She was thinking about packing up and returning to the hotel when the woman spoke up again.
“I don’t mean to be nosy, but are you researching The Reddish Wolf?”
“Ye know of her?”
The woman lifted a derisive brow. “Mmmhmmm…I can almost picture her now. Can I ask, what’s the connection between her and Bran Castle though?”
Alana bit her lip. She didn’t know how much to share. She decided to plead ignorance, which was practically the truth. “What do ye mean?”
“Well, Elena…the reddish wolf, lived in a cottage in the woods of Hunedoara. She was connected to the Cuza family, unless you’re researching another?”
“That’s her. I thought she lived at Bran Castle for a time.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Do you know much else then, about the lass?” Alana asked, trying not to sound as eager as she felt.
“I wouldn’t want to waste your time. How much do you already know?”
“Nothin’ really,” Alana said.
“You probably won’t find too much on her in Budapest. You would do better, perhaps, closer to Hunedoara. Now let me see, what can I tell you? Aside from the fact that she had flaming red hair… oh I know, there was one scandal in particular that clinched her fate—an affair with a man named…”
Alana whispered, “Vilhem?”
“I thought you didn’t know her story.”
“Sorry. It was an unrelated hunch. Please go on.”
The woman eyed Alana skeptically but carried on. “Vilhem was a happily married man, and a very powerful man, thanks to his wife—the daughter of the town’s appointed representative.”
“Appointed representative?” Alana questioned.
“Oh forgive me, I get ahead of myself at times. In those days, whoever ran the castle, ran the town. When the Castle’s owner died, his wife married the Marquis of Brandenburg but he wouldn’t live in Hunedoara, so he appointed a representative to run things for him and that man was György Stolcz. Not that any of that’s important—all you need to know is that he was the father of Alexandra Cuza.”
Alana was about to ask which castle but thought better of interrupting again.
“Where was I? Oh yes, the scandal. The reddish wolf wanted Vilhem so she set out to bewitch him, from between the sheets if you catch my meaning.”
“How do ye know so much about them? Are ye a historian?”
The woman laughed. “I’ve been a librarian for the last twenty years and I recently started teaching a history course on Transylvania. That’s why I’m here, some of the texts I needed were located here so I’m just brushing up and planning. The Balkans have had such a turbulent, bloody past.” Her lips twisted again. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the long Turkish War and of course there is the Dracula legend. For every outlandish vampire tale, there are many more truthful tales that go unrecorded in the history books. Take your reddish wolf, for example, she was hanged for witchcraft, did you know that?”
Alana rubbed at her neck, wondering why this woman’s words bothered her so. She swallowed hard. “Witchcraft? I thought the Balkans were known for ghoulish tales of the undead, wives throwin’ themselves from towers, and superstitious peasants.”
She darted a look at Alana, “Don’t forget deals with the Devil, but you shouldn’t make fun of superstitious peasants; they’re a powerful bunch,” she said with a wink.
“Right,” Alana said, furrowing her brows. There was something definitely off about this woman. “I didn’t think the witch hunts were big in Romania though, especially in the 1500s.”
The woman drew in a slow, shuddering breath and went on as if enjoying the tale. “Can you imagine how desperate, how frightened, she must have been? To have been found out, and punished before the very man she’d bewitched? Of course,” she continued, “Vilhem was killed, too, not long after; the mob turned on him. I believe Vilhem and Elena had a bastard daughter who was tried as well. Her neck didn’t break so she was later drowned.”
She said the last words with relish, her eyes alight with some inner fire and Alana wondered if perhaps her family had been wronged in some way by a descendant of The Reddish Wolf.
“Yes. Well, that is a very disturbing history. I’m sure my teacher will love all of the details. Are there any books ye know of that I can cite?” Alana mused.
The woman nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t have all of my notes on me, but if you give me your email then I’ll forward the names.”
“Great,” Alana said, closing the text in search of her pen. “It must have rolled away,” she said, leaning forward to check the floor.
She felt a prickle at the back of her neck and almost wacked her head off the table.
The woman was standing and leaning into her side now.
“Where did that book come from?” the woman said and shot out a hand before Alana could stop her.
Alana looked up, surprised to see the woman already had her mother’s spell book in her hands. She had supernatural speed. “I brought it with me. Please give it back,” she said and tugged the book across the table, picking it up and placing it protectively against her chest.
“I’m no book thief.” The woman’s anger was instant. She was offended. “I was only curious. It looks old and I didn’t recognize it.”
This woman had been helpful with her research today.
“That was bold of me. I apologize. I’m quare protective of it.”
“That’s all right. It is very old. May I take a look at it?” She paused, holding Alana’s gaze hostage. “If I promise to be careful—as I said, I’m a librarian as well as a historian. Old books are my passion.”
Already others were turning their gazes toward the disruption. Alana had drawn attention to them with her paranoia.
