount at her on the top of that mountain and it did little more than slow her down.
From the window, Rodica was empty, only there was nothing peaceful about it. It had been a haven for the undead until last night, and the worst creature of all lay in wait in the forest beyond.
With the day wearing on, Timothy offered up a half-hearted prayer for his fallen brethren as a ceremonial goodbye. Not out of disdain, but because he didn’t know the right words and wished now, for the first time, that he did.
The sendoffs were quick and awkward, and Sebastian was still looking at him, through him, as he was ready to leave.
“Thank you, old friend,” Timothy said.
Then he left to collect the silver coins, choking down his fear as he went.
***
The wolf was hungry.
Soon, she tried telling it. The discontented growl that shot back startled her. The animal no longer felt like part of herself, and Elisabeth was at this stranger’s mercy—along for a ride she couldn’t control. Hard to blame her bestial side for this rebellion, considering she’d been deprived of food for several days. The familiar one’s death delivered a catharsis that restored the animal’s confidence and lured her from hiding.
Her stomach managed a harsh rumble.
The wolf controlled her as if she’d never before been uncaged, running through the forest with newfound freedom. Elisabeth made assurances to the animal, hoping the beast may reconsider this hasty pursuit. She reminded herself that Survivor needed more time for his fear to set in; that they mustn’t be too hasty in their delivery of vengeance. The wolf brushed these considerations aside, reshuffling their thoughts until there was only the hunt.
Elisabeth drowned beneath a wave of these instinctual flashes: Survivor’s face, her claws tearing through him, jaws closing over his neck. The wolf wanted food, was hungry for this specific kill. Those thoughts repeated in rhythm with the animal’s movements as the forest blurred past. Shards of humanity managed to break through on occasion, and Elisabeth struggled to stay afloat. Each time she managed a plea for reason, the wolf snarled it away.
There was almost nothing left of her.
The wolf allowed Elisabeth a shred of humanity as long as she focused on the familiar one’s death and didn’t try to change the animal’s mind. How could it feel so futile? Maybe vengeance always shook loose this way, but she wanted more. Killing him brought only the slightest satisfaction, an already dissipating feeling. Not enough.
She demanded revenge, not only for Aetius, but for her slain pups as well.
Elisabeth didn’t think herself maternal, but they’d been her children still. She grieved their deaths as any mother would.
Survivor’s scent was suddenly pungent. All around them, perspiration misted. The wolf fell back to follow it without arousing suspicion. Her muscles flexed in order to crawl along the forest floor, a careful predator taunted by her prey’s sweltering aroma.
When Elisabeth changed her thoughts to Survivor, the wolf tensed, cautiously allowing the intrusion. Elisabeth’s only reminder was that this had to be their most satisfying kill. He was the last, and every bit of this hung on ripping him to pieces. It couldn’t be as quick and hollow as the familiar one’s death. The wolf couldn’t squander this.
He had to know she was here, but Elisabeth was disappointed that she couldn’t yet feel him. His terror. It would boil over into something sweeter than the animal had ever tasted. She promised this to the wolf, thinking back on her best hunts in an effort to make the animal understand.
The wolf’s tongue fell from her mouth as she skulked; drool repelled down her chin, spattering the dirt beneath her paws as she imagined feasting on those innards.
He traveled fast, always ahead of her. His agility made sense considering he was the youngest of his troop by at least ten years, though that didn’t explain his speed. Survivor covered a lot of ground and showed no signs of slowing after dark, his movement undaunted by unfamiliarity with the terrain.
The Black Sea’s relaxing breeze closed in. Elisabeth’s midnight coat rustled as she charged against it. Every so often, she smelled salty air on the insides of her nostrils, causing her heart to beat with excitement and inevitability.
Do…not…rush…this.
One last plea in the event they found him cowering. When the animal corralled that thought, unconcerned with anything else she had to say, Elisabeth changed her approach to something more forward, tired of tiptoeing.
The boy will not be granted a quick death. I will not let you do this.
But the animal was beyond reason. Just as the wolf had sprung from her bones, breaking her flesh like wet paper, she was determined to follow Survivor to his death. She carried rage in her belly, yes, but it was secondary to the hunt. The animal hadn’t been duped by her pleas for savoring the moment, realizing that falling back had been a necessary strategy to draw him out.
Elisabeth felt less in control now. Discouraged. The animal might’ve allowed her to think she was getting through, but that wasn’t true. This was only just a ride.
