Squirl curtsied and blotted her lips with a lace handkerchief. “He’s on the path to the monastery. But miss, please don’t go there for the baby’s sake.”
I pushed past her with the palm of my hand. Kit followed.
A thought occurred to me as I made it to the top of the stairs. I padded back to her and held her left arm so she couldn’t wiggle away, “This Vlad guy, does he have long teeth and spinning eyeballs?”
“I think…”
“Nuts!” The yellow-eyed bathroom drooler must be this Vlad, the possible baby stealer. I headed for the stairs with Kit two paces ahead of me.
We dashed down the front steps, my buddy running belly-interference in case I stumbled. A gaggle of villagers lingered like dead plucked chickens around the hotel entrance. Gray-on-gray, plus fifty shades more. What a depressing lot.
I smiled my friendly, American, perfect-teeth grin.
They burned me with their laser beam eyes.
I gave them a little royal wave with the plunger.
They met my wave with mad-dog snarls.
“Lovable bunch,” Kit said.
“If the Louts got any friendlier they’d be chasing us with clubs. I guess the local economy doesn’t depend on tourism.”
We edged past the townies. Collectively, they smelled like creosote and potting soil. My stomach heaved.
Kit raised his arm for me and I held on with my left hand. The plunger became my walking stick to help me negotiate the rocky road. The terrain was as uneven as a Hialeah highway. Last thing I needed was a sprained ankle.
The sun dropped behind the mountain, cutting the glare and also warning us that the day was growing long in the tooth. Lunch and the dinner curfew at the Van Helsing might have to hold until tomorrow. I wondered if they had a McDonald’s in Loutish. Not that I would feed Little Roger fast food, ever. Except for Kentucky chicken.
I spotted a familiar silhouette about three-hundred feet ahead. Doctor Roger Jolley.
“Roger!” I screamed at the top of lungs. Little Roger gave me a sharp punch in my bladder. I could discern the shape of his sweet little fist. “Cool it, son.”
Big Roger stopped flat in his tracks, turned, and trotted back toward us. The expression on his face was of a kid caught watching an X-rated YouTube video.
“I couldn’t stop her,” Kit said.
Roger shook his head. “You should be resting.”
I took his hand and placed it on my tummy. “Can you feel your son kicking? He’s saying no.”
Roger touched my bump and then lowered his ear to my belly. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Little Roger is using code. He’s telling you to return to the hotel or mom’s going to tie you up like a runaway toddler, this time using double knots.”
“Wendy, I just don’t think…”
“That’s okay, you look good,” I said.
He blocked my path.
Hands on my hips I confronted him. “Do not go to the monastery! I have a bad feeling. We can find a notary in the village to marry us. Forget the monks, dead or alive.”
“You’re not enjoying this adventure, are you?” he said.
My jaws locked in a face-freezing grimace. Seven and a half months pregnant, in an unfriendly foreign country with a bunch of staked, dead monks. Yeah, I’m hard to please.
Still pissed over having to disguise my condition to get on the plane, I wanted to deck somebody, anybody. Vulgar Airlines refused to fly women in their third trimester so I was forced to wear a football jacket over my slinky DKNY maternity dress. Okay, so slinky is a bit of a stretch but still I was proud of my baby bump and wanted to show it off. Instead I had to smuggle it onboard.
Roger put his arm around my shoulders and kissed my cheek. His touch had a calming effect. “Let’s check out the monastery, cloistered or not. Obviously, if they’ve taken a vow of silence they don’t have a phone. I’m sure the folk tale about staked monks is just Squirl’s way of teasing us out of our pre-marital jitters. I’ll bet those friars are as fat and happy as Friar Tuck. At least one of them should be qualified to marry us, even if he has to do it using sign language.”
I ground my teeth. “I don’t want a sign-language wedding.”
Roger gave me a fake humor-her smile.
I smacked his shoulder. My hormones fumed.
“Okay, so I’m curious. Aren’t you?” Roger asked.
“Nope!” Kit and I said in unison.
