Blood Red (9781101637890)

by Lackey, Mercedes

  She brought them to the waiting healer. Unfortunately the one thing she hadn’t packed was anything at all in the way of medicine. But, well, there would be plenty back at the village. Her head throbbed dully, but incessantly, and she would have given just about anything to lie down and sleep it away.

  Markos still was not back, so she gave some food, and most importantly, water, to Dominik.

  “Shouldn’t you rest?” he asked, when she had made sure he was as comfortable as possible—which was to say, not very—and headed for the cave again.

  “If I stop, I may not be able to start again,” she told him, over her shoulder. “And I need my weapons. They’re too valuable to leave behind.”

  The weapons were scattered all over the cave with the altar, and she had to fight down nausea and avert her eyes to get them. But she found all of them, all three knives, all three pistols, the boar spear, and the coach gun. Fortunately they were not too heavy, but she brought them out in three trips, leaving them next to Dominik and the horses. Her headache was easing again, as long as she moved slowly.

  The last knife was right beside the chief shifter’s body, so, just to be sure, she checked it over. Sure enough, there was a copper medallion on a copper chain around his neck, the Stag of St. Hubert, with the crucifix between his horns inverted. She dropped it on his body. Rot there with him, she thought. That was all the evidence she needed.

  She didn’t think there would be anything else of any value in that cave—but Markos wasn’t back yet, and how would it hurt to be thorough? So she walked slowly through the entire cavern complex, taking advantage of her dark-vision while it lasted. And that was where she got a surprise.

  Besides heaps of trash and filthy rags, and stores of mixed sound and rotten food, there was one cavelet that was full of nothing but human bones—

  She thought she had gotten inured to it all, after the slaughter on the rough altar. She hadn’t. She stared in stark horror as she tried to take in the sheer volume of victims and . . . couldn’t. It was impossible. The bones, scarred by tooth marks, were heaped in a pile that filled the little cave, which was at least the size of an average cottage, and in the back they were piled as high as her head. Decades upon decades . . . more victims than anyone had ever guessed, even her.

  The horrid sight just unleashed everything she had been holding back.

  She sat down on the cave floor, and wept until she was sick, then she threw up the water she had drunk, then she wept until she didn’t have any tears left.

  And at the very back of the complex, there was one cavelet, room sized, that was clean. And full; full of the belongings and treasures of all those people the shifters had murdered and eaten. There were not many of those who had been taken who had actually possessed much, but there had been hundreds of victims, and the accumulation . . .

  She thought about throwing a torch in there and burning it all. But then she remembered. . . .

  There are people alive right now who lost loved ones to these monsters. Somewhere in here are tokens to identify the victims . . .

  That was when it dawned on her. This is something Petrescu should handle. He probably won’t want to—but he should, and he will understand that. And he will finally bring peace to so many . . . people will finally be able to put their loved ones to rest. People will have answers.

  Avoiding the cave of bones, and the cave of the altar, she ventured out—into sunlight.

  Markos was waiting, clothed, and cooking rabbits over a fire. The horses were grazing on armfuls of grass he had brought them. Dominik’s leg was re-splinted, and he was drinking something and making a face over it.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Willow bark tea. Not my favorite,” he said. “But it is helping. I just can’t wait to get back and get some laudanum and a real bed, and be pampered by one of our host’s daughters until this damned thing heals. The ride back is going to be a horror.”

  She had had a broken leg once, herself, and she sympathized. “Well, let’s get food inside us all, then get you up on the horse and get the horror over with.”

  If the young men noticed her red and swollen eyes, they were tactful enough not to say anything.

  She had thought she wouldn’t be able to eat, but had been prepared to choke the meat down because she knew that she needed it. But to her surprise, she was starving, and finished her half and licked the bones clean. Dominik managed to get all of his down as well, although he was not nearly so enthusiastic about it. Markos wolfed his down—like a starving wolf. But then, he had been more than a day and a half without food.

