“No way,” I say, crossing the muddy track to speak to the driver.
“This just keeps getting better,” Joe says, and I wish he was being sarcastic, but he’s not.
I pull out my phone and open the translation app, saying, “Is this the coach for Langford going to Armista.”
A few seconds later, the phone says something garbled in Romanian and the old man smiles, revealing two widely separated front teeth. He nods enthusiastically, saying, “Da. Da.” Which I always thought was stereotypical Russian for yes, but I guess the two languages are closely related.
We climb up into the buggy and the old man whips his horse, spurring the mare to action.
Joe is grinning like a kid at the fairground. I must admit, I didn’t know places like this existed anymore. I just assumed the whole world was racing into the modern age.
We trundle past stone walls separating pastures, sheep grazing on spring grass, cows sauntering in the warm sunlight, and birds flitting between the trees. As we cross a stone bridge that looks like something out of The Hobbit. I can’t help myself—I start snapping photos like the tourist I am. I hope there’s somewhere that sells souvenirs, although they’ve probably never heard of MasterCard or Visa. For a moment, I can forget about the madness that has dragged us half way around the world.
“What do you think she’s doing out here?” Joe asks, shaking me out of tourist mode. “I mean, she’s flipped out, or something, right? And we’re dealing with a mental breakdown. Do you think she’s acting out some wild fantasy? How are we going to talk her down?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m hoping that just seeing us, talking with us, will help her come around.”
“So classic intervention,” Joe says. “We confront her, challenging her to accept reality.”
“I guess,” is all I can say in reply. I really don’t know.
As we climb higher up the mountainside, weaving in and out of thick pockets of forest and wild meadows, the temperature drops. The sun is still warm, but the air has a vicious chill. It’s late afternoon before we reach the village of Armista.
As we approach a steep slope leading up to the village, the horse becomes unsettled. Foam forms around its mouth. Salt sweat stains its hide, although I thought that was from the exertion of pulling us up the track. The horse gets jumpy, rearing and pulling away from the track.
“Pe, la naiba te. Pe,” the old man cries, standing as he grips the reins with one hand, whipping the horse repeatedly with the other, but the poor animal is terrified, refusing to move forward. The mare rears, tipping the buggy to one side as she stamps her feet. In the North America, horses react like this to snakes, but in the bitter cold of Eastern Europe, I doubt that’s what has upset the animal.
“It’s all right,” I cry out as the driver thrashes his horse in what can only be described as bitter anger. “We can walk from here.”
Joe and I jump from the buggy, much to the disgust of the driver pleading with both us and the horse to continue on.
“It’s fine, really,” I say, forgetting his English is limited. I'm more concerned about him beating his horse to death. The village is less than a hundred yards away up the slope. “We’re fine.”
By repeating the same word, and gesturing with outstretched hands, I hope he realizes we’re not upset with him or his horse.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and start up the hill. The driver turns the buggy around, but struggles to control the horse as it tries to bolt down the hill.
Joe looks at me. I look at him. Nothing’s said, but we both feel a sense of foreboding in the air. The sun sits low in the sky. We’re not going to have much time to recharge our phones with our solar panels.
Joe looks at his phone, saying, “I think I know why the trail stops here.”
He holds the phone up so I can see the screen—No Signal.
“So much for Google Translate,” I say, realizing we are cut off from the outside world.
We trudge up the hill, fighting against the soft mud sticking to our shoes, and walk into the village of Armista.
Thatched rooftops and stone walls leave me with the impression we’ve been transported back in time to the fifteenth century. There can’t be more than twenty homes in the village, but there’s a shop at the heart of the tiny hamlet, next to a hut with a sign for Poliția, the police. Directly across the road from the police station is a building with a ubiquitous red cross and the English word, Doctor.
“I’ll talk to the police,” I say. “They can't get too many tourists up here. Maybe they’ve seen her.”
“I’ll go talk to the doctor,” Joe says.
I walk into the police station, which is a one room hut connected to the shop next door by an internal wooden door. There’s a holding cell in the back corner of the station, but it looks more like an animal cage from a traveling circus than a jail cell, not being part of the structure of the building. I ring an old fashioned bell sitting on a desk beside a Bakelite phone from the 1950s, and the shopkeeper from next door comes through wearing an apron.
“You have a crime to report?” he asks, taking his apron off and dumping it on the desk. I presume he’s speaking in English on account of my clothing. He’s roughly my age, but his hair is unkempt and dirty. His face is pitted, scarred by some form of pox or measles, probably occurring in early adulthood from what I can tell. In America, this was once common, but for the past sixty years, vaccinations have spared people such disfigurement, making his face all the more hideous to behold as he seems out of touch with my generation.
“Ah,” I say, pulling my wallet out and showing him a picture of Jane. “I’m looking for my wife, an American woman traveling through here about a week ago.”
“Haven’t seen jåån,” he says, gathering his apron.
“Wait,” I cry, saying, “But you know her name, Jane.”
“Jåån,” he says. “Woman.” And my heart sinks.
“She came through here,” I insist. “Last week.”
“You should leave,” he replies. “Before sundown. It is not safe for you to stay. Many robbers. I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“I need to find my wife.”