“I planned to hold our ceremony at the top of that cliff where the monastery sits. That’s why we’re in Vulgaria. The view from that mountaintop is to die for.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I looked up at the precipice and vertigo kicked in. That was the other problem with being pregnant, my constant companions, Sleepy and Dizzy.
“We’re going to miss lunch and dinner,” I said.
“Thought of that,” Roger said. “Squirl is having double-sized sub sandwiches sent to our suite in a cooler. Bottled water and venison subs will be waiting for us whenever we’re ready to eat.”
“Bambi? I will not eat Bambi!”
“Oops. Not venison. My mistake. Roast beef.” He took me by the elbow.
“Kit, grab her arm. I’ve got this side.”
“Roger friggin’ Jolley, I am not a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon. You don’t have to hold me like that!” I squiggled to free myself from their grip of love.
Ah what the hell-heck? I let the two men in my life half-carry me up the hill. I kept tripping over their feet and bopping them with the toilet plunger. So much for allowing the male ego to lead.
It took close to thirty minutes to trudge to the abbey. I was exhausted from being helped.
“If you touch anything newly dead, consider yourself celibate for the rest of our honeymoon.” I yanked free and marched ahead of the guys.
Lately, every dang thought I thought required a re-think. Pregnancy does make you addle-brained. I should have been all over Roger for choosing Vulgaria. He owed me an explanation.
Stopping dead in my tracks like a stubborn mule, I tromped back and went nose-to-nose with my betrothed. “Of all the romantic spots in the galaxy, why here?”
Sweat dripped from his head and beads of perspiration sat on his eyelashes.
“Use your words!” I snapped.
He blushed the color of a poppy. “Mrs. MacGuffin appeared to me in December. She said if we came to Vulgaria I would find the answer to my quest.”
I could feel my eyebrows knot to the point of giving me a headache.
Kit’s eyes bounced from me to Roger and back. He was trying to follow our conversation. “Is that the old lady who called me to rescue you from that burglary caper?” he asked.
“Yes. That was Mrs. MacGuffin. She’s a psychic fairy godmother. And for the record, that was a re-theft not a burglary.”
Roger elbowed his way between us. “MacGuffin told me that if we came here before the baby was born, I might find …”
A lump formed in my throat, I fought it down and cleared my throat. “Your baby brother?”
He nodded. “We were staying at the Van Helsing when he was kidnapped.”
Chapter Seven
My anger mounted like steam in a pressure cooker left on high. I was going to blow. “How could you expose me and our baby to such a risk?” I fought for a breath and clutched my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Clueless asked.
“What’s wrong? You put our baby in danger to chase a fantasy!” I pushed him so hard he fell over. “You should have asked me first.”
Kit put his arm around me as I stumbled forward. I settled onto the ground in a heap.
“It’s not a fantasy. It’s a MacGuffin.” Roger sat yoga-style next to me. “I have tried to tell you a dozen times in the last few weeks, and each time you cut me off. You wanted to be surprised? Well … surprise.”
“You should have forced me to listen. You know how pig-headed I am. What if there is something evil here?” I waved my arms at
the Hammer Film’s forest just as a wolf stumbled onto the path.
I was not in the mood for lupine threats. “Scoot! Shoo!”
The wolf squinted his eyes as if assessing my strengths and weaknesses. He stepped back into the shadows. If that was a werewolf, he’d best find himself another tale to wag.
Tears pooled in Roger’s eyes. He looked pathetic but sexy, like Johnny Depp in Junie Moon. He needed to get his priorities straight. Sure, he’d been searching for his kidnapped baby brother for most of his life, but now he had a son on the way.
“I thought you didn’t believe in predictions. You traded our baby’s safety for your brother who is probably … never mind.” I came close to saying words I wouldn’t be able to retract.
He avoided eye contact. “Mrs. MacGuffin told me things no one else could ever know. My entire life I have blamed myself for …” He dropped his head into his hands as he choked on the words.
“I was a curious kid. I foolishly left my little brother in his stroller with some people so I could see the Lugosi Comet. I just thought they were nice peasants, I didn’t know they were gypsies. I hid in a cave and watched the comet sweep through Loutish. When I returned my baby brother was gone. I don’t know if the gypsies took him or the comet carried him off, but I must find the answer.”