  They got Dominik up on his horse; as the lighter of the two, Rosa mounted up behind him. She would be able to steady him if necessary, and take the reins at need. He was paper white when she got up behind him, and she was feeling a little sick and sweating herself. But they both managed to stay ahorse, the other horse accepted Markos without too much fuss, and by the time the sun was over the trees, they were on their way.

  It was not a pleasant journey, not for any of them. Markos was still covered in bruises and half-healed wounds. Rosa’s head was aching abominably. And Dominik had both a battered head and that broken leg.

  Mostly, they concentrated on the landscape immediately in front of them, guiding the horses over the smoothest parts and keeping them to a slow amble. It was marginally better once they broke out of the forest and into fields and meadows, but not by much. Rosa was about to suggest they stop and rest, when Markos suddenly exclaimed, “Look!”

  She looked up, squinting against the sun, and saw nothing immediately in front of them. But then, she looked where he was pointing, off to the side, and toward a hill.

  Just coming over the top of it was a group of mounted men, approaching at a canter. They dropped down between hills, but as they crested the one nearest, Rosa could easily make out Petrescu, kitted out with what must be every weapon he owned, however ancient, his moustache quivering with determination.

  He saw them, and waved. A moment later the sound of his shout reached them. Dominik steadied the horse, as Rosa and Markos waved back. The group urged their horses into a gallop, and dropped behind a hill again.

  But now, clearly came the sound of the thunder of hooves.

  Rosa put her head against Dominik’s back, and closed her eyes. Now it truly is over, at last. . . .

  Dominik was ensconced in the best bed in the inn, with two of the daughters waiting on his every wish. Markos was asleep, after devouring another huge meal and drinking down as much of the potent plum liquor as possible.

  Rosa was in Petrescu’s house, lying on a featherbed that Petrescu’s wife had brought down from the guest bedroom and placed beside the hearth, so that she could tell Petrescu the entire story while lying down.

  She was back in “proper” women’s clothing again, much to the relief of—well, practically everyone. They couldn’t deny she was a heroine, but her outrageous leather clothing had made it very hard for the people of the village to keep their composure around her.

  Right now, she wasn’t in the mood to make anything more difficult on anyone than it had to be.

  Besides, when they had arrived at the village, not only was she in her scandalous leather outfit, she was still covered in blood and other nastiness and wanted a wash, badly. So despite that every movement made her head complain in protest, she had stripped out of the gear, washed herself all over, and changed. The innkeeper’s wife had even cleared the kitchen for her so she could do so comfortably, in private, and with warm water. She left her gear and the outfit she had loaned Dominik with the village cobbler to be cleaned and oiled. He took it with a bow that indicated that, now that she was no longer actually wearing it, he was going to treat it with the same reverence as holy vestments.

  Petrescu’s wife was something of an herbalist, and she had plied Rosa with a tea that was much more pleasant
than willow bark, and much more effective. That, and lying down, made it possible for her to recite every detail Petrescu could have wanted. And probably quite a bit he really didn’t want to hear, but knew he needed to anyway.

  “So it’s over, then?” he said when she finished, closed her eyes, and sighed.

  “There may be some other lone shifters out there, somewhere,” she said, waving her hand vaguely. The featherbed was heavenly, like lying in a supportive cloud. “But Markos can bring some of his family here to hunt them out. He was mumbling something about that when I left him.”

  “I shall let it be known in the other villages that we found—the bandits that had been preying on these parts,” Petrescu said, finally. “We will burn the bodies of the shifters, and bring back the bodies and bones and the things you told us about.” He sighed. “I suppose we must bury the bones in a common grave. I cannot imagine how we could ever sort them out. . . .”

  “Let people sort them out for themselves. Even if they get the wrong bones, what would it matter?” she asked. “The old women that usually lay out the dead can probably do that for you. Then bury the unclaimed ones in that common grave.”

  “You’re right, of course,” he replied, and sighed again. “What a thing to come upon me in my old age. . . .”

  “Stop complaining, old man,” his wife scolded him, making Rosa smile a little. “Think of the honor that will come to you! Putting all those old griefs to rest at last! People will remember you as the mayor that solved the mystery of our vanished children.”

