Only the Moon Howls

by Connie Senior

  …Bela, Caleb put his face into the wadded-up blanket pillow, sick with worry. He saw visions of the dangerously ill little boy, whose throat Vlad had tried to tear out—who later complained that Caleb’s potion was too good, because who would believe he was a werewolf if he didn’t have a scar?

  Now a teenager, this intrepid young wolf had survived the conflagration at Castle Arghezi—but not unscathed. What would become of him now that he had lost a foot? Caleb knew the boy wanted to be a pack leader someday. It was not what Caleb wanted for him, but Bela had the right to make his own way in the world.

  The question was too painful. Caleb sighed deeply to clear the dreamlike images from his cloudy mind. He would check on Mihail, and the castle, and then he would worry about Bela.

  The chill morning air helped clear Caleb’s head as he sat up and tried to plan for the day. His eyes burned from smoke, and a deep breath made him cough. He gingerly stood up and looked around the granary, one of the few rooms untouched by the magical battle or by fire. Mihail slept between two sacks of rye flour, his face pallid from the vampire attack but his breathing steady.

  Caleb called out to Mihail, but he didn’t awaken, so Caleb gently shook the old man’s shoulder. With fatigue so profound even his eyelids were heavy, the servant blinked—then his eyes stuck open in helpless terror as he realized what had happened, where he was, and who was touching him.

  “Relax,” said Caleb, fighting the urge to say, “I don’t bite.” How could he think about cracking jokes this morning? “Don’t…don’t be scared.” Even in his role as “Dad,” he’d rarely had to say those words. “Um… well, look, you were bitten by a vampire. Only once, you’re in no danger, but I thought—if I could brew a potion for you, a blood regenerator, you would get better more quickly.”

  “Potion…Don’t need fancy potion…Drink…” Mihail was winded just saying the few words.

  “You want a drink?”

  “Don’t…regenerate. Drink!”

  “You want to drink blood? From a…?”

  “Chicken,” Mihail murmured, and closed his eyes again.

  Getting a glass of chicken blood was easier than brewing a complex potion, but Caleb was not looking forward to the task as he headed for the stable.

  Passing by the ruined greenhouse, Caleb saw that the gaping hole was no longer splintered; it had been warped and melted into a twisted orifice by a roaring inferno, ignited by a single spark from the wizards’ fight.

  The flames had quickly spread into the library, where the piles of books and the abundance of air in the tall room fanned the flames. The lead strips supporting the panels of greenhouse glass had softened, so that the glass fell and shattered on the stone floor, shards melting against hot stones. Droplets of glass and metal spattered the floor, frozen now into tongues and globes; what panels remained in place were cracked in bizarre patterns and hung precariously from their supports. It was beautiful in the way that the tree molds and barren black fields of Vesuvius were beautiful, a testament to the narrow range of conditions demanded by precarious Life. Caleb mourned the loss of the budding, chirping, and snapping plants as he searched through the ruins for signs of Vlad or Grigore.

  Caleb was quite certain Vlad was dead, but he had yet to find Grigore, and Cuza weighed on his mind. Certainly the vampire hadn’t escaped somehow? He cursed himself for entrusting such an important task to the Beta.

  The door from the greenhouse to the kitchens was open, and a black streak of charred wood and leaves formed an arrow across the floor. This was the only damage from fire, as the room was mostly stone, but holes gaped in the ceiling after the struggle to reset the Jupiter wards.

  The cupboards containing the potion ingredients were mostly intact, and all but the fresh herbs could still be used—but of course there was no garlic. He filled his pockets with dogwood, ginger, and nightshade, and picked up a small pewter cauldron from the stove. Then he walked out to the ruins of the stable gate and ran his hand along what appeared to be empty space.

  It felt solid as a stone wall, and gave off a contented hum as he stroked it, like a cat. Alone, with Alexandru’s famous library in ashes, Caleb had successfully reset the Jupiter ward shortly after moonrise.

  Both Jupiter and Saturn had been visible as the nearly full moon rose. Caleb’s first attempt to disarm the Kronos curse brought the screams of a raven, which raked his hands with invisible claws. He stared at the sky. Jupiter was forty degrees to the right of the moon; Saturn, slightly to its left, dimmed by its red light but by no means occulted.

