Caleb shrugged. “It might be nothing, but I want to investigate—”
“—in the name of science?” Bela finished with a grin spreading across his face.
“Yes, something like that.” Caleb turned away to get his coat, but not before Bela saw a smile flit across his father’s face. “Let’s get moving,” he called over his shoulder. The conversation ended, as so many of Bela’s conversations with his father did.
The gulf of bitterness and obstinacy between the two seemed to have shrunk a little as they made their way down the stone trail from the castle to the village. Caleb pointedly did not comment on how well Bela hiked the rocky trail, considering his injury and the remaining April snow. Bela had let Caleb make an enchanted shoe for him, and the walking stick helped him maintain a decent pace down the mountain. But conversation was difficult for him while concentrating on not losing his balance, so the journey down the mountainside was for the most part in silence.
The sun peeked through the clouds, lighting up parts of the meadows and mountains at random. Soon they came to the upper sheep pastures near the village where they could see flocks scattered across alpine meadows like cumulus clouds on a fine summer day.
Shepherds waved to them cheerfully, and Caleb waved back. Now the trail became a wagon track lined with neat fences; small wooden houses appeared behind the fences, their gardens just beginning to show lilacs and hyacinths. Finally, the conical red roofs of the church with its tall spires came into view.
The burbling of the brook, the croaks of frogs, and the tinkle of bells on sheep were the only sounds that greeted their ears until they drew near enough to the bakery to smell the enticing aromas of Easter cozonac. Caleb patted him on the arm, which Bela knew was supposed to be some form of encouragement.
“He knows we’re werewolves,” Caleb whispered, “but he really doesn’t—”
The words died in his throat. His head snapped up and his eyes narrowed as he stared at a dusty old man emerging from the bakery, stuffing his mouth with rolls as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. The man wore simple peasant’s clothing, his hiking boots gouged and torn, but somehow he didn’t look like a local.
A flash of recognition passed between Caleb and the mysterious traveler, and Bela saw his father’s face darken with a mixture of rage, betrayal, and shame.
“Clovis Fintonclyde,” Caleb croaked, stepping back as the old man approached him for a closer look. “What brings you here?”
Bela swallowed hard to suppress a growl. Had he been a wolf, his hackles would have sprung up. As it was, he shook and balled his hands into fists. He had heard stories over the years about the old man from Maine who had raised Caleb and then abandoned him.
“I am looking…” began Fintonclyde, answering in passable Romanian as he finished chewing his latest pastry, “…looking for someone skilled in the Dark Arts.” He opened his satchel and placed the remains of his bakery purchases inside, then belched and wiped crumbs from his beard. “Do pardon me, it has been quite a journey.”
“How?” Caleb asked sharply, momentarily losing the emotional control that so frustrated his son.
“Jonathan Hermann said you might still be here,” said the old man, “and he told me a most remarkable tale, one that I would have thought pure fantasy, if it didn’t involve my former best student.”
“What is it that you need from me?” Caleb asked coldly, having mastered himself, but obviously pained by the reference to the past.
“I have heard that you are the one responsible for ridding these mountains of all manner of Dark creatures.” Fintonclyde smiled. He was seemingly unaffected by the suspicious looks from Bela. “I am in need of a…hunter.”
With visible effort, Caleb gained control over his expression and voice, which were as calm and detached as if he were chatting about the weather. Caleb wanted nothing to do with Fintonclyde—even his desire for revenge had been dulled by the passing years—but he was intrigued by the request. He probed the old man with questions as Fintonclyde described a monster attack in the States.
“Hundreds of vacationers had to be evacuated and several were bitten,” the traveler concluded, switching into English and no doubt thinking Bela wouldn’t understand. “We’re still watching one of them who may be a vampire…and then, of course, there are the werewolf children.”
Disbelief and shock played across Caleb’s face. “What did you do?” he managed to get out. “And how many are there?”
“One, at present,” Fintonclyde informed him. “There was an older boy, a teenager, but he didn’t survive his first transformation.”
“It’s much harder once you’ve stopped growing,” Bela piped up. “Even now it’s hard for me.”
The conversation broke, and the two turned to look at Bela, who decided he might as well have his say. “Fintonclyde wants you to go back to America, to Maine, doesn’t he?” Bela demanded.
The old man approached Bela, then stopped abruptly and spoke with precision. “We need his experience,” he declared, “so that we don’t lose our Community over this.”
Caleb stepped closer to Fintonclyde as if to take repossession of the dialogue. “Is it the vampires that Toby released from Lilac House?” he whispered.
“Some of them are.” Fintonclyde now sounded serious. “But at least one of them is new, and immensely powerful. He may have had ties to those vampires originally, as well as ties to this region. What puzzles me is that he waited so long after the opening of Lilac House to make his appearance. When he showed up, seven months ago, I knew that our Community couldn’t face this situation alone.”
The words seven months made both Bela and Caleb recoil as if they had been slapped.
“It’s Cuza,” Bela shouted, reverting to his native tongue.
“Impossible,” snapped Caleb. “I staked Cuza and he was burned immediately.”
“Who burned him?” Ignoring the old man entirely, Bela lunged forward and gripped his father’s shoulder, digging in with his fingers. “Did you do it yourself?”
“Grigore—” Caleb began….
“How many times have I told you that dog is a traitor,” Bela hissed. “I told you before, and I say it now.” He turned back to the old man, his brain searching for English words. “The new vampire? It’s Cuza for sure. You need Caleb, and you need me. We will go to America.”
END
About the Author
Connie Senior started writing down stories at the age of eight and hasn’t stopped since. She lives near Denver, Colorado with her husband and cats. Only the Moon Howls is her first novel.
About the Design
The chapter vignette and other artwork were made using Caligrafia Divina, a font from Intellecta Design.
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