So . . . whoever this was, he didn’t hide himself in the village. He either lived in another village, or more likely, had a cave somewhere in these hills.
That might be the explanation for why the killings started forty years ago; a shifter had arrived here from somewhere else, then discovered the area was fundamentally unguarded. With no one around who could see magic to track him, as long as he retained human intellect and muddled his trail accordingly, he would have been safe from purely human hunters. But could this shifter be that old?
She looked down at the body. There was no sign of graying hair, but that didn’t mean anything, not really. Old wolves only got gray around the muzzle, and this thing’s muzzle was all but bare.
But age had other signs. The skin got delicate, easily bruised. Old people lost hair. The regenerative capabilities of the shift wouldn’t be able to fix all that—shifting didn’t make you younger. And maybe that was why this shifter looked so . . . shabby. The scaly, rough and red patches of skin, the patches of lost hair—even the deformed-looking skull—those might all be signs of age. It might be that the half-form, the one that was the strongest, but was also the hardest to control, was showing the similar signs of age that the human form would.
It seemed that Petrescu was thinking the same things. “This creature could be that old,” he said. “It looks like an old man that is falling apart, in a way. But if it is that old, how could it manage to kill?”
“It only killed a boy,” she reminded him. “The other victims, at least the recent ones—they were undoubtedly alone, but were they also young?”
Petrescu pulled at his moustache, and turned to Lungu. “Well, we know it was killing people on the road, and from other villages, so we don’t know exactly, but—”
“Even an old wolf can kill a man if he sneaks up on him,” Lungu said with authority. “I am the best wolf hunter in the village, and I have seen wolves with gray muzzles tear the throats out of strong young men who were not wary enough.”
“There you are, then,” Petrescu said, with a nod. “This thing could be that old, maybe. How young can they turn, like this?”
The horses stirred uneasily where they were tied. They didn’t like being this close to the shifter corpse . . .
Or maybe they didn’t like being this close to Markos.
“This is a sorcerer,” she explained. “Or—was. I was taught that they shift by means of spells, spells that take blood. Human blood, for a spell this strong.” She sheathed her coach gun, dropped down beside the body, sitting on her heels, and drew her knife, pointing out the wolfskin band around the thing’s waist. “You see this? See how it is different from the rest of his hide? When he’s a man, that’s a belt, a belt he keeps next to his skin, under his clothing. They use a wolfskin belt, blood, and a magic ritual, these shifters—I would rather not go into any more detail than that. But that is how they become the wolf and the half-wolf, and I have heard of sorcerers as young as fifteen being able to transform. So if you are asking me, could this creature have been the one responsible for forty years of killing, all by himself?”
She looked up, to see all three of the men nodding, and looking anxious.
“Well then, I have to say it is possible.” She stood up and sheathed her knife, then rubbed the back of her neck under her hair. She was constrained to tell the truth. It was possible. But there were a lot of things wrong with that theory. “I have never heard of a single sorcerer being able to kill one human a week for forty years—and yes, that is how many deaths there have been, that is why we are here—but it isn’t impossible.”
“That many!” Vasile swallowed hard. “But—why?”
“Well . . . there are other reasons for killing besides feeding, as this one did.” She wondered if they thought she was somehow inhuman for being able to discuss such a thing dispassionately, but the truth was, this was all old to her, where it was new and raw to them. “The spell to shift requires blood constantly to renew, and the strongest for that is human blood. That is the likeliest answer, but there are others, as well.”
“Such as?” Petrescu asked. Of the three of them, he seemed the most interested.
“It depends on what other magic he was doing. He may have been paying some demon in blood and lives for protection, and that might be why you were never able to catch him,” she pointed out. “Once a sorcerer has shifted like this, he keeps shifting. I have never heard of one who shifted only once, then stopped. But when you start killing your fellow man, you attract a lot of attention. Protecting himself with the help of a demon might be why you were never able to find him.”
“Any other reasons?” Petrescu wanted to know.
“Well . . .” She looked down at the corpse. “Aside from the shabbiness—there was no sign of weakness. He fought and moved like any other shifter I have ever fought. And if he is that old, there might be a reason for that, too. He was a sorcerer, after all. There are spells for increasing one’s life and strength that require human blood, and if he was here in these hills and killing for so long, he may have been doing those sorts of spells as well. All that—all that could explain his forty years of success.”
It all sounded very plausible. So why was she not convinced, herself?
Because of what is in my pocket . . . That—evil version of the St. Hubert medal. She could not believe that it was coincidence that this shifter was wearing one too. And where there were two, it stood to reason that there were more.
The problem was, she had no other evidence than that. And it was perfectly easy to come up with reasons why that other shifter could have worn such a medal.
This one could be the father, and the other, the son. Shifters won’t share territory; the human side of him would have protected and taught the boy until he was old enough to fend for himself, old enough to know the spells and be able to shift as well as his father, but then—he’d be driven off. And it would be natural for a young sorcerer to look for protection from something older and stronger, like the vampir.