  This configuration favored Caleb’s strength. He would create a moonward, and have it deflect Saturn while he called on Jupiter. It would take very little to shift the power balance, as well, for Jupiter was stronger than Kronos.

  He began with the simplest ward, the one he’d put on every path into every village for twenty miles in any direction. Then, recalling all of the times he had let entered and exited the castle, he pointed his arm at the stable gate and summoned Jupiter.

  Nothing happened; the spell rebounded as before, and he was knocked flat on his back. He exited the gate to strengthen the lunar ward from both sides. This time, the raven’s cry was accompanied by a lightning bolt and the whinny of scared horses.

  He was a mere spectator in the three-way battle. Lightning struck the roofs behind him, and the screams of unseen birds of prey mingled with the thunder of hooves, the clash of metal, and splintering of wood.

  How long it lasted, and how much this magical war contributed to the destruction of Castle Arghezi, Caleb didn’t know. His eyes fixed on the stable gate, both hands gripping the wood, he concentrated all his efforts on the side of Zeus. The silence that replaced the chaos was deeper and more peaceful than any he had ever heard.

  The magical alarms had ceased wailing. Trying to walk through the gate, Caleb was greeted by the familiar deflection, although he could see through to the forest and the stars.

  The triumph brought tears to his eyes, for it reminded him of his teacher, who had spent so many evenings with him under the starry sky. Alexandru would have been proud; he would also, no doubt, have had plenty of suggestions on how Caleb could have done better. Exhausted beyond grief, Caleb made his way to the granary under the light of the Harvest Moon. He held a stake as he slept, fearing a third stage to the invasion, his dreams full of falling timbers, screaming, and the leers of vampires.

  There had been no third stage. He and Mihail had slept through the night and most of the morning—by the looks of the sun, it was nearing midday—and a bit of magic would soon put a roof over the bedrooms again.

  Only Grigore remained unaccounted for. Grigore—and Cuza.

  A trail of blood led to the stable. Caleb’s breath caught in his throat, his hand on the stake in his belt.

  Had Grigore failed to finish off their common enemy? Had Cuza returned to renew his strength by feeding on the animals? Were all of Caleb’s efforts at the Jupiter wards for nothing? Was the vampire now trapped inside the castle?

  As he entered the stable, he heard sounds of clattering toenails.

  It was carnage. The sheep had all been killed, and most of them carried off. Feathers were all that remained of the hens. The cow lay on one side, gashes along her shoulder, her throat torn out and her belly slit along the bottom to allow access to the tastiest parts.

  Caleb relaxed his hand off the stake. Stage three, he thought, the animals. He would have laughed except he did not want to scare whatever lurked in the corners

  In all his efforts with the celestial powers, he’d forgotten to set up a few boards or stones to keep away the nonmagical creatures that prowled the hills.

  There was nothing left for him and Mihail to eat—it might even be tricky finding him a glass of chicken blood—but Caleb was amused. They had been outwitted not by Cuza and his supply of magic tricks, but by his own cousins: Only one species would open a cow that way.

  He sat on the floor and gave a low, friendly whine—one of the eas
iest wolf sounds to make as a human, and it worked like magic. A small gray wolf trotted out from behind a toppled board, regarding Caleb quizzically with wise yellow eyes.

  From the white hairs in her snout, and the stiffness in her hips, he guessed that she was very old—perhaps a leader of others who remained hidden. She would know his kind, he guessed, and he gave her his hand to sniff. He made one more courteous noise and backed out of the room, leaving them to their feast.

  “Say hello to the grandkids, old lady,” he murmured as he left, hoping that she had some. He felt a small but distinct pleasure at being respected by a simple wolf. Every other relationship in his life seemed excruciatingly complicated by comparison.

  He found a scrap of paper in the kitchen and sat on the edge of the stone cistern to compose a letter to Liszka. He asked how she and Bela were doing, whether they’d seen Grigore yet, and to please, if she had time, come by with a chicken. A gust of wind departed with the folded scrap of paper.