  “Would you care to spend the night here, instead of at the inn?” Petrescu asked, when Rosa was silent. “I would be honored to welcome you. And I could use your advice on what I should tell people.”

  Now that her head wasn’t screaming, Rosa was acutely aware of the fact that her body was one big bruise from head to toe. The inn was a good long walk away.

  And Petrescu’s wife was a very, very good cook and herbalist.

  There was something to be said about giving up a little independence and being taken care of for a change. Especially by people who would be eager for her to take it back.

  “Thank you,” she said with gratitude. “I would.”

  Epilogue

  MARKOS watched solemnly as the hotel porters loaded the cart with all of Rosa’s luggage. Rosa stood beside him, looking every inch the fine lady, with her signature scarlet cloak over her fine merino gown. No one looking at her now would have any notion that three short weeks ago she had been the leather-clad, scandalous Hunt Master, spattered from head to foot with the blood of werewolves.

  Then, again, no one would have any idea that the handsome young fellow beside her was himself a werewolf.

  “I won’t tell you to travel safely,” Markos said, as the last of the trunks was stowed securely in the cart, and the driver clucked to the horses, sending them on their way to the train station. “I will tell you that I hope any adventures you have end with you triumphant.” Then he blushed. “And that I shall greatly miss your company.”

  She smiled. “I shall miss yours, as well. And Dominik’s too, I suppose. He won’t miss me, though!”

  They both laughed. Dominik was still luxuriating in his position as hero and invalid back in the village. There were many lovely maidens, including both of the innkeeper’s daughters, who were eager to attend to his every whim. Markos, seemingly, had been perfectly willing to fade into the background as the “rescued,” and as for Rosa, well, she was a rather uncomfortable heroine for the villagers, who were not at all sure what to make of her. It was much easier for them to have someone like Dominik to laud.

  And she didn’t mind that at all, no more than Markos had.

  “As for me, if my intentions are carried out, I shall wield a silver knife against nothing more formidable than all the fine meals I intend to eat on the trains.” The Graf’s generosity had purchased the best accommodations all the way back to his estate, where he intended to grill her as intensively as he had the last time (if not more so) on her Hunt. She was looking forward to it. And, far from feeling homesick for the Schwarzwald, she was beginning to think it might be rather nice to winter over under the Graf’s hospitality. And . . . perhaps longer. If she was going to make a habit of being sent off to far places to solve problems, the estate was far better suited to it than the Bruderschaft Lodge. And far more pleasant to return to.

  “I hope, then, that is the only knife you wield,” he said, and took her neatly gloved hand, and kissed it. “And here is your cab . . .”

  Indeed, the cab, summoned by the hotel concierge, was just turning the corner.

  “And so I must go.” She squeezed his hand before taking hers away.

  “Would it . . . be dreadfully presumptuous of me—assuming the Count is willing to host me—to take a trip to his estate in the hopes of—” He blushed again, and couldn’t finish the sentence.

  She laughed aloud, somewhat startling the cabby, who probably wasn’t used to hearing a lady laugh so enthusiastically in public. “Of course not, you goose! I’ll be there . . . well, I will confess to you, if the Count is willing, I should like to take up residence there instead of going home. I rather like the idea of being spoilt in between moments of having my life and limbs in jeopardy! So send word in a week or two, and I will tell you whether or not the Count agrees with my notion.”

  He flushed again, this time with pleasure. “I shall.” But as the cabby was looking rather impatient, he handed her inside, and lifted her traveling luggage up to the rack.

  “Goodbye, Rosa!” he said. “I hope to see you again soon!”

  “Goodbye Markos!” she called as the cabby pulled away. “And don’t be too surprised if on my next Hunt I ask for you!”

  She settled back into the cushions of the cab, grinning widely at the shocked—and delighted—look on his face. One could do worse than having someone with Markos’—hrmm—talents—on a Hunt.

  One could do much worse, indeed!