It all sounded perfectly logical. She just couldn’t actually believe it. And she could not put forth an argument for why she didn’t believe it. All she had was a feeling. Even she would not have urged any sort of action just on the basis of a feeling.
I am not sure I would even act alone based only on a feeling.
She wished she could consult with the Graf, or better still, Gunther. They would be able to tell her if it was just needless worry, or her instincts were correct.
But Dominik and Markos seemed to approve of what she was saying. Dominik actually beamed at her for a moment, then wiped the expression from his face, when a particularly heartrending wail came from the cave. The three villagers nodded solemnly, looking relieved.
She couldn’t, she just couldn’t, let this go without warning them as strongly as she could without looking like a nervous . . . female. “I just find it very difficult, myself, to believe that one sorcerer could have been responsible for all those murders for all those years,” she cautioned. “Now, you know this part of the world much better than I do, and you are in a better position to judge than I am, but I would strongly advise you not to let your guard down—”
“Miss Schwarzwald!” Vasile exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air, making the horses shy and dance a little. “We are in the Transylvania! Steppe wolves come down on us every winter! There are our own wolves here all the year round! There are bears! There are robbers and thieves and deserted soldiers in these hills and mountains! And on top of that, our young men have to dodge conscription gangs for the Army! Why would you think we would ever let our guard down?”
She grimaced. He had a point. Still . . . there was a chill sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“Those are all things that answer to a bullet or a knife or even a pitchfork,” she pointed out reluctantly. “Well, maybe not the conscription gangs, but, the rest certainly do. T
his—”
“But now we know of you and your Brotherhood!” Vasile beamed, and looked as if he was contemplating patting her on the head. Or at least, on the shoulder. “If we suspect there is another such, we can send word, yes?”
Markos looked pointedly at Dominik, who shuffled his feet, thought a moment, then said, “I can tell you how to get a letter to me. Or where to send someone as a messenger if a letter is not fast enough. Or both. And if for some reason, Fraulein Rosa cannot come, then Markos and I can find another hunter . . . if it is needed.”
“But it probably will not be,” said Petrescu, dismissively. He looked like a man who had had all his questions answered. “Everything this young woman has said only convinces me that we had one, single, evil man plaguing us for decades. It is the simplest explanation!” He took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “And now thanks to you, the evil man is dead.”
To Rosa’s hidden dismay, both Markos and Dominik agreed. And what could she do? She couldn’t challenge them in front of the village men; it would undermine their authority. She had to nod reluctantly. And . . . Petrescu was right. This part of the world was very dangerous, if you were not careful all the time. No one was going to go out frolicking alone in the woods just because they thought this particular danger had been put to rest . . .
But she didn’t believe this shifter had been alone. She just didn’t.
This, obviously was not the time and place to argue about it. The gypsies were deep in their own mourning ritual, and they would probably bury the boy here where he was—in their belief, you wanted to bury your dead as far away from your camp as you could, for fear the ghost would follow you and haunt you. In the Schwarzwald, gypsies that had lost a member of the tribe sometimes asked the Bruderschaft for permission to bury their dead in the bit of hallowed ground where they buried their own. Permission was always given.
But it was highly unlikely the villagers would give the same sort of permission—and this cave was remote enough both to confuse the ghost, and to ensure no one would come profane the grave.
It seemed Dominik had some of the same thoughts going through his head. “We should give them some peace,” he said, nodding his head toward the cave. “Let them bury their dead without us around.”
The villagers nodded. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the horses snorting and moving a little. But being, for the most part, cart horses, they took their rest when they could get it, and didn’t waste energy on jostling one another or trying to pick fights.
“Is there anything anyone wants to do with this?” she asked, toeing the corpse again, distastefully. There was no more information she could extract from it, that was certain.
The three villagers looked at her as if they thought she was insane. Markos and Dominik shook their heads. “Well,” she said, “I didn’t know if you wanted to drag it back to the village and . . . display it?”
“I think not,” replied Petrescu after a moment. “There are some people in the village who should know the truth of this, but most would only be frightened to no good effect. No, there is no reason to take it back. And the horses might refuse to carry it.”
“They probably would,” she agreed. “In that case, I think we should be rid of it. If we burn it, that will purify it. I think by the time the gypsies come out there will be nothing but bones.” She pulled her metal bottle of naphtha out of the pouch she kept the ammunition in and unscrewed the top, pulling the cork out. The sharp, heavy scent of the naphtha wafted up out of the bottle. “I hope you still have matches,” she said to Dominik, and began pouring it over the body.
“I have something that will add to the burning.” Petrescu went to his horse, and returned with a leather wine-bag. “I thought . . . well, I thought if I needed to join the gypsies as mayor in mourning their boy, I well . . . needed to have something along. If you understand my meaning.”
He pulled the stopper out of the flask, and poured the contents over the body as well. A smell of very strong liquor rose to join the scent of the naphtha. Rosa coughed a little and stepped back—whatever was in that wine-bag was a great deal more potent even than that wicked plum liquor!
