Page 27 of Mongrel
“Not Catherine.” Bowie takes my elbow as dirt roads become cobbled streets and the buildings get closer together. “Ivaz is a vampire made by the same vampire who made me, Bettina. We aren’t real brothers, but Bettina likes the familial terms. And I like to keep her happy.”
I have so many questions, but the last time I tried asking one, it didn’t go well. I’m hesitant to try again.
Already I can tell Debrecen is much larger than Varad. A proper city and vast, sprawling from one street to the next from a central hub like the legs of a spider. The smells here aren’t pleasant. Too much incense and strong decorative aromas that try—but fail—to mask the scents of human waste, rotten food, rodents, and mold. Perhaps to a human nose, it’s not so bad, but each competing odor will make it more difficult to follow the missing girls when it’s time to distinguish by which road they left.
“This is your first experience with a city under Ottoman rule, yes?” asks Bowie.
I murmur an affirmative. My eyes are as busy as my nose, taking in the complexity of my surroundings.
“Debrecen is a sanjak of the Turks, but most of the villagers are Calvinists.”
“Is there fighting?” I don’t smell recent bloodshed.
“Not currently, but control of the area has been wrested back and forth between the Ottomans, the Voivode of Transylvania, and whichever Habsburg is ruling at the time for decades. Luckily for the people of Debrecen, this is a notable market town with a history of gifted local negotiators. All they need to know is who to pay their taxes to this week, and otherwise it’s business as usual.”
Humans are so complicated. “How do you know all of this?”
Bowie gives a lingering sigh. “As a young man, I was groomed to be a worthy heir to the family title and estates.” His free hand joins the conversation, waving in front of him. “Before my father changed his mind and deemed me unworthy, I received a proper education. As a vampire, I was blessed with a learned, albeit often absent sire, and a veritable gaggle of her many wicked children to further my studies.” His eyes catch mine. “And I’m naturally curious. Like you. So I took advantage.”
It’s clear he thinks of this as a compliment, so I smile. Ava often called me curious. Growing up, I was lucky to have access to all her books, but I read mostly stories and folktales, whereas Bowie must have studied everything. “Do you speak other languages?”
His fingers dance in an elegant flourish,“Oui, monsieur, je parle aussi Francais, le langage de l’amour.”
The words roll off his tongue like caramel dribbled from a spoon onto a luscious dessert.
“That means I also speak French, the language of love.”
My cheeks flush warm.
“My mother’s side is French,” he explains. “I can also read Latin and German, but I speak neither.”
I could listen to him speak French all night, but he quiets as we walk.
We pass a dozen or so closed-up market stalls, their banners and signs hanging low, unreadable in the dark early hours before dawn. I wonder what they sell. I smell meats and spices and know I’m near food vendors. Mixed with the other scents, even food smells are unappealing. A wave of longing for the wide-open woods, the pine-fresh air of the forest, and the simple comfort of Ava’s cottage churns beneath my skin.
I take a breath and focus on Bowie’s cool presence at my side. I’m glad one of us knows what we’re doing. He leads us through Debrecen as easily as he led us through his home village, like he knows these streets just as well. Again, I suspect he’s older than he looks.
“Here we are.” Bowie releases my arm and turns sharply down a narrow alley. He tugs open a heavy wooden door placed oddly between two buildings sharing a brick wall and stands back for me to enter. I peer into the dark cavern below. A stone staircase descends to a pit of black. Damp and stale, it gives me the creeps.
I hesitate at the threshold. “Are you sure?”
Bowie’s hand lands on the small of my back. “Sorry, dear. Ivaz’s place is somewhat spooky, isn’t it? I promise it’s better inside.”
This helps me precisely none at all. “If you say so.”
“Here, I’ll go first.” Bowie brushes past me, and I follow on his heels. The door closes behind us with a thud that makes me jump. My vision adjusts, but it doesn’t help much. The dark is so complete my eyes pick up almost nothing. A narrow staircase ending at an equally narrow hall. Perhaps doors on either side, but I can’t be certain.
“Can you see?” I whisper.
“Yes. You can’t?”
“No.”
Bowie reaches behind to take my hand. I grab it like a man drowning. The walls are closing in, and they’re taking my lungs along for the ride. Shutting my eyes and concentrating solely on Bowie’s solid presence in front of me helps. His hand is cool in mine, and he hurries us down another set of steps. We must be two stories under the earth now. I’ve never experienced anything like this. Our footsteps echo off the stone floor.
Bowie slows us to a stop and raps three times. I open my eyes as a door opens, and a warm orange glow spills into the hall. Now that I can see, I take the chance to peer back from where we came. The little hallway is built from dark stone. It’s swept clean, and the passage is clear of any furniture or decoration. Just a tunnel—nothing to fear.
“Beauregard of Varad,” says Bowie to a petite dark-haired woman at the entrance. “Brother to Haci Ivazzade Pasha. And I’ve brought a guest, Andras.”
