Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The Prophecy
Sheritta Bitikofer
Copyright © 2017 Sheritta Bitikofer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews – without written permission from its author.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover by Inked Phoenix
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-946821-25-6
Created with Vellum
Contents
Terms to Know
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Afterword
About the Author
Also by Sheritta Bitikofer
Terms to Know
Signore/Signori – Gentleman/Gentlemen in Italian
Gospoda – господа, “Gentleman” in Russian
Salt Riot – The Moscow uprising of 1648 (Russian: Соляной бунт, Московское восстание 1648), sometimes known as the salt riot, started because of the government's replacement of different taxes with a universal salt tax for the purpose of replenishing the state treasury after the Time of Troubles. This drove up the price of salt, leading to violent riots in the streets of Moscow. The riot was an early challenge to the reign of Alexei I, eventually resulting in the exile of Alexei's advisor Boris Morozov.
Boyar - A boyar was a member of the highest rank of the feudal Bulgarian, Kievan, Moscovian, Wallachian and Moldavian and later, Romanian aristocracies, second only to the ruling princes (in Bulgaria, tsars), from the 10th century to the 17th century.
Tsar – Russian equivalent of a king or monarch.
Kremlin - The Moscow Kremlin, usually referred to as the Kremlin, is a fortified complex at the heart of Moscow, overlooking the Moskva River to the south, Saint Basil's Cathedral and Red Square to the east, and the Alexander Garden to the west. It is the best known of the kremlins (Russian citadels) and includes five palaces, four cathedrals, and the enclosing Kremlin Wall with Kremlin towers. Also within this complex is the Grand Kremlin Palace.
Spasibo – Спасибо, “Thank you” in Russian
Madám – мадам, “ma’am” or “madam” in Russian
Sér – сэр, “Sir” in Russian
Mal'chikov – мальчиков, “Boys” in Russian
Myshka – мышка “Little Mouse” in Russian
Izmenyat' – изменять, “Shift/Change” in Russian
Wawakalak – Werewolf cursed by the devil to roam the earth as a wolf and beg for food from loved ones. Considered friendly.
Bodark – Werewolf by choice. Chants an incantation after stabbing a tree and morphs into a wolf.
Chapter One
Small Russian village, a day’s travel from Moscow, 1648
“I’ll make a bet with you,” Hugo said as he looked around at the growing flames that slowly consumed the bundles of hay and branches at their feet. “Fifty rubles says the fur on my collar will catch fire before my beard.”
Geoffrey rolled his green eyes heavenward and caught a glimpse of the first few stars appearing in the Russian sky. “You know perfectly well that neither of us have fifty rubles. I hardly think you’re in the position to make such a bet.”
Beside him, tied to his own post with his hands behind his back, Hugo shrugged. “Fine. Five rabbits then.”
Geoffrey shifted his hands against his own bonds, but the silver beads woven into the rope seared his skin as harshly as the fire would in a few moments. “How can you compare fifty rubles to five rabbits? That hardly seems a fair trade.”
Hugo chuckled, such a strange sound coming from a werewolf who was about to burn alive. “If I promised you the meat of fifty rabbits, I’d be in your debt for a hundred years. You know how terrible I am at catching the blasted things.”
All around, Geoffrey listened to the village folk shout their curses and obscenities at the two brothers. While they spoke in the language of their mother country, Russia, Hugo and Geoffrey preferred English. It was an advantage when they didn’t want the locals to know what they were talking about. Certainly, if any of them could understand their banter now, they would think them doubly mad.
“You just had to confuse the bodark and the wawkalak, didn’t you?” Geoffrey chided his younger brother. “We have been here for five – “
“Five years,” Hugo cut him off, rolling his dark eyes. “Yes, I know. You’re usually the one to talk to the locals and I take the notes. If you hadn’t been busy with that blonde, farmer’s daughter, you might have been there to say the right thing.”
Geoffrey didn’t even know where the young lady had gone since they were seized by the mob. He hoped she wouldn’t suffer because she was caught romping around with a werewolf. The flames licked around his ankles and he could feel the heat seep through the leather of his boots. June in eastern Russia wasn’t outrageously cold, but the temperature had dropped once the sun sank below the horizon. If it were any colder, the fire might have been comfortable. Yet, how comfortable could they really be when the fire would slowly eat away at their flesh?
As werewolves, they could heal faster than a human, but burning alive was still a concern. Their bodies could not regenerate fast enough to compensate for the destructive force of the flames. That still didn’t give them much time to escape. If it weren’t for the blasted silver in their bonds, it might have been easier to break free.
Still, Geoffrey worked at the ropes that had been especially made to contain them, trying in vain to loosen the tight knots.
“Are you free yet?” he asked Hugo, not bothering to look his way.
“I was hoping you were working on that, brother.”
