Try as she might, Varanus could not line up a proper shot on the beast pursuing her. Cursing aloud in French, she turned her horse and cut across the clearing toward the creature that pursued Iosef. As she came in range, Varanus fired twice in rapid succession. One shot hit, tearing a chunk of flesh from the beast’s leg. It howled and fell as its leg gave way, and it tumbled over as its momentum carried it past its balance.
Varanus turned in the saddle to see if the second beast was still behind her. She saw that it had changed course as well and now rushed to intercept her from the front. Varanus turned to evade and saw the first beast loom up before her.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Her weapon empty, she lashed out with the butt end and caught the beast on the brow. It was not enough. The beast’s claws struck in two great swipes, and Varanus’s horse all but disintegrated beneath her. Blood and meat erupted in her face, and fragments of bone tore through her clothes and body like shrapnel.
Varanus was not quite certain if she lost consciousness. Certainly, her fall was muddled and confused, but the impact of striking the frozen ground instantly brought her back around and forced the fog from her mind. She smelled the stench of the beasts clearly now, but she could see nothing. There was a painful weight suspended across her lower body, and she found that she could not feel one of her legs.
What remained of her horse had fallen on top of her. This made her angry. She had raised that horse from a foal. She liked that horse.
And why wouldn’t her damn eyes open?
Varanus clawed at her face with her hands and felt drying blood everywhere. The gummy mass had caked over her eyelids, sealing them shut. She pulled and scratched until she could finally open them.
She saw the wounded beast looming over her, its jaws split apart in a hideous expression not unlike that of a man’s smile. Breath like steam flowed from its mouth and nostrils, carrying with it the stench of old meat.
Varanus drew her howdah pistol and leveled it at the beast’s face in a single motion. The beast proved the quicker, and before she could fire, it struck her arm with a heavy sweep of its forepaw. The pistol tumbled out of her grip, and the beast’s claws tore her arm and hand to pieces. Varanus let out a cry of pain and rage.
No! she thought, snarling like an animal. I will not be eaten by the likes of you!
The beast roared back at her. A moment later, Iosef’s elephant gun sounded, and the beast shuddered. Whining in pain, it turned away from Varanus and toward Iosef, who rode atop his horse midway across the clearing, still pursued by the other creature.
The moment’s distraction was all that Varanus required. Her right arm was useless—nothing below the elbow would move—but her left still obeyed her. Rolling onto her side, she felt around half-blindly, searching for the howdah pistol that lay somewhere in the snow nearby.
The beast above her, now half-engaged by Iosef, hesitated and took a few stumbling steps toward him. Its mangled leg would not cooperate, however, and it seemed to realize the futility of the effort. Varanus saw it turn back toward her, and her fingers scrabbled in the snow, desperately seeking her weapon.
Damn it, where is it?
Suddenly, she felt the back of her hand brush the smooth wood of the pistol grip. She grabbed it just as the beast turned back toward her. As it dove in for the kill, she shoved the howdah pistol against its throat and pulled both triggers.
The recoil of the shot hit Varanus in the chest, knocking the wind from her. The bullets tore through the soft flesh beneath the beast’s skull and burst out the back of its head in a shower of brain and bone. It let out a surprised gasp, little more than a wheeze, and stared into Varanus’s eyes. It looked genuinely surprised, far more like a man than an animal. Then the light in its eyes faded, and it collapsed atop her.
Exhausted and bloody, Varanus stared into the sky and tried to block out the pain that filled her body. A shape loomed over her, obscuring the moon.
It was Korbinian.
“Resting, liebchen?” he asked.
“I am in agony,” Varanus said.
“That is because you should be dead,” Korbinian said. He smiled. “I am glad that you are not.”
“As am I,” Varanus replied.
“Tell me, liebchen, what has become of the Russian?” Korbinian asked.
“He is—” Varanus began.
The second beast!