  Sighing, he rose and started back for the granary, aware that he had nothing for Mihail. He had been unable to summon water from the prison room, but perhaps the courtyard gave him a clearer view of the underground reservoir. Before he could even lower his arms, he was drenched; a slug of water hung over him for an instant and then rained down, soaking his torn and sooty clothes.

  He laughed aloud at the absurdity of the entire situation. At the granary, he found Mihail sitting up, his pale face troubled. He was less than reassured by the appearance of wet, grinning Caleb.

  Probably thinks I’ve gone mad, Caleb thought, trying to erase the smile from his face. Mad or not, he had to take care of both of them. At least they had water for drinking and for brewing potions. He sat by the old man’s side and murmured the best comforting phrases he knew, awaiting Liszka’s chicken.

  42. Forgiveness

  He brewed the Poultice Potion under Mihail’s watchful eye. In the Great Hall, less ravaged by fire than the library wing, Caleb had had found two chairs and an iron tripod for the cooking pot. A small magical fire crackled merrily and kept away the autumn chill.

  Liszka’s chicken—delivered by Vanu, a timid Beta who knew nothing of Grigore—had helped Mihail recover some of his energy and color. He was well enough to speak sharply to Caleb when he failed to stir the mixture properly or to add an ingredient at precisely the right time. In fact, the old servant seemed positively talkative. Something in the experience of the previous day had freed him from his fear and suspicion of the American werewolf.

  “Have you added the dogwood?” he asked, trying to peer over the rim of the pot. He was wrapped in blankets like a mummy, and only his worried eyes and sooty cheeks peeked out from the swaddling.

  “Several minutes ago,” Caleb replied mildly.

  “Ah, yes,” Mihail grunted. “A few more minutes ought to do it.” After regarding the younger man carefully for several moments, he asked, “Being bitten by another…werewolf, does that…I mean, is it different than—?”

  “Yes. It hurts more than the bite of a normal wolf or a dog.” Wounds from animals vanished almost completely when he transformed back to human.

  “For a human…it would be even more painful, I suppose,” the old man said cautiously.

  Caleb merely nodded. He did not remember his own bite; Bela, who’d been a bit older, only recalled his being out at night one instant, and Caleb’s arrival with the potion the next. Perhaps amnesia was one of the side effects, or perhaps the mind was occupied by the change—but he didn’t know.

  “My mother,” began Mihail in a distant tone, “screamed for days, they told me, before she…”

  “But you were not present?” Caleb asked, with genuine concern. No child should have to suffer through such an experience.

  The old man shook his head, still wandering off in a far country of memory. “I was sent to the castle, to stay with my godfather, the old master…Master Arghezi’s father I never saw my mother again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Caleb murmured in response. “It must have been very hard for you.”

  “They took me in and treated me well,” shrugged Mihail, attempting to shake off the burden of painful memories, “and I served the Master faithfully.”

  The mention of Arghezi’s name silenced them both, leaving only the sounds of the fire, popping and crackling under the pot, and of the wooden spoon, scraping hypnotically along the bottom. Alexandru’s presence lingered, almost as if his ghost haunted the castle. There was so much about him that Caleb would never understand, so many things that he had wanted to ask. But it was too late.

  The old man stood and shuffled over to the cauldron, looking down into the thick, bubbling brew with a practiced eye.

  “Ready,” he said simply and sat down heavily in the chair.

  Caleb stopped stirring and began to ladle the mixture into bottles he had salvaged from the kitchen. As he worked, he thought about the castle when Mihail and Alexandru were young. No one could have known that things would end in this way, that the building would be so thoroughly destroyed after standing strong for four hundred years. But the seeds had been planted a long time ago; he understood that much.

  Caleb knew that Mihail would not be keen to see his multitude of scratches and bites. “I’ll just go into the kitchens; it shouldn’t take long. Will you be all right out here?”

  The old man waved a vague hand in his direction, lost in some memory.