The wolf’s pace became rushed again as Survivor’s musk threatened to stray too far from her nose for certainty.
Elisabeth sniffed the air with desperation until her nostrils returned nearly nothing. No trace of him. The only smells were of local animals. If she flexed her ears hard enough, she heard the waves breaking against the Constanta shore.
The boy was fast, yes, but not that fast.
Elisabeth’s human impatience roared but the wolf ignored it. He was still here. Somewhere.
She worried that the creature would try to kill the hunter to claim his meat, but the bear smelled far too docile to be worried about trespassers.
Elisabeth moved across the ground, her dark mane blending with the night, rendering her an anonymous visitor to this domain. Her senses continued to fail as Survivor’s musk vanished entirely. She went on the move then. A graceful, yet panicked sprint. Beneath the rounded dome of her skull, the human was nearly hysterical with failure. The wolf fired back some calming urges, but it was too late for them to hold any sway.
The animal had botched the hunt, and the human was returning.
The wolf fought regression, snarling against Elisabeth’s surging dominance, determined not to go quietly. Not without her hunger sated.
The wolf didn’t care about delicacies. She only wanted to eat, not fully understanding why she couldn’t.
Elisabeth was out of excuses. It dawned on her that the wolf had gone scampering into retreat when wounded, and the human figured she could use that fear against the animal. It was the only thing she hadn’t tried, and knew in that moment that it would work.
Survivor knows who hunts us, she thought. Let him lead us back to them so that we may put a face to our enemy. If not, they will continue hunting us, and the pain will come again and again.
The wolf rescinded at this, at least momentarily. Her dominance faded, followed by her form. Elisabeth didn’t wish to reach the Black Sea on the soles of her anguished feet, but was relieved to see the creature go. She was glad the push and pull was done—for now.
For the first time since being bitten, she feared the monster within herself.
The City by the Sea
The sprawling city stood before him like a mirage.
When Timothy stepped from the woods, he slipped the blood-soaked bear pelt from his shoulders. He’d found it in the inn’s kitchen back in Rodica, freshly slain and drained. The vampires must’ve killed it prior to their arrival.
This trick had outwitted the wolves during the mountaintop ascension and proved just as effective a second time. Best he could tell, it didn’t throw his scent completely, but confused Raven just enough to send her searching for a different, more human, smell.
With any luck, the bitch was still chasing her tail.
Constanta was such a sight for weary eyes that Timothy thought he might cry.
At last, safety.
His face and hair were covered in thick layers of jellied blood as the bear pelt dropped. The Order of Osiris was here somewhere, but damn if he knew how to find them. And that was the start of his problems. There was also the issue of convincing them it wasn’t he who killed their hunter. At present, this was a bigger worry.
Constanta stunk of fish and the city came bursting to gritty life as he entered it. Homeless persons sat lined beneath a wooden garrison, covered head to toe in ashen robes, a line of bloodshot eyes that followed as he shuffled past. A row of carts padded the street’s other side, stacked with fish, meats, and cheeses. Excited merchants called out as he navigated past, ignoring their fluctuating bargains.
Stray cats hissed and meowed, and Timothy wove between the creatures as he slipped into the silk and fabric district. Hookah smoke swirled and dangled overhead before dissolving in the mild bay breeze.
The sights, sounds, and smells of Constanta were so varied that he doubted Raven could find him here. Confidence heightened as some of the city’s wealthiest female occupants made eyes at his passing, pretending that he wasn’t a blood-covered mess so that he may feel comfortable enough to buy something.
They stretched out varying shirts and dresses spooled from the most exotic fabrics available, and he lingered over their tables just long enough to make an impression.
His appearance would surely capture the attention of some, and that’s what he banked on. This was a strange land. If he wanted to find Garrick’s order, he was going to have to get noticed.
Across the street, the sweet and smoky smell of cooked sausage kicked up voracious hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything since the greasy stew conjured by Ion Bey, so he crossed the way and asked for two. No telling what currency Constanta accepted, but the vendor’s eyes popped with delight when Timothy offered him a silver coin.
The language barrier wasn’t as problematic as he feared. He moved through throngs of people without incident, pointing and grunting his way to general understandings. When it came time to inquire about a place to sleep, he mimed his head resting on a pillow. An old woman with chin stubble and bleeding gums warmed to his mimicry and looked delighted to walk him to the nearest inn. He tipped her a piece of silver for her trouble and she hurried off, mumbling appreciation underneath her breath.