Geoffrey growled in frustration as the first of the flames finally caught on the fabric of his pant leg. “Damn it, Hugo! This is serious.”
“I am well aware of that,” his brother replied. “No, I am not free yet. This silver is hurting me more than the fire.”
“It will soon be the other way around if we can’t get off this platform.”
Geoffrey tugged one last time and the rope fell slack around his wrists. “I’m loose!”
“Me too.”
Hugo snapped his hands around and together they bent low to undo the ropes that tied their feet. Though the silver bit into their fingertips, it was nothing compared to the searing flames that brushed at their cheeks and hands.
Geoffrey fully expected the crowd to scream and run away after the two werewolves jumped from the burning platform. Yet, not a single one interrupted their shouting or waving of angry fists to even look their way. Not willing to question it, Geoffrey and Hugo darted through the crowd that still faced the pyre.
Their burns quickly healed as they escaped into the cool forest. Their baggy tunics and coats reeked of smoke though he knew a good bath in the river was long overdue anyway. Yet, there was another scent on the wind that he did not recognize. Either they came much closer to the depths of hell than he realized, or something else was amiss.
Once they were a good distance away from the village and they didn’t hear the m
ob chase after them, Hugo and Geoffrey stopped in a dense cluster of trees. He lifted his nose and took a deep whiff, but coughed and sputtered at the foul stench. Sulfur. His inner wolf growled, but Geoffrey would not let his lips curl up in the same way.
“Did you breathe in some smoke?” Hugo asked.
Geoffrey wondered if his brother’s senses had been impaired by that same smoke. “Can you not smell that?”
Hugo sniffed and his brows puckered together in a concentrated look. “What is that?”
A twig snapped to their left and the brothers turned to see a man emerge from the shadows. Was it a man? Geoffrey listened, but could hear no heartbeat. As the figure drew closer, the smell became stronger.
“Do not be alarmed,” he said, his voice laced with an Italian accent. It had been a few decades since they were in Italy, but it was rare to see an Italian this far north. “Are you well?”
In the darkness, Geoffrey could make out the man’s aristocratic features and dress. Compared to their dingy peasant’s clothes and long beards, he was every inch the European noble.
“Who are you?” Geoffrey asked in Italian, which brought a fascinated glimmer to the stranger’s brown eyes.
“A friend,” he replied. With a great sweep of his arm, the man bowed low in greeting. “My name is Michael Gennari.” When he straightened, he gave them both a warm smile. “And you two are the scholars, Hugo and Geoffrey Swenson. Word of your travels have reached even my inner circle of associates.”
Geoffrey appraised the man in front of them, noting how his skin was paler than the moonlight. “Your inner circle?”
Though he was surprised that anyone would speak of them at all, Geoffrey made a point that they should never stay in one place long enough to make an impression. Given that they hadn’t been to Italy in quite some time, he was skeptical if the man was telling the truth. Without detecting a heartbeat, Geoffrey couldn’t determine such.
When Michael’s grin widened, Hugo was the first to notice the sharp tips of the stranger’s eye-teeth and he let out a low warning growl. Geoffrey stiffened, bracing for a fight if this vampire should make a wrong move. He had been amiable up until now, but how far could one trust a sworn enemy of the werewolves?
“Please, signori,” he said. “I have no quarrel with you. In fact, I wish to help.”
“Help?” Geoffrey looked him up and down once more, this time searching for a weapon he could use against them.
“Si. In fact, I already have. Did you think those ropes loosened all by themselves? I also distracted the villagers for you. As far as they know, they’re watching two witches burn in their town square.”
Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed upon Michael. “You were not there.”
“Evidently, there are many things you don’t know about my kind. One of which being that we’re not all out to kill werewolves.” Michael’s smile faltered. “As I hope the same can be said for you.”
Hugo took a step forward, but Geoffrey grabbed his shoulder and forced him back.
“No,” he said. “We do not harm others unless they harm us first. Right, Hugo?”
His brother’s muscles were tense beneath his grip and he could already see his claws sliding out from the tips of his fingers, as if he were ready to fight. As long as Michael proved himself to be an ally, Geoffrey would not allow it.
“That is good to hear.” His smile returned again. “My camp is set up just a few miles to the west of here. I was on my way to Moscow when I heard you two were close. I hoped we could join efforts and perhaps we could help one another find what it is we’re looking for.”
Geoffrey lifted his chin. “And what is it you think we’re looking for?”
Michael’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “The White Wolf of Peace.”
Geoffrey continually looked over his shoulder to peer through the trees that partially masked Michael’s small encampment. Not too far away, Hugo furiously scrubbed at his scalp that was dipped just below the surface of the water. The slow moving river served as the perfect place to wash up, conveniently close to where the vampire was patiently waiting with his blood servant.
