The Lady Rogue

by Jenn Bennett

  “I don’t know,” I said, miserable.

  She held up a firm hand. “One thing at a time. I will care for the boy. Trust me, yes?”

  I did, but that didn’t stop my hands from trembling. He looked so weak and frail. I took a handkerchief from my coat pocket and wiped the blood off his forehead. Those bastards. Did the goons do this, or was it Sarkany himself?

  “He has my father,” I murmured. “What if he’s done something like this to him? I have to go find him.”

  “If this man is working with Rothwild, then you may face two capable magicians, and that is not to mention their acolytes,” Lovena said.

  “It could be a trap,” Petar agreed.

  Mihai said, “We are certain Rothwild is in town. We do not know this Sarkany that you speak of, but perhaps he is part of the dragon order. Very dangerous.”

  “You cannot go there alone,” Lovena said. “Let me help Huck, and we can talk about what to do next.”

  “How long will it take?”

  She shook her head. “Minutes. Hours. If I cannot rouse him fully, we’ll need to take him to the hospital.”

  While my father was being held prisoner by the Order of the Dragon? “I can’t wait that long. My father could be dead.”

  “They will not kill him until he is useless,” Mihai said. “You have a bargaining chip; they have a bargaining chip. They will keep him alive until they have what they want.”

  “The castle is a dangerous place for a young girl, even one with old blood,” Petar added, giving me a sympathetic look.

  I didn’t want their sympathy. I wanted their help. “Is there anything you can do? Magic of some kind? Lovena, you gave me the talisman—will it protect me in the castle?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, shaking a viscous substance in a small bottle. “Not when harm is looking you in the face.”

  I looked at the brothers. “Is there nothing you can do?”

  “Everything we know about the castle, we have shared,” Mihai said. “There is little written about it. No paintings, no books. That note is the most we’ve heard of it in years.”

  “Under the Black Church,” his brother murmured. “That is amazing. Very smart of them. Very smart indeed.”

  “There is the old folklore . . . the children’s tale about the temple inside. Remember the rare book we sold?”

  Mihai nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s right. Local stories spoke of a temple deep inside Barlog, one that was there long before the castle was built. Parents would tell their children who didn’t behave, the dragon in the mountain would carry them away to its den inside the castle, to the ancient temple where it slept. But these were medieval stories. People also said the Pied Piper would lure children away with a magic flute.”

  They were right: that didn’t help.

  “We will try to research it,” Petar assured me. “Maybe there is something we’ve missed. It’s best to consider everything before rushing in.”

  They looked at me like a pair of frightened rabbits, adjusting their glasses and occasionally glancing toward the window, and it struck me that this is what they were: timid creatures, hiding behind magical wards, staying out of sight. But I didn’t have that luxury. I had too much to lose. My entire broken family. My tribe. Everyone I loved.

  Huck moved his head and moaned.

  “Huck!” I said. “Can you hear me? Huck?”

  Crouching over him, I tried to wake him, but he was in a daze. Like a man who’d overindulged in drink, in and out of consciousness.

  At least he was alive.

  I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to “hear” him. The cicada noise I’d heard outside was gone. Was that a good thing? Was the magic that had puppeted him now spent? Or maybe I was too panicked to hear anymore. I ran my finger over the white scar on his cheek, feeling as if I were standing alone on a beach, letting waves of jumbled emotions surge and retreat.

  “Go sit down,” Lovena encouraged. “I will nurse the boy, and the twins will figure out what to do about the castle. Be patient.”

  Anger rose inside me. They were treating me as if I were a feeble and stupid child, as if my father had all the time in the world. Were we all not staring at Huck’s listless, poisoned body? What state was my father in right now? Had I spent the last week running around Romania with dead bodies piling up, merely to sit back now and hope for the best while absolving myself with a not my problem attitude?

  No, I had not.

  Frustrated and anxious, I paced around the dusty shop while the twins argued and Lovena bent over her work, mixing her remedy. I had to trust that she could heal Huck. It was out of my control now. But my father wasn’t, and I couldn’t afford a wait-and-see approach with him, which was more than likely wait-and-dead.