  The potion did not instantly erase the burning and itching of his wounds, but Caleb felt the pain recede, whispering in the background instead of shouting angrily in the foreground of his senses. His mind cleared, too, freeing him from the urge to giggle insanely. He walked out of the kitchens with a considerably lighter step. Mihail had not moved from his chair.

  Caleb put out the cooking fire and called for some water, neatly dropping a blob into the pot. As he scrubbed the dried bits of potion stuck to the sides, the old servant muttered to himself.

  “Warned him, yes, but couldn’t save him,” Mihail murmured.

  “Save whom?” Caleb said mildly, although he knew the answer. Caleb looked up from his scrubbing to see the old man holding himself rigidly in the chair, arms wrapped tightly around his chest. “You should not torture yourself,” Caleb counseled. “You could not have foreseen this attack.”

  “No. Not this,” responded the aged servant, his voice thick with emotion, “but back then. I was young and they would not believe me, none of them.”

  “What you are saying,” Caleb inquired, wiping his hands carefully on his shirt and taking a seat next to an agitated Mihail, “is that you knew Cuza was a vampire when he came to the castle the first time?”

  Mihail shook his head in a series of rapid jerks that degenerated into a violent spasm wracking his entire frame. The memories had seized the old man’s body as well as his mind.

  Caleb held a cup of water to the shaking lips, coaxing Mihail into taking a drink. After a few minutes, the man calmed slightly.

  “I am the only one left,” he said dully in a slow, solemn voice, “who knows that happened here, and soon I—”

  He broke off abruptly and seemed about to lose control again. Gently, Caleb laid a hand on his arm—pleased that Mihail did not flinch—and said, “Will you tell me what happened? Perhaps together we can make some sense out of it.”

  Mihail nodded slowly to himself and then motioned for the cup of water. After taking a long drink, he began speaking while nervously turning the cup in both hands and staring at the round belly of the pewter pot.

  “The Arghezi family lived here for three hundred and twenty years,” Mihail began in a measured, even voice. “Now that line has ended. Master Alexandru was the last of them.”

  “He had just one brother?” asked Caleb hesitantly, not sure how mention of Mircea Arghezi would be received. But Mihail was eager to unburden himself.

  “The old master, my godfather, was a proud man, who wanted the best for his children. He married a beautiful but frail woman, who bo
re him two sons, Master Alexandru and his brother, Mircea, who was five years the younger. I came to the castle shortly after his birth. Master Alexandru’s mother confined herself to bed for the most part after the birth of Mircea. We never knew what illness our mistress had, or even if she had an illness. Much later, when Master Alexandru took her to America to finish the business at the castle, the doctors there could find nothing specifically wrong with her. However, he loved her very much and always tried to indulge her as best he could.”

  “Oh, for the love of Selene,” said Caleb as gently as he could, already tiring of the convoluted and formal speaking style that the normally silent man put on, “you needn’t call him Master anymore; Alexandru will do. He was your friend, as well as mine.”

  Blinking back tears, the old man nodded and continued. “Because of his wife’s delicate health, the old master did not want Mas—Alexandru to go far for school, although he believed that his children should receive a good education. Alexandru attended school in Bucharest at the academy there. His younger brother had something of his mother’s health and temperament. He stayed at home, taught largely by his father and, later, by Alexandru.”

  “And you,” Caleb prompted, “learned potion brewing and other things as well?”

  “The old master taught me, too, until he was killed. When Alexandru was away at school for his final year, the old master died suddenly; we were never certain how or why. Rumors were flying in Stilpescu about some sort of magical curse, but there was never any evidence one way or the other. Some said that the old master dabbled in the Dark Arts and that he went looking for creatures of Darkness. I do not know. I was young then and did not know as much as I do now.” He sighed a soft, sad moan that spoke volumes about the trials he must have encountered in the service of Alexandru Arghezi.

  “When the M—Alexandru finished school, he wanted to see more of the world. Back then, before all the wars, travel was quite easy. His mother wanted him to be at home, and he wanted to please her, but he could not entirely give up his desires. He spent made many trips to Bucharest and some of the other cities nearby to scour the shops for rare and arcane books to build the library. I accompanied him on many of those trips, rarely understanding the books he bought, but always enjoying the travel.”