“Sure thing,” she said, reasoning that this woman was a bibliophile like her mum and was only curious to look at one she’d never laid eyes on. It’s not as if she would get up and run.
“It was my mum’s and she’s no longer with us.”
Alana didn’t add that it hopefully contained the secret to getting her mother back. She braced herself for the usual comments—I’m so sorry to hear that, how did you lose her—but this woman said none of that. She was too busy flipping from page to page. Her eyes wide and her mouth gaping. Alana didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved.
“Look at those intricate hand-painted illustrations, embellished with gold, and the ornate Latin calligraphy.”
“Grand, isn’t it?” Alana agreed proudly.
“And very valuable—why these are spells, my dear, and in many different languages.”
Alana turned and gazed out the window. Rain dripped in a lacy pattern down the glass. She’d lost track of time. Da would be back soon. She needed to beat him there to put the book back and she’d promised Leslie they’d go costume shopping.
“I should really be goin’. I’m late.”
“Would you consider selling this? I know a man who collects such work. He would pay extremely well.”
Alana blinked, stunned by the woman’s audacity. The old book held the whereabouts of her mother between its dark leather covers. “No. Never!”
“Now, now, child—don’t be hasty. Think about this. Magic is a wondrous but dangerous thing.” The lady motioned to the air above their heads, as if she saw something no one else could see. “You must beware. Remember what happen to our dear reddish wolf. You and her have very similar traits, you know.” She tipped her head to the side and held her hand above her head as if holding onto an imaginary rope. Then she stuck out her tongue and made a gagging noise. Alana suddenly felt sick—she could have sworn the woman’s eyes had been blue when they’d first struck up a conversation and now they were practically black. Alana crossed her arms against her chest and rubbed at the backs of them.
Alana asserted herself. “Like I said, it’s a family heirloom and not mine to sell.” She hurried to wrap the book in her sweatshirt, stuffing
it into her bag.
“All right. Don’t get huffy! I can take a hint, but remember witchcraft is taken very seriously in some places, so you should be more careful about where you take that out.”
“Thank ye for the advice but I’ll be fine,” Alana said. “Hangings are a thing of the past.”
The woman laughed. “True, but the past is never really far away, now is it?”
Alana frowned. This woman was a bloody nut. Her instinct told her to leg it, but her brain wanted to argue. She’d pressed all of Alana’s buttons. She stood, and turned to go, deciding she would have the last word.
“Witch hunts no longer happen.”
She got no more than two feet away before she heard the woman snort. “I would have thought Hunedoara had cured you of that silly notion.”
Alana pushed through the large wooden doors without looking back. Doubtless the woman would follow if given the encouragement, perhaps asking several more inappropriate questions if she’d didn’t hurry. Her rapid departure and the woman’s remarks left her feeling a little unsettled. Where was Hunedoara? She contemplated sharing her story about the strange woman with Leslie but she would tell Da and that would bring about punishment for stealing the book. Perhaps she’d keep this little tale to herself. Thankfully she hadn’t been able to write her name and email down so the crazy lady would never be able to locate her.
Chapter Fifty
The Revolving Folklore of Horror
Hunedoara, Romania, 1494
Noises sounded from above and Costin dropped the ring of keys for a second time.
“They must have found the guard I hit,” he whispered.
The footsteps and voices were getting closer now.
“There’s no time, go!” Elena screeched.
“No,” I protested, reaching for Elena through the bars.
Her eyes widened like she’d thought of something and she fiddled with her pocket. Then she shoved a weed-like plant into my palm.
I was about to ask what it was until I recognized it as Witch’s Dust, also known as Wolf's claw. The oily, yellow spores would explode with a bright flash if thrown onto flames, but there were no flames here, unless maybe the torch.
“Quick, give me the torch and keep trying to unlock her. I’ll distract the guards.”
“Just go,” Elena begged.
“No.”
“Girl. I know your heart is true, and your is head is hard but he’s tried all the keys twice. Now go! You can’t save me if you get caught.”
Costin grabbed my hand and dragged me through another doorway, away from the approaching shouts.
Tears were creeping down my chin, although I didn’t know why. It’s not like Elena really was my mother and yet I felt bonded to her. I crept silently behind him, blinking hard in the flaring light of the torches. I could see the castle better now. It was a hodgepodge of cold stone and narrow passages. We scurried for some distance, up staircases and down long corridors, until at length we came to what I surmised must have been one of the high towers of the castle. Silhouetted in the doorway was the slight figure of a girl, and it was only a moment before she spied us and hurried forward.
“Costin, Sophia!” she cried, and her voice was high with emotion. “What are you doing up here?”
She embraced me, but carefully, as if I were made of glass.
“I’ve freed her and now we must hide.”
“Costin, you can’t hide here. They’ll check all the rooms up here. I’ll be put to death, because I didn’t report you.” She drew back. The light from the torches fell across her face, then, and I saw that she was young—possibly thirteen or fourteen.
