Verena's Whistle: Varangian Descendants Book I

by K. Panikian

  Dad patted my hand and then pulled me up. We headed for the living room and the chaos of a big family goodbye.

  Everyone was talking loudly and gesturing wildly. Theo and his dad were packing up Theo’s laptop while Uncle Constantine lectured and they both listened seriously. Aunt Helen and Aunt Ariadne were in the kitchen putting sandwiches into bags with apples and carrot sticks. They appeared to be arguing over whether or not to slice the apples first.

  Julian wasn’t leaving until the morning, but he would drive us to the airport and then stay at my apartment for the night. He was standing with his arm around Aunt Sophia, his mom, by the fireplace. I put my bags next to his at the door and went to go hug Mom.

  “Did you talk to Dad?” she asked me and I nodded. “Okay,” was all she said.

  Uncle Alex waved me over and I hugged him goodbye. “Let me know when you whistle again, Verena. I know that nightingales have great power. I think you will figure it out when you are ready.” I started to move away, but he gripped my wrist with surprising strength. “Don’t underestimate the besy. While some, like the bauks, are brutish and stupid, the others are not. They will not be easy to find or to kill.”

  “I will be careful, Uncle,” I answered him. He let me go and I moved on to Grandpa Basil. He had no words of wisdom but instead held me close.

  Aunt Sophia cleared her throat loudly and everyone paid attention. “Theo has the keys to the storage locker in Seattle. You have enough time before your flight to New York to stop by and take a look, and then ship what you think you’ll need to Chelyabinsk. Julian emailed your itineraries. Don’t forget your passports.” She stopped. “That’s it. Be careful. Try to stay in touch.”

  Chapter 6

  We landed in Seattle around 2:30 in the morning. We had a six-hour layover before our flight to New York, so we dropped our carry-ons in storage, grabbed an Uber, and headed for the storage locker. Theo was an easy traveling companion and we’d both managed to sleep a couple of hours on the flight. I was tired but energized. It felt good to have a concrete task to accomplish.

  The storage site was next to a grocery store just a few minutes from the airport. The parking lot was empty but the area looked safe and well-lit. Theo waved his key fob at the front gate and we walked into the parking lot.

  Rows of bright orange doors surrounded us and I followed Theo down one of the alleys. He stopped in front of a door, crouched to unlock it, and then pulled it up and open. He flipped the light switch on and we walked inside. It was pretty empty except for some wood crates against the wall. I yanked the door shut behind us, locked it again, and Theo started pulling the crates open. Inside were the contents of Aunt Irene’s arsenal, or at least the arsenal the French lawyers had tracked down. Uncle Constantine was adamant that she’d had another, but we’d never found it. Maybe Julian would uncover something when he found the missing journals.

  Soon, we were surrounded by a pile of weapons. There were bows: long, compound and cross, as well as bracers, quivers, string, and a whole crate of just arrows. There were swords and long knives, a handful of spears, some melee weapons, a double-headed axe, and what looked like a foot-long bronze tube or syringe.

  “What is that thing?” I asked Theo. He saw I was pointing at the tube and got excited.

  “Isn’t it awesome? It’s an actual Byzantine flamethrower, for when they needed portable Greek fire.”

  “Portable?” I repeated questioningly.

  “Most of the Greek fire projectors that survived to the present day were the larger ones mounted on ships. But the field armies carried them too. Dad found this one on eBay a few years ago. It’s in great shape.” He patted the tube fondly.

  “Of course,” he added, “no one knows the recipe for Greek fire itself anymore. It’s been lost for centuries.”

  I moved over to the projectile pile. “I think we should take at least two crossbows and probably the longbow too. The crossbows are easier to disguise in public, but if we’re spying from a distance, we’ll need the longbow. What do you think?”

  Theo agreed and started filling one of the empty crates back up with our selections. He added the appropriate strings and arrows and threw a couple of bracers on top.

  I bent over the swords and started moving them around. I was looking for either a rapier or a cavalry saber, I decided. Something light and long and well-balanced. Rapiers were straight-edged and sabers curved, but both were excellent for self-defense.