I felt my heart split open. He’d never shared that part of the kidnapping with me. That was a lot of guilt for a kid to carry, but even as I stroked his head, logic replaced pity.
Could this be a trick to bait us into bringing our unborn baby to Loutish? Mrs. MacGuffin appeared to be a sweet little fairy godmother and afterlife coach, but could she be something more?
“I told Squirl I saw a monster in our bathroom mirror. She told me about Vlad and his Impala. He steals babies. Keep your eye out for a guy who looks like Donald Sutherland but shorter.”
“That’s Kiefer Sutherland,” Kit said. He squatted on the ground next to me in his satin pajamas and fluffy slippers. It was minor miracle the way he was dressed that we made it past the lurking Louts outside the Van Helsing.
He placed his arm around me and squeezed. “No one is going to get my godson before or after birth.”
Bracing my hand on my friend’s shoulder and then on top of his head, I stood, pushing Roger away. I didn’t need or want his help. Not right now. “What if the gypsies are still here? What if there’s a ring of baby thieves?” I yelled.
Roger balled his fists. “Now that I’m here in Loutish, I feel that my brother is still alive. I just need to get inside the monastery. That place holds the key.”
Torn between father and unborn son, my head ached trying to figure a safe course of action. I couldn’t let Roger go alone and I wasn’t about to let Kit accompany him and leave me with only a toilet plunger for protection. Roger’s determination would be the end of us.
I stood, gripped the plunger and marched ahead of the guys. So be it. If that’s the way Doctor Roger Stubborn-Head Jolley wanted it.
Mrs. MacGuffin dumped a prophecy on me before I became pregnant. “You will find your home, though it will not be where you left it,” she said. Did that have anything to do with home being in Loutish? Cripes, I hoped not. There wasn’t even a Starbucks here.
Chapter Eight
The monastery was a white stucco Alamo with a simple cross on the roof. The front door stood open a smidge, enough to make our entrance semi-legal. Roger led our little party into a rapidly darkening courtyard. It was as if someone had hit a rheostat and turned down the sun though it was early in the day.
A statue of Saint Francis, the patron saint of animals, stood in the stagnant moat of a stilled fountain. Arches surrounding the darkened piazza gave it a Corpse Bride setting.
I grit my teeth and bore down, trying to control the shivers that took over my body. Cobwebby, but clean to the point of obsessive-compulsive, the building looked to be a thousand years old and definitely monk-less. I knotted my left fist and held the toilet plunger at the ready in my right. If that Vlad guy appeared from the shadows he was going to get his eyeballs sucked out of his head.
Roger stood a few feet ahead of me, hands on his hips, turning his head like an owl. “When I was last here, the monks had this place locked up tighter than a jar of olives. I couldn’t open the door and they wouldn’t respond.” He kicked the base of the fountain and a chunk of stone shot loose.
“The cemetery is on the other side of that wall. Some people say the place is haunted. The furniture in the cellar is said to move and the walls vibrate. At least that was according to the priests.”
“I thought they didn’t speak.”
“They kept a log. Eventually it made its way to the archives in the British museum. Morris Quincy was director then, he shared that they found two unusually tall men buried under the altar. Never explained, but certainly odd.”
I looked at Kit. “Relatives?”
“Another legend is that the friars fearing invaders dug tunnels from the abbey to the Van Helsing where they kept huge black horses to be used in an escape.”
Voices came from beyond the wall.
Kit took a deep breath. I sensed he was about to let go with a hello yodel. I jumped up and slapped my hand over his mouth. “Shh!” His blue eyes peeked over my hand, fear registering as his orbs grew.
I waved the guys to follow me. We inched along the stucco barricade looking for an opening, perhaps a gate. Withered rose bushes littered the path and crumbled blossoms clung to the dried vines. I stumbled and Kit caught me, freeing my foot from a cluster of thorny plants. The roots of the bushes were still moist. Pruning shears and a basket lay between the bushes and the stone path. Someone had been tending these plants just recently.