“No. Sarah, you’re wrong,” he explained, pushing past the girl. “The guards will assume we’ve run away. They’ll never think to check the tower.”
“Do you have any water?” I asked realizing now just how parched I was.
The girl left for a moment and returned with a pitcher. She set it on the sideboard and poured me a cup while Costin led me to the hearth. A fire was burning brightly, but it did little to dispel the chill that had settled into my bones from my stone prison. I stood and rubbed my hands together as if they were kindling and I could catch fire.
The room was circular and furnished with an old, carved wooden bed that boasted great clawed feet.
“Sarah, go to the spyhole and see if you can hear what they’re saying, but be careful.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Bran New Place to Look
Budapest, Hungary, 2031
“Cullen, my old friend! Nice to see you,” the Professor, a trimly dressed man in tweed trousers and an immaculately pressed shirt, said as he clapped Cullen affectionately on the shoulder and closed the door to his office. “Please sit down,” he said, turning on his coffeepot and waving Cullen into a chair. “I was surprised to hear from you.”
“Aye, what’s the story with ye, pal. It’s been ages,” Cullen agreed.
“Ten years at least since I last saw you and Sophia in London. How is that pretty wife of yours?”
Cullen’s smile faded. How would the Professor take his outlandish tale?
The Professor went on, “And your daughter, Alana? She must be all grown up now.”
Cullen nodded and accepted the coffee cup that the Professor handed him.
“From the look on your face I get the feeling you’re about to tell me that your dog just died.”
“Ye’ve no idea, pal.” Cullen took a deep breath and filled him in on the last few months. The Professor’s face dropped at the mention of Sophia’s disappearance.
“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible news…but I’m confused. You said on the phone that you needed my help. I don’t understand how my research on Bran could possibly benefit you. I’d assumed you’d been hired to renovate it.”
Cullen looked around the room at the rows of bookshelves all neat and orderly. He took in the desk, not a paper out of place. How would this rational man react to the irrational? They’d known each other for twenty-five years—and gone to school together in London as boys—but could he trust him with such a tale?
Cullen tipped the empty porcelain cup in the Professor’s direction. “Do you mind if I have another? I have a whale of a story to share and I’m not sure I can do it on just one coffee, even a good Turkish one such as this.”
The Professor raised his eyebrows. “Something stronger perhaps?”
Cullen looked at the clock on the wall. It was early in the day but they would definitely need whisky. “That’s a fine idea, and I just so happen to have brought ye a bottle. It was my intention to bribe ye with it.”
“No better time,” the Professor said, accepting the gift.
The Professor filled their cups with the amber-colored liquid and then stretched back behind the big desk, ready to listen. “You’re not going to tell me that you think Dracula kidnapped Sophia, are you? Because I just don’t know if I could handle that on just one cup.”
“No,” Cullen said firmly. “The story I’m about to weave is even more unbelievable.” He sipped his whisky and finally worked up the nerve.
Ten minutes later, the Professor had drained his second glass and was leaning forward. His face was still. He stared at the picture Cullen had handed him of Sophia standing in front of the castle circa the 15th century. “Time travel,” he repeated.
Cullen nodded; it was all he could think to do.
The Professor seemed unable to drag his eyes from the image spread before him. “Where did you get this?”
“Sophia’s best friend; she’s been searchin’ since Sophia disappeared. Do ye think ye can find any records of her there?” Cullen asked, looking narrowly at his friend. “At the castle? It would help me locate her when I went back if I knew the name she’s under.”
The expression on his face stopped Cullen. He looked ten years older, by some trick of the light from the dusky window.
“What makes you think this is Bran?” The Professor rose slowly and went to a
corner of his study behind the desk, climbing two steps of the library stool to bring down a little dark volume. He stood looking at it for a minute, as if unwilling to put it in Cullen’s hands. Then he passed it across the desk.
The book itself fell open to the middle, revealing a labeled image of Bran Castle.
“Ye don’t think it is?” Cullen questioned.
“I don’t recognize this part of the Castle. No.”
Cullen nodded. “Castles are often renovated. Hell, I wouldn’t have a business if they weren’t; besides there’s not much to see of the place in this photo—just a wall and a set of stairs, really.”
“True,” the Professor agreed, “I still don’t think it’s Bran. Call it a gut instinct. Even the flora is different.”
“Well, that could be the time period, right?”
The Professor frowned.
Cullen stood and walked to the window. “We really don’t have much to go on.” For a moment he was silent, turning his gaze toward the University grounds below. “After one of Sophia’s regressions, she wrote the words Dracula’s Castle on a notepad. Leslie came across it after she died and that’s really all we have to go on.”
The Professors fingers drummed the desk. “Anything else?”
Cullen added, “Only the term, the reddish wolf. It was another of the things Sophia had mentioned and written down after the regression. I believe the woman’s real name was Elena, but we don’t have a last name.”
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