Page 84 of A Hunter for Luna

When I spoke with the major domo, the older man mentioned one of the maidservants had gone missing yesterday. Much help that would be to me. Tracking down the book in Kalion would make finding a needle in a haystack a simple matter.

No matter. The book’s loss would not change my actions.

The memory of Francesco's haunted eyes and frantic words awoke old pain as I stepped out into the hallway, leaving the warmth and comfort of Luna's embrace behind.

At the door, I pulled on my gloves, the supple leather sliding over my fingers like a second skin. Settling my cloak around my shoulders, the heavy fabric against my back like a shield, I strode out.

The courtyard was quiet as I stepped outside, the crisp early-morning air nipping at my exposed skin. The cobblestones gleamed with dew, and the sound of the carts heading to the morning market echoed off the walls. I set a good pace, heading for the asylum.

As I strode through the streets of Kalion, the city came alive around me. Vendors began to set out their wares as the sun rose, their voices rising in conversation. Children darted between the stalls, their laughter rising and falling like a tide.

I kept my mind fixed ahead, the noise fading to a dull hum in my mind. How many times had I made this trip over the years? The familiar weight of dread settled in my chest as I rode, the pouch of coins at my belt a reminder to pay for better treatment for Francesco.

As I walked, the scent of the sea mingled with the aromas of spices and prepared food from the markets.

Francesco's ravings the last time we spoke echoed in my mind, his warnings of Ruin, of a wolf and a vixen, of the need to stop ‘her’. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.

The river flowed below me as I crossed Deadbridge. There hadn’t been any executions recently, so the few criminal’s bodies still hanging in cages were stripped of flesh.

I slowed my pace as the gate came into sight, its dark grey walls stark against the pale morning sky. The verdigris covered bronze gate creaked as I approached.

It always looked the same. Shadowed, as if it were alive and feeding off the despair inside.

Opening at the gate, I crossed the newly mown lawn to the door and rapped with the brass knocker. A few moments later the attendant opened the door.

“My lord, the chief physician isn’t here today,” the youth said.

“I know my way,” I replied, stepping in and heading for the stairs.

I stepped toward the heavy wooden doors, taking a deep breath to brace myself. The doors swung open with a groan, revealing the dimly lit interior of the sanitarium.

The smell of damp was stronger than the last time I visited. Another attendant ran to catch up with me, the keys on his belt jingling.

We stopped outside Francesco’s door and the attendant turned to face me. "He’s had some bad days this past week."

I reached into my pouch and pressed a handful of coins into his palm. The attendant's fingers closed around the money, and he slipped it into his pocket without a word. He unlocked the door and stepped aside, allowing me to enter.

The room was still clean though the walls were covered with Francesco’s writings. From the color, some of it was in blood. It showed smears where they’d tried to clean it off, but Francesco had overwritten their efforts.

The scent of blood and lavender mixed in the air in a nauseating brew.

Huddled in the corner, away from the bolted down furniture, Francesco sat with his knees tucked to his chest.

My brother's gaunt frame was hunched over, his fingers nervously tugging at the hem of his tattered robe. His arms were striped with deep scratches where he’d drawn blood, and his clothing was stained by it.

He stared at me, eyes wide and wild.

"Francesco." I approached him with cautious steps. "It's me. It’s Benedetto."

For a fleeting moment, a flicker of recognition danced across my brother’s face, and I dared to hope that today might be better for him. But as quickly as it appeared, the spark of lucidity vanished, replaced by a manic glint that sent a chill of worry down my spine.

"Bene," Francesco said with fear and urgency. "You shouldn't have come. She'll find you. She'll find all of you."

I crouched down before him, gently laying my hand on one of his. The fingers felt so fragile, like they might shatter at the slightest touch. "Who, Francesco? Who will find us?"

My brother looked around the room, as if searching for hidden threats in the shadows. "The wolf." He rocked back and forth. "The wolf always watches. She's there, in the shadows. Waiting. Hungry."

I gripped his hand, trying to ground him in the present. "Francesco, look at me. Who is the wolf? Who is she?"

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