A burst of adrenaline coursed through her body as this realization struck. She quickly sat up and gasped at the pain of movement. Several of her ribs were broken, and she suspected internal bleeding. She turned her head and spat blood.
Definitely internal bleeding.
No matter, she would heal.
Varanus looked across the field and saw Iosef still leading the second beast on a merry chase in the moonlight. But even at that distance, Varanus could tell that his horse was tiring and the beast was not.
I must help him!
Varanus squirmed against the ground, struggling to pull herself free from the mound of bodies that pinned her. One leg was shattered; she could feel as much. The other ached from cracked bones, but it still responded. Kicking violently, she managed to free it from the dead weight of the corpses.
Across the clearing, she saw Iosef kick his feet out of the stirrups and climb atop his saddle, bobbing up and down like a cork upon a stormy sea. Varanus was astonished to see him keep his balance.
Iosef drew a pair of revolvers from beneath his coat and leveled them at the beast pursuing him. As the tree line neared, he leapt into the air and began shooting, emptying the revolvers as quickly as they could fire. The bullets struck the beast and tumbled away, seemingly without impact, but the attack made it look up. Iosef’s horse fled into the trees, forgotten.
At the height of his jump, Iosef threw the revolvers aside and drew a pair of long daggers from his belt. He tucked his body into a ball and dove feet-first toward the beast, which rose onto its hind legs and spread its arms and jaws to greet him.
Varanus watched his descent with wide eyes, her breath caught in her throat.
Was Iosef mad? To attack such a creature with knives was suicide!
A moment later, Iosef struck the beast full in the chest and brought his daggers down into its flesh. The beast roared and dug its claws deep into Iosef’s back. The two of them tumbled into a heap of writhing, bleeding fury.
Certain of Iosef’s doom, Varanus kicked at the remains of her horse, which still pinned her other leg. Her bloody boot slipped against the leather of her saddle as she struggled to gain some leverage. Finally it found purchase, and Varanus pushed hard with her good leg. With the burning of broken bones and torn flesh, her dead leg finally slid free from beneath the heap of corpses.
She looked toward Iosef and the second beast, but she could make little of them. Their fight was confused and bloody, and in the poor light, Varanus could not tell which, if either, had the advantage. Neither claws nor teeth nor steel flashed in the moonlight; they were too thickly covered by blood to make any reflection.
Damn him, he will not die! Varanus thought. My grandfather! My horse! But not my mentor!
But what could she do to aid him? She could not walk nor could she fire her elephant gun with only one hand. The howdah pistol. It would have to do, though she feared for its accuracy at such a range.
Rolling onto her side, Varanus grabbed the weapon and forced it open. Her pouch of cartridges had spilled all over the ground in her fall, and it took her a moment to find two fresh rounds.
Reloading, she began to crawl across the bloodstained snow toward the fight. She saw vicious wounds on both the beast and Iosef, wounds that cut all the way to the bone in places. One great swipe from the beast tore half of Iosef’s beautiful face away, though Varanus counted it a miracle that the blow did not kill him. Iosef, shouting war cries in the Svanish tongue, stabbed and tore at the beast’s flesh with no thought for his own safety.
He means to die! Varanus thought. And to take the beast with
him in his death throws!
She would not have that.
Breathing hard, Varanus crawled closer and closer to the fight, ignoring each ache and shudder that wracked her body. She should be dead by now, but she lived.
Halfway to the fight, Varanus’s arm gave out, and she collapsed into the snow. She could crawl no further. Sucking in fresh air, she let out a scream of anger and shoved her dead arm in front of her. At least it could still serve as a gun brace in its crippled state.
Leveling the howdah pistol, Varanus waited until she was certain the beast stood the nearer to her. She saw Iosef fall to the ground, his body torn and bloody and exposed to the bone in many places. The beast reared up and howled in triumph.
“No!” Varanus shouted as she fired.