  If my mother were here, what would she do? Wait by Huck’s side, praying?

  My mother never waited for anything. And she wouldn’t hesitate to go after Father, no matter the risk.

  And Huck, what would he do if our places were reversed? Would he stay with me or go after Father? I know I’d want him to go. So I had to assume he’d want the same.

  Family first.

  No one was paying attention to me. Keeping quiet, I dug around my satchel and put Father’s journal inside my coat and the iron ring box in my pocket. The door was only a few steps away. I unlocked it and reached up to silence the shop bell. Then I gave one last look at Huck and slipped out of the shop.

  JOURNAL OF RICHARD FOX

  July 27, 1937

  Cape Sounion—Athens, Greece

  On day six of our lazy tour of the beautiful Apollo Coast, Jean-Bernard and I docked his yacht at a stunning spot that overlooks the Temple of Poseidon. I could stay here for months and never tire of the blue water. Alas, I was forced to take a break from sunbathing and drove back into the city to meet with my old friend Constantine. He’d been doing a little sleuthing for me as a favor, and what he’d found was surprising.

  Seems our dear friend Mr. Rothwild has a past he’s been trying to keep buried. In 1929, he was going by his father’s surname: Bartok. With the help of some wealthy friends, he raised enough money to fund a political run for a seat in the Hungarian parliament.

  The reason Rothwild’s political career never took off was because during a 1930 fundraising trip to Romania, the twenty-year-old son of a wealthy Romanian businessman suffered a fatal head wound during an argument with Rothwild that turned violent. The incident occurred at the home of one Natasha Anca. The photograph I saw in the widow’s house makes more sense now. There were rumors that she tried to cover for Rothwild.

  Regardless, Rothwild was charged with involuntary manslaughter and publicly shamed (someone painted “killer” on his car during the trial, and a photograph of the graffiti was in the newspapers for weeks) but got off on a technicality. With his political career in shambles, he retreated to Hungary and began using his mother’s surname to rid himself of his past.

  If I had to guess, I’d say that’s about the time he decided to resurrect the Order of the Dragon.

  23

  I HURRIED AWAY FROM THE ZISSUS’ shop, determined to disappear before they realized I’d left. And if I stopped for even one second to think about what I was doing, I was afraid I’d be tempted to tuck tail and run back to safety.

  Scattered lights glowed in a few lonely windows down the long block, but no one was out walking on the street. That was good. Made it easier to spot any signs of Sarkany and his men. Nothing so far, but I half expected him to ambush me from every dark doorway. Probably should have armed myself—with what, I didn’t have a clue. If Huck were with me, he’d probably misquote some proverb about pens and swords, but thinking about that only made my heart hurt.

  After I turned a couple of corners, the town square came into view, and I spotted my destination lording over the other buildings.

  Black Church, Biserica Neagră.

  The path is unlocked under the Black Church.

  Right. So how would I find t
hat? Under a flashing sign that spelled out “Secret Entrance”? I squinted at the front of the cathedral. Beyond a low iron gate, a single candle sputtered near the Gothic cathedral’s massive wooden doors. A signal in the dark? Or merely something left behind by the stewards of the church? I didn’t know, but there was no one in sight.

  My heart hammered against my ribs. I inhaled cold night air and approached the iron gate surrounding the entrance. It was cracked open, as was one of the carved wooden doors. Just barely. Steeling myself, I slipped through the gate and entered the medieval basilica.

  I quickly glanced around the vestibule to ensure no one was lying in wait. I seemed to be alone. It was dim, but another candle sat on the floor, leading me farther inside.

  I cautiously made my way forward, my gaze sweeping over my surroundings. The church was Gothic outside, yet baroque inside, rebuilt after the massive fire that burned the building in the seventeenth century. It smelled of candle wax and old wood, especially in the cathedral’s nave. Electric spotlights shone down the walls, enough to see fraying tapestries hanging above dark pews.