  I found a 1796 light cavalry saber. Jackpot. This was the sword the British cavalry used during the Napoleonic Wars. The blade profile had a pronounced curve and the hilt was bound in silver wire. It would allow brutal slashing moves, which would likely be useful against opponents that might be scaled or armored.

  Theo snatched a shortsword and a sovnya, a single-edged blade mounted on the end of a long spear.

  “Don’t forget to pack something for Julian,” I reminded him.

  “He’s got a long knife in his suitcase already, like you, and he told me to try and find a mace. I wasn’t sure if I remembered seeing one last time I was in here.”

  I looked around. I knew I’d just seen one. “There,” I said as I pointed out a pernach to Theo.

  “Nice,” he said and seized it. It had a steel shaft and a flanged metal head. “Julian swinging that thing will be unstoppable.”

  We added some padding and then nailed the top onto the crate we’d filled. It wasn’t too heavy and Theo carried it out into the alley while I hailed another Uber on my phone. Theo locked up and we went back to wait by the entrance. It was almost 6am at this point and I was exhausted. The excitement had worn off while we nailed up the crate and now, I was ready for our next flight so I could sleep.

  At the airport, we stopped at the UPS counter near the baggage claim and shipped the crate to the hotel in Chelyabinsk. We grabbed our carry-ons, and then breakfast, and then found our gate. I emailed Dad an update and Theo texted Julian. He was about to head to the Anchorage airport. Theo told him about the mace and Julian was pleased.

  I kept my eyes open until I found my seat on the plane and then I was out.

  FIVE and a half hours later, we landed in New York. It was 5pm local time and I was energized once again. I’d slept nearly the whole flight and I was starving for lunch, or dinner, I guessed. Our flight to Moscow was in just a few hours, so we bought some more food and then decided to pace around, stretching out. It would be a nine-hour flight to Moscow and then a really long train ride to Chelyabinsk. We’d tried to find a flight directly there but they were all sold out, probably due to a combination of meteor-curious people and official scientific investigators flooding the region.

  When we finally boarded, I was too antsy to sleep again, so I ordered a glass of wine and cracked open Theo’s book about the Robber Nightingale. In it, the monster had a combination of human and bird-like features, was able to fly, and lived in a nest in a forest. It had a human family too. It would sit in a tree and stun travelers with its powerful whistle and then rob them while they were passed out.

  The monster was pretty formidable. When it whistled, the wind blew and the trees bent. Later in the story, it destroyed a palace with its whistling song.

  I thought about the story and started making a list of questions I needed to figure out. First, was it only a whistle that had power or was it other noises too. What if I hummed? In the story the Nightingale whistled, roared like a lion, and hissed like a serpent.

  Second, how far was my reach? How close did I need to be to someone, or something, for the whistle to affect them?

  Third, and most important, how did I do it?

  Theo leaned over my shoulder to see my list. He took my phone and added one more question: Could I direct it only at certain people or creatures in my vicinity or would it strike everyone, friend or foe?

  With that depressing question circling my head, I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep again, but the hum of the airplane engines, the glass of wine, and the hiss of the air
vent above my head soon had my eyes drooping.

  In my dream, I was watching the bauk army in the snowy valley again, but this time I was the one standing in front of the charging creatures. The winter sun was warm on my head and I could hear the snow crunching under the stampede. I held my sword in my right hand and I felt the weight of a knife strapped to my thigh. My hands were steady. As the ogres ran toward me, I could see their yellow eyes. They swung their arms low, using one arm or the other to push off the ground for a burst of speed. Some had light-colored fur, but most were a dark brown. As they approached, I could see that some of their curving horns were capped in iron. Behind them, a jet of fire pulsed.

  A figure stood to my right, waiting for the signal. I whistled.

  I woke up when we started our descent into Moscow and I poked Theo. “I can’t take much more of this. How long is our train ride?”