They had talked briefly on the trek they took to the camp, but Geoffrey continued to question the vampire lord’s motives. He had never known a vampire to travel alone in this way. He knew they clung to their covens in the similar way that toddlers did to their mothers. They prided themselves on their sense of unity amongst their own kind, much like other werewolves.
Just like he had explained to Michael, Hugo and Geoffrey preferred their lives apart from the restrictions of a pack structure. They were considered rogue by many other werewolves, but they were hardly the savage beasts that myths made them out to be.
With each passing moment, Michael also seemed to break the general vampire stereotype that Geoffrey had familiarized himself with. He did not seem arrogant, bloodthirsty, or vicious in any way. This only proved to make Geoffrey more skeptical.
He scooped up some water and let it run down his muscular arm and shoulder. The soot and smoky remnants of their brush with death washed away with the cool current. Hugo lifted his head and shook out the excess water, sending droplets spraying in all directions.
Geoffrey shielded himself and splashed his younger brother teasingly. They chuckled, though both of them could hardly wish away the tension they felt.
“Do you really think he wants to help?” Hugo asked, none too quietly.
Geoffrey shushed his brother and whispered at a volume that was barely intelligible over the sound of rushing water. “He can hear you. Vampires have just as sharp of hearing as we do.” He took another look over his shoulder to see if Michael was hiding in the thicket. The scent of sulfur hadn’t come any closer since they shed their dirty clothes and dipped naked into the river. “And I think he is certainly willing to help us. For what purpose, I don’t know.”
Hugo shook his head as he wrung out his long, dark beard. Wherever they traveled, both brothers made a point of blending in with the locals. Long beards were just one of the alterations to their appearance that they abhorred. What Geoffrey wouldn’t have given for a razor to shave off every bit of blonde hair on his jaw and chin.
“I don’t trust him,” Hugo boldly stated. “Or the human. I say we take the clothes and disappear before we find out what kind of plan he really has in store for us.”
As much as Geoffrey wanted to agree to such a plan, he shook his head. “Michael’s abilities have proven to be useful so far. If he can get us into the Kremlin so we can search through the archives, we have to bear with him for a little while.”
Hugo let out a short, irritated growl and crouched into the water so he could wash off his chest and torso that was covered in a streaked layer of dark soot. “Fine. As soon as we’re out of Moscow, we’re through with him.”
Geoffrey only nodded and continued to clean himself off. Once he was satisfied, he made his way back onto the banks and used one of the clean towels Michael had provided to dry himself off. This was just one of the advantages of traveling with a wealthy patron. The other was slung over a low-lying branch. Two fresh sets of garments awaited them, both in the fashion that was suitable for the European middle-class. Though not as fancy as Michael’s clothes, they would do fine for posing as part of his entourage when they walked into the Kremlin.
The brothers rejoined Michael at the campfire where he and his blood servant sat and talked about their plans. On the edge of the encampment sat a covered carriage, just big enough for one passenger, two in a tight squeeze. Two horses were tethered not far off, and grazed on the summer grasses.
Michael stopped abruptly as the two werewolves entered camp. He grinned and gave his nod of approval. “Very nice, signori. Though, I do think you should trim your facial hair. I don’t know how long it’s been since you were in Europe, but it is not the style anymore.”
It had taken him years to grow it this long. However, if Michael could truly expedite their search, then perhaps he wouldn’t need t
o grow it out again.
Hugo didn’t need to be given permission a second time. Instead of waiting for the blood servant to fish out the razor from the pack beside him, his brother extended a long claw and began to trim away the dark hair. No doubt, it was all for show.
Geoffrey shot him a sidelong glance as he graciously took the razor and tiny looking glass from the blood servant. The fair-haired man, who appeared not too far into his twentieth year, did not seem the least intimidated by the vampire or the werewolves in his company. In fact, he behaved at ease, as if he weren’t the only human in the party. By the snippet of accent that Geoffrey picked up on their approach, he assumed the man must have been of German descent.
“Geoffrey, Hugo, this is Reitz Faust. He has been my companion for these last seven years.”
Geoffrey shot Michael a perturbed look. “Seven years? He’s served you since he was a boy?”
Reitz finally spoke up, something that neither werewolf expected. Servants and slaves did not often speak for themselves in the company of their master. “Yes, Herr Geoffrey. My father served Michael first and I was trained to take his place.”
Hugo gave a wary look to his brother, most likely thinking the same thought.
“You have my condolences,” Geoffrey said with a nod as he sat himself down beside the fire to begin grooming his beard.
“Whatever for?” Reitz asked.
“For your father,” Hugo answered.
Both Michael and his blood servant appeared confused, but Geoffrey was unwilling to explain. It took a moment for them to understand.
The Prophecy (A Legacy Series Novella) (The Legacy Series Book 4) Page 1