They all stepped back as Dominik produced his box of lucifer matches, struck one, and tossed it on the body. The flame spread with a little whump as even the vapors caught fire.
When the body was burning well—aided by whatever it was that Petrescu had doused it with, as well as Rosa’s naphtha—the five of them collected their horses and rode off, making sure first that the gypsy horses were all well tied up. There was no telling how long they would be in that cave.
By the light above the defile it was no later than midafternoon at most. Rosa felt astonished. With everything that had just happened, it seemed as if it should be nightfall at least!
The wailing of the gypsies faded behind them, and was soon muffled by the forest.
“Well, I didn’t expect that to be over so soon,” Dominik said, happily, when they were finally alone. After a generous meal served up by the innkeeper, they were all in the wagon, as it seemed the most private place to talk. Dominik and Markos were sitting on one of the pulled-down beds while she cleaned and replaced her weapons in their proper places.
On the ride back, they had agreed with the three village men that the villagers would only tell those who could see Elementals about the truth of the situation. The rest would be told that the gypsy boy had been killed by a gigantic and cunning wolf, a true rogue of its kind, and that Dominik and Markos had tracked and killed it.
This was another situation Rosa wasn’t happy about, but what could she do or say? This wasn’t her country, much less her village, and Dominik and Markos seemed content with the plan. Of course, she wouldn’t have told the unwary and unmagical about the shifter, but if it had been her, she would at least have claimed the boy had been killed by—
Well, by what, exactly? What could she have invented that would have made them wary, in case the shifter wasn’t alone?
Maybe . . . a bandit? And that there might be more?
But Petrescu had already made the point that the villagers all knew there were bandits about, that they expected bandits about, and they watched for bandits. A shifter wasn’t a bandit. A shifter—
There was no good answer.
While the men busied themselves with oiling harnesses, she cleaned her coach gun, preparing to store it again. Markos had made an abortive move to take it and do so himself, but she had given him a sharp look, and he had made a little gesture of apology and withdrawn his hand. No one touched her gun but her. That way she always knew that caring for it had been done right. If an ordinary hunter of ordinary beasts could not afford a misfire, how much more important was that to her?
“I’m not sure it’s over,” she said, flatly. “Wait a moment and I’ll show you why.”
She had finished her cleaning; the gun had been properly put away, the naphtha bottle refilled from the jug in the corner of the chest, corked tightly and the lid screwed on just as tightly, and tucked in its proper place. Now, with all her gear in readiness again, she could put her hand on any of it in the darkest night; she closed and locked the chest.
She pulled down the bunk from the wall over the chests she had just closed, and sat down on it across from the two cousins. She fished the medal out of her pocket and handed it over.
What might have been the strangest thing about the medal was that there was . . . nothing to distinguish it from any other bit of jewelry. No feeling of evil. No residual magic. It might have been just—a badge, a simple means of identifying someone. Like the St. Hubert’s medal that she herself wore. The Bruderschaft only used these medals as a means of identification, not as talismans or anything of that sort.
That was just common sense. While ordinary magicians could play at investing power in objects they might use later, a society of hunters and warriors knew better
than to do anything so foolish. The Bruderschaft generally did not invest magic in any object—because such objects could be lost, stolen, or taken away, and in the wrong hands, be used to harm their creators. As hunters, descended from warriors, they knew better than to put weapons in the hands of potential enemies. Especially not magical weapons, which could strike from hundreds of miles away, and with little or no warning.
Well, maybe these shifters are the same . . . they are sorcerers, after all. They would know the risks. And they would know that every man’s hand would be against them. All the more reason to refrain from creating talismans.
Oh granted, you could sever the link between the object and yourself, but first, you had to be aware that it was gone. And the ritual to do such severing was tedious and taxing.
Better not to have to do it at all.
Dominik looked at it, turned it over in his fingers doubtfully, then passed it to Markos, who did the same.
“I don’t feel anything from it,” Dominik said, frowning. “Oh, it’s definitely a thing that is meant to identify the holder as someone who holds God in contempt. Why else make a blasphemous version of a holy object. You are right in that the inverse cross is certainly nasty enough on its own, but . . . I don’t see why you think this means we didn’t just remove the problem at the root.”
“Because this isn’t the first medallion I’ve found like that,” Rosa replied flatly, and went on to describe the shifter she had killed in another part of the Carpathians—and the medal she had found on him. “That’s two, absolutely identical. One, I could believe was merely intended as a way to spit in the eye of the Brotherhood, or of White Lodges in general. But two? Identical? I cannot believe that is coincidence.”
“Perhaps not, but it could have been father and son,” Dominik pointed out, as Markos held his peace. “That makes more sense than . . . than some sort of shifter Black Lodge. And shifters won’t share a territory,” he continued, in an uncanny echo of her own thoughts on the matter. “You know that. But he could have given his son a token he could be identified by later, so they didn’t accidentally fight each other. A young shifter, under the influence of wolf instincts, would have gone looking for someone strong to attach himself to. And we know that vampir like to lure in shifters as servants. It all falls together very nicely, without inventing a whole . . . group of these madmen.”
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