The howdah pistol bucked in her hand, but her aim was true. Both bullets struck the beast in its lower back, tearing into its thick hide. The beast roared again and turned toward Varanus. Jaws gaping, it snarled at her as if to say, “You are next.”
Iosef rose from the ground in a blur of rent and bloody flesh. He grabbed the beast by the jaw and pulled down hard, forcing its head to one side and exposing its neck. He raised his dagger high into the air and plunged it deep into the beast’s throat.
Blood sprayed into the air. Iosef had struck the artery. The beast howled and struggled, but Iosef held it fast, kicking its legs out from beneath it to keep it restrained. Hungrily, Iosef pressed his mouth against the geyser of blood and drank deeply. Soon the beast’s struggle weakened as it teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. Its claws lashed out for Iosef but found only the dirt and snow beneath it. Finally, its eyes rolled back into its head, and it went still with a feeble whine.
Iosef threw the beast to the ground and stood, suddenly revitalized. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stretched as his flesh began to knit together. His bones reformed and set with audible cracks as he walked toward Varanus. He brushed back his hair with one hand as the skin regrew across his face, leaving neither mark nor scar. By the time he reached Varanus, his body was whole, pale and beautiful in the moonlight, though still wet with blood. His clothes, now little more than tatters, draped about him like the shroud of some gothic king.
“Well done,” Varanus,” he said, kneeling beside her. “I thank you for your assistance.”
“I only returned the favor, my lord,” Varanus said weakly.
Iosef gently scooped Varanus into his arms and carried her toward the corpse of the second beast.
“Come,” he said. “The creatures have fed recently. Their blood is hearty and strong. Drink of what remains, and you will be whole again.”
Now that the fighting was done, Varanus felt the adrenaline ebbing from her. She wanted nothing but to sleep for an eternity. The prospect of drinking from the beast did not appeal to her.
“You have already done so,” she said to him, as she rested her head against his shoulder. “Can I not drink of you?”
“You know you cannot, Varanus,” Iosef replied. “You know that our blood is poison to each other as it is to mortals. Besides, we are not cannibals, are we?”
“Speak for yourself,” Varanus answered weakly.
Iosef laughed at this. Reaching the beast, he set her down beside it and lifted its head for her. It had nearly bled out, but there remained enough blood for the task. Varanus drank from the wound, slowly at first but with increasing eagerness. The richness of the blood was incredible, like venison compared to beef.
As the warmth of life filled her, Varanus felt the ache of her bones reforming, the prickling of new tissue closing her wounds. Soon the exhaustion was gone, and she felt invigorated again.
When her leg had reformed enough for her to stand, Iosef offered her his hand and helped her up.
“You did well tonight, Varanus,” he said. “Very well indeed.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Varanus said. She frowned. “Though I am not pleased about my horse. And my hat is gone. Crushed beneath it, I should think.”
“A tragedy,” Iosef said. “I am certain Ekaterine will mourn its loss with you.”
Varanus scoffed and said, “She will insist upon celebration!”
“Indeed,” Iosef said.
He whistled loudly, and a minute later his horse appeared from the forest, trotting across the clearing to reach its master. Iosef took it gently by the reins and stroked its head, murmuring to calm it. Once the horse was steady, he swung up into the saddle.
“Come Varanus,” he said, offering her his hand. “Let us go home.”
“I will gladly go anywhere that a warm bath awaits me,” Varanus replied, taking his hand and climbing up behind him.
She wrapped her arms around Iosef’s waist and held on as he urged his horse back into the woods in the direction of the dogs. What a night it had been, she thought. Tragedy, violence, sorrow, and blood. And yet, she felt more alive than ever.
But one thought worried her even in the midst of victory. The beast that had attacked her and Korbinian was not some lone anomaly. There were more like it, many more it seemed. And far spread enough to be in both France and in Georgia. What were they? How could specimens have appeared in two such distant places without being recorded by science?