One finger to his lips, Roger motioned us toward a rusty gate in the far wall. Pressing my face to the metal scrollwork I strained to peek between the iron swirls. I could see the higgidy-jiggidy tops of tombstones in the fading light. Each tombstone had a wire spiral on the top right hand corner. Were they antennas for some Vulgarian form of communication?
Kit and Roger put their shoulders to the gate, but it swung open easily with a feeble squawk. We stepped into the graveyard. Overhanging trees and a soupy mist turned the cemetery into a city of terrors befitting Madame Tussauds chamber of horrors. Torches twinkled in the half-light cast by an orange glow. Could they be crime lights?
We skirted between two open graves. I tried to look away from the pits, but as if passing an accident, my eyes were drawn to the holes in the earth. A bare yellowed head showed from one of the graves, a long broken stake extended from the corpse’s chest. I felt the earth move under my feet and my knees came a tumbling down. I reached for Roger and caught him just in time.
Steadying myself, I spotted a gang of men standing under a low-hanging willow tree. Two shotgun-wielding Louts in gray baggy pants, tattered shirts, and leather vests trained their eyes on me.
A man in a black suit, taller than Roger but shorter than Kit, stood with his back to us. His light brown hair cropped close, his suit a nice conservative fit. It spoke of Italian clothiers.
“Hey, there!” Roger called out.
His yell startled me and I stumbled on the crumbly earth, my foot performing a Fred Flintstone dance on the lip of a grave. I fell into Roger knocking us both to the ground and sending him rolling from the impact.
Mister World-Famous Archaeologist bowled into the hole landing face down on a moldy monk barely missing the stake protruding from the clergyman’s chest. He was almost pinned to a cleric for eternity.
Roger bounced into a pushup and jumped from the corpse to the edge of the pit, sweat pouring from his brow and a lunatic look in his eyes. He mounted the slippery soil, skidding and sliding. Kit extended a hand and Roger grabbed it with a smack. He climbed out of the grave and fell on the ground panting.
If the guy in the suit was in cahoots with Vlad the baby stealer, we had just revealed one of our slickest Miami Vice moves, the one where we imitate idiots.
I
scrambled to my feet. The musty smell of tomb soil snuck up my nostrils and down my throat. Coughing and sniffling, I approached the suited dude who had turned in time to witness our performance.
The man in the Italian suit was wearing a priest’s collar. I was relieved to see he was not Vlad of the mirror although his face was familiar. I hoped he wasn’t the priest who had heard my two confessions. I was only fourteen at the time. My mind flipped through my catalogue of sins, I think I was still wearing sin training wheels, so how bad could it have been?
Roger extended his hand and introduced himself, “Doctor Roger Jolley.” He scanned the graveyard with the excitement of a kid finding a train set under the Christmas tree.
“I’m Reverend Bram Soaker, you can call me Father Bram,” the priest said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, doctor.”
Kit bowed his head as if Bram were the Pope. “Kit Kennedy, Your Honor.”
Brushing the damp dirt off my knees, I hobbled closer and extended my hand to the priest. His palm was cold and soft; his eyes deep pools of sadness.
“Wendy Darlin,” I said. “I’m so sorry for your incredible loss.” My hope that the story of the slaughter of the monks was a boogieman tale now firmly dashed.
“Ah … the Americans.” He placed his other cold grave-digging hand on top of mine. “Blessings on your marriage.”
“You know?” I said.
“Loutish is a small village, the slightest news travels quickly. Your celebration will bring some modicum of joy to the town.”
“The Louts have a strange way of expressing happiness,” I said. “The staff is deserting the hotel and the villagers have been downright hostile toward us.”
“Please forgive the Louts. Right now they live in terror and confusion.” Father Bram dropped my hand moving his arm in a sweeping arc. “This savagery has the villagers falling back on their primitive beliefs. As welcome as you are, you are also strangers and so they fear you.”
“Do you know how your fellow clergymen died?” Roger asked scanning what looked like a scene from the Night of the Living Dead before they went for a stroll.
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