“You will not find her if she does not want to be found,” the man says.
“You have seen her,” I say.
“No good will come from this,” he says, ignoring my accusation. “It is best that you leave.”
“Where did she go?”
He pauses by the internal door, with his fingers already gripping the handle, half turning the lock. He looks at me, looking down at my clothing and then back to my face. Without any emotion, he says, “You cannot help her.”
“Please,” I say. “I need to see her.”
He breathes deeply, and I can see he’s fighting regret. He doesn’t want to tell me, but he will, I can see it in his eyes. There’s a glimmer of compassion behind his stony expression.
“Goat herders spoke of a woman by the ruins, but you must respect the old ways, the traditions of the past. They said she was vrolok—one that feeds on the living.”
“But you don’t believe that,” I say.
He shrugs his shoulders, saying, “What I believe makes no difference. If she is your wife, she is no more. She is beyond help.”
He opens the door and leaves, calling out to someone in the shop next door.
I wander out onto the muddy track running through the village.
Joe comes jogging over.
“Well, you’re never going to guess what I found out,” he says.
“What?” I ask, not in the mood for games.
“I spoke to the doctor. She’s been here for eighteen months and has seen more infectious disease than I have in fifteen years. Hepatitis A and B, measles, encephalitis, typhoid fever, yellow fever, and get this. Polio. Goddamn fucking polio.”
He pauses, waiting to see if I’m going to respond, before saying, “We should have had shots before we left the USA.”
“Well,”
I say. “So long as you don’t sleep with her, you won’t get hep B.”
“Haha,” he cries, slapping me on the shoulder. “Yep, there’s at least one disease I won’t take back stateside.”
“Well, the cop is useless. He moonlights as the storekeeper.”
“So what’s next?” Joe asks.
“I’m going to scout around, show Jane’s picture to a few of the locals and see if anyone recognizes her.”
“Okay,” Joe says. “I’m going to stick with the doctor. She’s treating a few locals with bite marks from wild animals that may have rabies.”
“I’ll meet you back here at sunset,” I say, feeling we need some kind of plan.
“Sounds good,” Joe says, taking my bag from me. “Oh, and don’t eat anything. Nothing. And boil the fuck out of any water. If you do eat something, make sure it’s been cooked to an indistinguishable pulp. I don’t want to drag your sorry ass back to America with hepatitis.”
I nod, and we part ways. Joe jogs back into the clinic, while I walk up the track.
In the distance, high above the village, I see a broken stone wall hidden among the trees.
Chapter 2:04 — Castle Dracula
What looked like a couple of hundred feet turns into an hour long slog through thick forest. Pockets of snow line the ground in the shade. The track weaves between fir trees with low hanging boughs blocking the path. At points, I can hear the sound of goat bells drifting on the breeze, but I don’t see them or their herders. The sun sits dangerously low in the sky, threatening to plummet below the horizon, but I push on, determined to reach the ruins.
A wolf howls in the distance, but it’s the sight of fresh paw prints in the soft mud that sends a chill through my bones. I can distinguish several footprints on the muddy track, but they’re distinctly different from my boots. Instead of regular tread marks, they’re broad and flat, as though they were made by business shoes rather than hiking boots. From what I can tell, they’ve been made today, as they’re crisp and well defined. The sight of paw prints crossing over the top of them is unnerving. Large pads, with a clear imprint of claws, along with the occasional tuft of fur caught on a low-lying branch have me second guessing myself. I should go back. I should come here early tomorrow with Joe. Perhaps we could find a guide in the village.
Suddenly, a series of broad stone steps emerge from the forest, and I realize I’ve arrived at the ruins. Moss clings to the steps, growing in clumps and smothering the stones. As I walk up the steps, a clearing opens out before me, sparsely populated with young trees and uneven cobblestones. The cobblestones have been lifted by tree roots over the centuries, leaving some of them overturned.
Through the trees I can see the ruins of a castle wall. Crumbling stones line the edge of the clifftop overlooking the valley. In the distance, I can make out the village in the dying rays of sunlight. Weeds and sapling trees grow out of the cracks in the paving stones, springing to life following a harsh winter. Burnt wood lies to one side, marking what looks like a vast hall near the entrance. Large wooden beams lie scattered like bowling pins even though moving just one of them would require a dozen men.
“Hello?” I call out, unable to shake the thought I’m being watched. “Jane? Are you there?”
Broken ramparts give way to the castle proper, with the fortifications hidden from view, nestled against a cliff reaching up to the mountain top. From what I can tell, this castle must have acted as a gateway through some kind of alpine pass. Its location seems more strategic than regal, and yet the coat of arms on the keystone above the archway is proud, almost defiant. Etched into the stonework is the image of wolves overlaid on a black shield with swords crisscrossed beneath.
The wind howls around me. Stones cover the forecourt, having been torn from the walls and strewn like boulders after an avalanche.
Several archways stand where once stone walls must have housed kings and queens as they travelled the land, and I wonder what this castle looked like when it teemed with life.
As I walk on, several crows take flight. Their dark wings are as resplendent as they are menacing. The birds call to each other. Their shrill voices echo off the jagged cliff, setting me on edge.