These were questions she would answer, she decided, once the awful business of France was concluded.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Normandy, France
It was the better part of two weeks before Varanus was able to depart for France. The delay was partly the result of packing and preparations, which included securing passage on a ship and obtaining the appropriate stock of foreign currency for the journey. But this was exacerbated by Sophio, who for eight days refused to allow anyone to depart from the valley on account of her conviction that foreign invaders—either the Mongols or the Turks depending on the day—had occupied the Georgian lowlands and were about to lay siege to Svaneti.
When this latest veil of madness lifted, it was like every such incident that Varanus had seen over the years: Sophio denied any knowledge of it and even berated several of the Shashavani who continued to prepare for war on her prior instructions. Varanus secretly wished that Iosef’s rebellion would take place in her absence so that she could return home from her business in France to a household of sanity and order.
Despite this delay, the journey to France passed quickly, seemingly in no time at all as Varanus kept herself locked in her cabin, poring over some research notes with her customary indifference to the passage of day and night. When they finally arrived at their destination, she found Normandy as she remembered it, quaint and rustic.
The Varanus household had not changed either, save for the advancing years of the servants. Old Proust had retired in her absence, but Varanus was pleased to discover that Vatel had been advanced as butler in his place. Cook was the same as she had always been, though older now and with far more wrinkles. Varanus’s old lady’s maid had been let go after her departure, but Father’s and even Grandfather’s valets remained in the house.
Varanus knew that the servants were astonished by her continued youth, even now, fifteen years after her departure. Only Vatel said anything, remarking simply that she looked “exceedingly well in light of the passing years,” if she would pardon him for saying so.
No one seemed to know what to make of Luka and Ekaterine. This did not surprise Varanus. Though they traveled in the guise of servants, Varanus could not bring herself to treat them as such. Indeed, it was only at Ekaterine’s insistence that they took their meals with the household staff instead of with Varanus. It would not do, she said, to appear too out of place. The locals would already regard them as peculiar for being foreign.
It did not surprise Varanus to learn that Father was bedridden. She went to him first thing upon arriving. The man she found was a shadow of himself, which was saying something quite significant as he had always been a shadow of Grandfather. Father simply looked old, older even than Grandfather had looked at that age. His hair
had passed from gray almost to white, and his face, worn and heavily lined, looked exhausted. It was as though he had given up altogether and was simply waiting for the inevitable end. Grandfather’s death was clearly too much for him to bear.
It did not take Varanus long to see that the longed-for end would be soon in coming. Pneumonia, she realized. He must have suffered a severe chill during the winter. And coupled with the shock of Grandfather’s death, it had, no doubt, grown unchecked into its present state. Varanus knew by the end of the first night that there would be no saving him. Indeed, it was a miracle that he had lingered on so long.
She felt sorrow at this realization, but it was dulled by a sort of forlorn acceptance. So many had died already: a mother she had never met, siblings taken in infancy or childhood, dearest Korbinian and their Alistair, Grandfather.… One more seemed the inevitable outcome. And Father looked so tired. All he seemed to want was peace.
Varanus sat with him as much as she could, though it was strained. They spoke little for there was little to say. What could Varanus tell him of her new life? She had little interest in the affairs of Society, and by now Father had fallen out of touch with it. The one thing that Varanus could discuss for hours on end—medicine—passed Father’s understanding like a bird flying over a horse.
So they sat in silence, Varanus watching Father as he tried to sleep. They passed two days in this manner, with Varanus taking her meals in the room and helping him with his—though Father ate almost nothing.
Toward midnight on the second day, Varanus heard Father murmuring something to her. It was the first he had spoken in hours.
“Yes, Father?” Varanus asked.
Father felt for her hand and held it in both of his. Varanus could feel his bones through the skin. The touch made him seem even more withered.
“Babette,” Father said. His voice caught in his throat, and he coughed violently. “Babette, I fear it will not be much longer.”
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