  He nodded and scrubbed his hands through his hair. It stood straight on end. “I know. I need to go for a run or something. I feel stiff like an old man.” He pulled up the itinerary on his phone. He groaned. “It’s 34 hours.”

  I groaned too. “How is that possible? How long do we have until we board?”

  He looked at his phone again. “It’s 2pm now. We board in five hours.”

  “Do you have any running stuff in your suitcase? You know it’s only in the mid-20s outside.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got the stuff I need.”

  “Okay, then let’s do this. Let’s go to the train station and lock up our bags. You can change there and go for a run. I’m going to find a grocery store and buy snacks and water for the train. We can find a dinner spot when we drop our bags and meet there about an hour before we board.”

  “I like it; let’s do it.”

  THE Moscow Kursky railway station was open and cold. The vaulted ceiling had huge, round chandeliers with Soviet red stars and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the late afternoon sun. Amid the snaking lines of commuters, I waved goodbye to Theo as he jogged away down the sidewalk.

  I found a grocery store about a block away and filled a reusable bag with bottles of water, apples, bananas, mixed nuts, and some delicious-looking cookies. I texted my dad to check in and let him know we were on schedule.

  I was losing track of my days with all of the travel and time changes. My phone said it was Sunday, February 17, which meant the meteor had fallen two and a half days ago. We were still a day and a half from Chelyabinsk. By the time we were actually on our way to check the first site, it would be four days after impact. If some creatures did get through the portal, or portals, they had a very significant head start. However, there was nothing in the news about any mysterious deaths or disappearances, which made me more inclined to think we were on a wild goose chase.

  I met Theo back at the station and we ate our first Russian meal. I ordered a pasta with a white fish and Theo ordered a steak. The food was okay, considering we were in a railroad station, but the two local beers we tried more than made up for the boring meal.

  “Too bad we can’t explore the city at all,” I said to Theo as we waited for the bill. “Our first time in Russia and we’re in such a hurry; I feel guilty when I see something scenic, like I should only be focused on what we’re doing here.”

  Theo agreed. “Yeah, but hopefully we’ll have more downtime once we get to Chelyabinsk. We’ll check the sites, find nothing, and be back at the hotel for happy hour with a local vodka sampler.”

  Chapter 7

  Julian landed in Paris in the early afternoon and went straight to his hotel room to drop his bags. He snagged his hat and gloves and a copy of the last letter Uncle Alex received from Irene. He had read it several times over the past few hours and had some ideas on where to start his search. She had been on the trail of a psoglav, a bes with a human body, the legs of a horse, and a dog’s head. It had one eye and iron teeth. Unlike a todorat, which was also half human and half horse, a psoglav didn’t stomp its victims to death, it ate them.

  Irene had been tracking it through the Montmartre cemetery. Psoglavs were not partial about their human meat, dead or alive would do. Her letter indicated that she knew where it would be and was setting a trap. Julian planned to find the cemetery, walk through it and find the deaths within three months of the date of Irene’s letter, and then try and locate any surviving family members to talk to them about strange occurrences around the time of the burials.

  The sun was setting by the time he reached Montmartre. The white-domed Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur was above him and Paris lay below. He walked up steep gray stone streets lined with pastel-colored houses. Cafés with red awnings were filled with people despite the cold and he heard buoyant music through the gleaming glass windows.

  Julian found the tree-lined cemetery and at first was daunted by its size. After he stepped through the gates, however, he saw signs for different avenues and so began to search for the one from Irene’s letter. Finally, he found the Chemin Troyon. He strolled along, gloved hands in his pockets, and examined the engravings for dates of death around April 1960.

  It was slow-going; there were rows and rows of graves. There were simple tombstones, monumental graves, and family mausoleums. Some of the monuments were beautiful and some were ghoulish, covered in moss and water stains. Many of Paris’s most famous citizens were buried in this cemetery and a few tourists circled around, taking pictures and exclaiming. There were also many stray cats. Julian meticulously paced until, finally, he ran out of sufficient daylight to read the inscriptions and had to stop.