The layout of the castle is such that a courtyard dominates the entrance. Stone buildings are set to the rear, out of sight from the village easily a mile away in the distance. Most of the buildings have been laid waste, but a few still stand, with burnt-out rooftops leaving them exposed to the elements. I catch a glimpse of a pale lady staring out of a window in one of the towers looking across the valley.
“Jane?” I utter under my breath.
If she sees me, she doesn’t respond. She’s wearing a cotton nightgown, something far too flimsy and thin for this cold weather. I want to call out to her, but getting her attention feels wrong, it feels as though I would be making a grievous mistake. Instead, I hide from sight, crouching beside a low stone wall. I watch as she walks away from the window, disappearing into the ruins. I have to find her. I have to reach her.
Dark clouds rumble overhead. Flashes of lightning announce a coming storm, but I will not be deterred. I’m so close. And yet I have no idea what I’ll do when I catch up to her. What should I say? I need to know what happened in Boise. I need to understand what happened to her in that house with Jasmine. Why did she attack me? Why did she run to Europe?
I creep forward, trying to figure out how to reach Jane. Picking my way through the burnt-out ruins, I’m shocked to see human bones lying beneath a collapsed section of roof. White bleached bones form a rib cage and spine, but there’s no sign of a skull or hip, arm or leg bones. Dating a dead body left exposed to the elements isn’t easy, as such a corpse would probably have been ravaged by wild animals after death, and has certainly been exposed to insects and bacteria, but the lack of any skin or scraps of withered flesh clinging to the bones has me thinking centuries rather than decades have passed. These bones are as white as marble, dispelling the notion they ever harbored life. The ribs have been crushed on one side, immediately next to the sternum, leaving a gaping hole over where the heart once lay. Whether these are the remains of a man or a woman, I know not, but whoever this was, they met a violent, bloody death. And I shudder, confronted by my own mortality.
I want to turn back. And yet I feel compelled to go on. I am giddy, with a sense of vertigo not unlike what I've felt when standing on a building rooftop without a safety rail. The fall calls to me, luring me closer to the edge, daring me to look down, and I snap my mind back to reality, creeping alongside a collapsed stone wall.
The wind groans, swirling among the fir trees and moving the upper branches.
A light rain begins to fall as I climb a set of stone stairs that originally must have ascended within the great hall toward the living quarters at the rear of the castle.
I am drawn on as though I'm caught in a tide, with my legs simply giving way to the current as it surges around me, urging me on.
Lightning breaks overhead, followed immediately by the crash of thunder, shaking my bones.
Daylight is replaced with darkness as clouds blot out the setting sun. My hands are shaking, but I have to see her. I have to talk reason to Jane. I’ve come so far. I can’t go back when she’s so close. I refuse to believe in such silly fables as vampires and werewolves. There must be some other rational explanation for all that has happened, and I am sure talking with Jane will provide me with answers.
I reach a stone balcony overlooking the courtyard, immediately below the window where Jane appeared. Moss clings to the marble balustrades. The remains of a sword lie beside the skeleton of a severed hand. The last of the snow clings to the dark corners of the wall.
A vast doorway leads into darkness, opening out into what once must have been the throne room. Rusted hinges reveal where thick wooden doors must have barred the entrance in ancient days. Slowly, I creep into the shadows. The slightest noise—the howl of the wind, the rustle of the trees, and the haunting call of crows,
has me jumping in fright. I’m struggling to hold my nerve.
A large bat takes flight, sweeping past me with its leathery wings grasping at the air. Claws stretch out from within the dark membrane of its wing, and the creature turns its head, facing me with its hideous, bloody mouth open. The bat snarls at the fool intruding on its haunt. And then the winged creature is gone as quickly as it came, leaving me shivering in the cold.
“Don’t freak out,” I whisper to myself. “Nothing to fear. Nothing but silly superstitions.” As logical and rational as that thought is, I can’t convince myself to believe it.
Lightning ripples through the clouds, followed by the low rumble of thunder, and in the brief flash I see a row of stone coffins arranged in front of me in the darkened interior of the castle. They’ve been set as though in a mausoleum, with stone vases and dead flowers arranged before them. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
I creep forward with my heart pounding in my ears like war drums. Run, you idiot. But no, once I got back to the village, I know I'd feel stupid for panicking in fright. Back there, my reactions here would seem foolish.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see the stone lids have been carved with the likeness of men and women lying in state. They’re content, with their legs outstretched, their arms folded across their chests, and eyes that stare blindly at the ceiling, depicting a peace they surely could never have known in life.
Each of the stone coffins is sealed, all but one. The stone lid on the coffin closest to the far window has been pried off and has fallen to the floor, breaking in half. At a guess, the lid weighs four or five hundred pounds, and I wonder who could have shifted such a weight. Perhaps there was a team of grave robbers at work, but their determination is surprising given the other coffins remain untouched and intact.
I inch closer, astonished by what I am seeing. The underside of the broken lid has scratch marks digging into the stone. It is as though some wild beast was trapped inside and died trying to claw its way out.
We Are Legion (van Helsing Diaries Book 2) Page 5