  I crept down the main aisle under grand arches that soared to the ceiling, reaching above a mezzanine balcony. The white columns were rib bones, and I was striding into the belly of the whale, one with an altar crowned by massive organ pipes. Where a single candle burned on the floor.

  My heart pounded as I approached the candle at the altar. A waist-high iron gate circled a baptismal font—one that looked like a giant metal cup. Scratches marred the floor; the font had been moved to one side. Beneath it were wooden grates where baptismal water would drain below the floor. And near these grates was an open trapdoor.

  I peered over the baptismal gate and into the trapdoor.

  A steep set of stairs led into darkness.

  Under the Black Church.

  This was definitely under . . . and definitely terrifying. Not a sound down there. Shadows were still. Was I alone, or was this a snare? If it was, I’d have to take that chance. It was too late to go back.

  Muscles tense, I crept through the baptismal gate and descended dark steps.

  Candlelight from the church spilled through the slated wooden grates above my head. I steadied myself on a handrail of rope that had been strung to a wooden wall and carefully padded down the steps. Down below the altar into a small, dark space. It was cold and dank, and it smelled of mildew. Nothing but wooden supports, cobwebs, and plumbing pipes.

  I spied a small flashlight. I picked it up and switched it on. A broad column of light shone onto the dirt floor.

  And down a long subterranean tunnel lined with bricks.

  Swallowing my fear, I carefully made my way down the tunnel. Foul-smelling water dripped onto my arm. Something scuttled across the floor. Was this once used for medieval sewage? Maybe for dragging plague victims through the city. I quickened my pace and loped deeper down the dripping tunnel.

  And deeper . . .

  Was it endless?

  A claustrophobic panic tightened my chest. I stumbled through puddles, feeling like Theseus trapped in the Minotaur’s Labyrinth—unsure which was worse: the darkness ahead of or behind me. How much time had passed? Minutes? A half hour? Just when I feared I’d go mad, the tunnel canted upward. After a minute or so, my flashlight’s beam found a metal gate.

  Fresh air!

  Rusted metal whined as I pushed through and lurched outside. Chest heaving, I breathed in night air. Where was I? The gate was built into the side of a hill. A heavily wooded mountain rose in front of me. Mist clung to tree branches.

  A narrow railway track split the trees with two sets of tracks; upon one sat a compact inclined railcar.

  An old funicular railway. The hidden path up the mountain.

  But not one that languished in disuse: several sets of footprints tracked through the crunchy snow. It was impossible to tell how fresh they were, but I listened cautiously and heard no movement. Saw none, either, though this gave me little comfort.

  Leery, I approached the lone funicular car and peered inside. It looked big enough to accommodate three or four passengers. The rear and front doors were missing, through which a forlorn wind whistled.

  I climbed inside. A single lever protruded between two bench seats. I pulled it. A terrible grating noise shook the old car as the motor groaned. Then the car jerked into motion and began climbing the track.

  Up the mountain.

  Into darkness and mist.

  Brașov’s lights were a blanket of fallen stars, winking up at me from below. I clung to a cracked leather handle near one of the windows. A companion car descended from the top of the mountain on the adjoining track. The cars were connected: one went up, and the other went down. And when they passed each other, I shone my flashlight into the second ghost car, half expecting another rider to jump out at me.

  But no. Empty.

  Fog thickened around the car. I couldn’t see the city anymore. Nor the stars. Then the car slowed. It came to an uneasy stop, roughly clanking into place. I leapt out of the funicular onto snowy gravel.

  My flashlight’s beam bounced around snow-dusted evergreen trees. Forest. Dense, gray fog. A narrow path headed away from the funicular car and wound through the trees. I followed it.

  The path was well worn and mostly uphill, whiplashing around trees and underbrush. The fog was thick. It was difficult to see past my own feet, and the woods were dark. Every sound amplified inside my head. Twigs snapping. Wings fluttering. An owl hooting. I felt exposed. Unprotected.

  Unsafe.

  I hiked up the foggy wooded path until the forest opened to a large moonlit clearing. And in the distance, just up a gently sloping path that curved around the clearing’s right side, I spotted the silhouette of a large building.