  As he left the cemetery gates, it started to snow. The white flakes caught the street lamp lights and swirled in eddies around him. A few passersby opened their umbrellas and Julian slowed his steps. The cobblestones were becoming slippery. He decided to return to the hotel and start his internet search. He had four names with potential.

  THE next morning, Julian dragged himself out of bed with a groan. The time difference from California had caught up with him and his head felt fuzzy. He tried to remember where he’d left his search last night and grabbed his notes, arranging the pillows to sit upright. He scratched his morning whiskers and wondered if he should grow a beard. He was in Europe in winter, not sunny and warm in San Diego. If not now, when?

  The four names he’d pulled from the graves last night had yielded two possibilities for supernatural activity. The first man, Louis Dubois, had died in March 1960. An internet search of his name revealed an old news article that stated the grieving family was angry at the city’s failure to lock the gate to the cemetery at night, allowing vandals to sneak in and desecrate several fresh graves. M Dubois’ family appeared to still live in Paris and he’d found a posh address in the 16th arrondissement that might belong to M Dubois’ daughter.

  The second grave, that of Simone Vianney, had also been disturbed by the vandals mentioned in the news article. Mme Vianney’s family, however, praised the city’s response and especially the services of an unnamed city employee who “went beyond the call of duty to aid our family during this troubling incident.” Or something like that. Google’s translation services probably shouldn’t be relied on totally.

  However, when he’d searched for the Vianney name to find any living relatives, he’d only found one possibility. A priest at the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés might be Mme Vianney’s brother, though he was probably quite elderly, if he was still alive at all.

  He would start with the priest, Julian decided. The church was open to the public during the day and he was likely to find someone who would speak to him and help him find the man.

  Julian got up, ignored his razor, showered, dressed, and walked out into the morning light. There was a little restaurant right beside his hotel, so he swung in for a café Americain, which ended up being pretty similar to an espresso. It was delicious. He was in a busy section of the city, with office buildings, restaurants, and lots of people in business clothes and fashionable coats. He didn’t quite fit in with his jeans, warm coat, and hiki
ng shoes. He scanned for information about the church on his phone and decided to take the metro there.

  When he arrived at the Saint-Germain-des-Prés metro stop, he could see the church’s copper roof presiding over the neighborhood. He paused to admire the tall Gothic tower before crossing the street. Inside the church, however, he could see evidence of grime on the walls, in the opulent paintings, and in the arched stained-glass windows. It was obviously timeworn and in need of restoration. Still, the tall marble columns and the mosaic tile floors were beautiful.

  As he looked around, a priest in a black, ankle-length cassock walked up to him with a welcoming smile. Julian asked if he spoke English and at the priest’s nod, if he could speak to Père Vianney. The priest gestured to the last row of pews in the nave and walked away. Julian sat and waited. After a few minutes, the same priest returned and Julian followed him through a side door and down a hallway of offices. The priest knocked on a door near the end and they entered at the murmured welcome.

  Seated behind an old, scarred desk was a thin, smiling priest with a wrinkled face and kind brown eyes. He pointed to the chair opposite him and the other priest closed the door as he left.

  “What can I help you with?” the priest asked in faintly accented English.

  “I’m an American teacher; my name is Julian Karas. I’m researching the Montmartre cemetery and if it’s not too difficult for you to discuss, I’d like to hear about the vandalism that occurred there around the time your sister, Simone, was buried.”

  “A teacher, how nice. No, it is not too painful to discuss. Simone died many years ago. She was my older sister by a few years, but still, she died young. Car accident.” Père Vianney paused for a moment and appeared to look past Julian, lost in memories. He cleared his throat with a small cough.

  “I appreciate any help you can give me.”

  The priest settled back in his chair and folded his arms in front of his chest, chin resting on his fists. “Simone wanted to be buried in Montmartre. Of course, she did not expect for it to happen for many years, but she purchased a plot near a poet that she adored. She studied poetry in school and had aspirations, though she never published anything.” He smiled fondly. “I kept a few of my favorites of hers. She had a sweet way of writing.”