The proprietor spoke English that wasn’t so much broken as it was obliterated. This being a port town, it was probably beneficial to pick up an extra tongue or two. As close as Timothy could figure it, the silver coins were enough to secure him a room for the entire month if he wanted it.
I’ll be dead if it takes that long.
Panic reared, and suggested that he use the remaining money to leave on whichever ship set sail tonight. He wanted to do that very much, eager to return to a life of academia.
No, you won’t run. Not after Rodica.
Sebastian Miles had deserved a hero’s death, something more dignified than what he got. No one should be carted off with a succubus wormed around his soul. As much as Timothy wanted to leave, as much as he knew his old mentor would want him to, he couldn’t. The grudge grew inside of him like a weed, an unwanted emotion that spread until it was all he could think about.
Killing the Raven.
Looking in her eyes when she died.
That fantasy came to occupy his every thought. A repulsive reality for a pacifist who prided himself on bringing law to the lawless. Life on Garrick’s road had withered him into someone he no longer recognized. The old Timothy Hackett was in here somewhere, pleading for him to do the smart thing and leave.
He decided to compromise. Find the Order of Osiris and set them on Raven’s trail. They’d do what he couldn’t and kill her. No, it wouldn’t quench his bloodlust, but it would be enough for him to sail from here with a clear conscience. He hoped his most violent urges would abandon him then.
The inn housed a bar on the first floor. He ordered a drink and was served dark plum wine in a wooden goblet. He carried it onto the sidewalk terrace to a row of crude stools and rounded tree stump tables.
The bustle of the city hurried past, undeterred by his bloodstained attire. Dockworkers shuffled inland as the day tired. They looked like barnacles detached from the ship bows, crusted and slimed. As worn as Timothy felt, the exhaustion on their faces looked worse in the moment.
Then again, he considered how he must have looked to them.
Like a man sitting on a stool covered in blood and drinking plum wine.
He had his own problems.
A stroll around the city would help quell his nerves. Garrick’s robes were understated by design, he guessed, as it wasn’t pertinent for a secret order to advertise. If Constanta housed them, news of a bloodied man in a drab doublet would find its way to the right ears.
Or maybe they’ll just drag me kicking and screaming to a sanitarium.
He burned off the rest of the day walking around. He collected a few odd stares, but nothing that resonated as suspicion. He stumbled across a vendor offering bloodied animal pelts and realized that plenty of tradesmen walked around with blood on their clothes. He didn’t stick out as much as he thought.
When the street was lit by torchlight, he made his way back to the merchant district, figuring he’d have to antagonize someone publicly if he was to get noticed by the order. Call so
meone a varcolac, take a swing, and hope the right people heard the whole story. The risk was the city guard could arrest him first, and word might never get back to those he sought.
He spotted a painter across the courtyard packing up his stand for the night and jogged across the way to meet him. The language barrier was thick and Timothy diffused it by placing four pieces of silver in his hand. The old man clasped the money and stood back, watching Timothy take the color daubed easel in his hands. He held it outward and motioned that he was going to leave with it.
The painter looked at his coins and then up at Timothy. He nodded his approval from behind an expression of personified uncertainty.
“Thank you,” Timothy said and trotted off, snatching the used brush from the pail of water before going.
He found his way back to the inn. The street had quieted some as Constanta wound down for the night. He wasted no time in utilizing his purchases, brushing streaks of yellow across the stone. Once he had three, he dipped the bristles into the mound of dark green and painted a line straight down through the slashes.
Garrick had described this symbol to he and Sebastian once, when the older thief-taker had asked how the order communicated while on the road. These were colors of Osiris, and to arrange them in such a way signaled that an information cache was nearby. They hid it, always below ground, and always across from the symbol.
Timothy went quickly up to his room and put the painting materials there. He then trotted back down to get another goblet of plum wine before going outside to take a seat directly beneath his masterpiece. Someone would undoubtedly report the hieroglyphic, but the foot traffic had dropped to almost nothing, and no one seemed to care about his crude artistry.
He sat alone, eroding his apprehension with fermentation.
Some time passed and his eyelids began dropping in time with his lolling head. A group of drunken revelers came roaring around the corner, filling the air with shrill laughter that jerked him back to attention. The goblet tumbled from his hand and spilt purple into the street.
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