  Barlog.

  The castle that didn’t exist. Forgotten. Yet here it stood, black against the rocky mountaintop. A spiny giant with flying buttresses and needlelike spires that pierced the mist. No light shone from its stained-glass windows. No life, either. Derelict, it crouched and slumbered against the mountain’s peak. Difficult to see where the castle ended and the craggy stone began.

  My heart thudded inside my chest. A flurry of snowflakes swirled in a bitter wind. I shivered. Pulled my coat collar tight around my neck. And I approached the sleeping giant.

  The castle’s entrance yawned across a stone terrace. More footprints trampled the snow here. Were they coming or going? And how many? I couldn’t tell.

  I stopped in front of heavy wooden doors. Two menacing dragon-head knockers stared back at me. I tried a rusting door handle. It snicked. I held my breath. Then I pulled the door open wide enough to peer inside with my flashlight.

  My flashlight’s glaring beam fanned over a ruined entrance hall. Rubble. Weeds. Snow. Broken windows. A grand staircase, broken and blocked by fallen debris.

  Dark. Deserted. Forsaken.

  A good place for bats to breed.

  A good place to disappear . . .

  If the entrance hall was the giant’s head, a corridor tucked behind the broken staircase was its spine. And it was there that I spied the only sign of life in the dark castle: a lone pinpoint of light. Flickering.

  Beckoning.

  The trembling in my hands worsened as I crept through the castle door. Hard to focus when my flashlight shook. But I picked my way across snow-covered rubble. Under the ruined staircase and into the slumbering giant’s spine. A dozen dark hallways crossed the great hall like arteries. Every step I made echoed around crumbling stone walls. But I pressed on, eyes fixed on the flickering light ahead.

  The corridor ended on the other side of several old chairs that had been piled into a heap like broken kindling. There, an open archway was poorly guarded by a rusted gate. Half of it had collapsed into a pile of loose stones. I stepped around the old gate. Ducked through the open archway. That’s where I found the source of the light I’d been tracking.

  Candlelight in a cavern.

  The castle w
as built in front of a small cave.

  Inside the mountain—that’s what the Zissu brothers had said.

  Several candles were strewn about the floor of the cavern, melting into one another—layers of puddling wax built up from years of use. And in the center was a standing stone, bigger than me and roughly carved into a double-barred patriarchal cross. Old. Hundreds of years maybe.

  But this space—the stone cross, the candles—was only an entrance. An antechamber. A dark cavern tunnel sat in flickering shadows on the back wall, leading deeper into the mountain.

  I glanced over my shoulder, back into the castle’s long corridor. Quiet. Still. Nowhere to go but forward. So I pressed on. Across the small candle-strewn cave. Into the rocky tunnel.

  Stalagmites grew up from the floor like stone flowers, and it smelled of loam and fungus. I took three steps. Four. One more. The tunnel turned sharply left. Around the tight corner, pale fingers of light traced the rocky tunnel walls. And as I crept forward, I emerged inside a second cavern.

  A massive one.

  If the cave behind me was an antechamber, this was the ballroom, dimly lit by a dozen candles. But instead of twirling dancers in its center, there was a black lake.

  I’d never seen anything like it: dark, still water . . . and a viscous black substance dripping from the ceiling above. A stone bridge crossed the dark pool, and on the far side—sitting upon an isolated rocky terrace at the back of the cavern—was a towering statue, carved into a massive chunk of stone.

  A great winged beast. Dragon’s lair.

  Ancient temple. The stuff of local fairy tales to scare children.

  Only, it was real.

  A steady flame flared from the statue’s mouth, casting its twisted shape in shadowed relief while illuminating the cavern ceiling above. The serpentlike body of the mythic monster was wrapped around a massive cross.

  The Order of the Dragon’s symbol.

  To the left of the statue, a natural shaft in the cavern wall let in a diagonal column of pale moonlight. It shone over the black lake’s oily surface, iridescent and still. A sludgy naphtha-like scent tainted the air.