Page 66 of Mongrel
I still don’t like him, but I take his wrist and nod my greeting. His arm is cool, like Bowie’s, and thickly muscled. His grip is firm. He meets my eyes and flashes a smile.
“What have you learned?” asks Bowie, straight to the point.
“That this is going to be tricky. Come, let’s not talk here.”
Trencin is a small village, much like Varad, with few businesses and public buildings. We follow Janos along the hard-packed dirt road lined mostly with private dwellings that double as small specialty shops, a bread bakery that smells of fresh dough even at this hour, a potter with the scents of earthen clay spilling pleasantly to the street, and on the corner, a forge with the tang of fire and metal.
Janos leads us past a row of well-kept cottages farther toward the stables. A church stands opposite, with a sprawling cemetery along the hill rising behind it. A strong scent snags my attention. I catch a whiff of recent death, rot and stench giving way to hordes of insects devouring their feast.
“Wait.” I take Bowie’s elbow.
“What is it?” His eyes study mine.
Janos has stopped, staring at us both as I’ve halted in the middle of the road.
I tilt my nose to the breeze, sniffing. Layers of death—fresh, ripe, old, older still. Turned earth and too many people for the size of this village.
Creeping toward the church, I fight the urge to hold my breath. The scent is strong enough Bowie and Janos must detect it as well. Janos takes the lead, forging ahead to circle the building and plow straight through the older section of the graveyard. We come upon a long row of freshly churned dirt piled into mounds. Pine trees watch over the deceased, their spicy scent mingling with the remains.
As branches sway overhead, we scan the morbid sight with its far too many recent occupants. A crow’s call rings out on the wind.
“This is where she buries them.” Bowie’s voice is a haunted whisper.
I take his hand in mine. My chest is tight. The pit of my stomach has turned to lead. There’s nothing more to say. My thoughts drift to lives cut short, to the grieving families, and the injustice that allows such horrors to continue.
Bowie turns away, tugging my hand. “I can’t stay here.”
We leave, heading back to the road and wherever Janos was taking us before I caught the ghastly scent. I want to ask Bowie if he’s all right, but I know he’s not. I’m not. Our footsteps sound loud in the otherwise silent street.
“To the stables,” says Janos. “There’s a man you should speak with.”
Following him, we cling to each other’s hands as we approach the old barn. I’m grateful for the smell of horses overcoming less pleasant odors. We pass through a gate in the fence and walk through the turnout into the structure.
As we enter, dozing horses wake. They’re keen at sensing danger, and most will shy from a werewolf. I don’t know if it’s the same for vampires, but my presence here will upset the animals. I hope we don’t stay long.
A man rises from his seat on a bench and nods a greeting. He looks and smells human to me, but I’d have to get closer to know for sure. Brown hair, brown eyes, tan skin as if he spends a lot of time outdoors. A young man, my age, perhaps a few years older, and nervous as a cornered barn cat.
“Petru,” says Janos. “These are the men I told you about.” He turns to us. “Gentlemen, this is Petru. He’s Csejthe’s coachman. He knows much of the keep’s layout and can direct us to Báthory’s court master, Benedikt Deseo, who will support our cause.”
Brilliant. This is more than we ever could have hoped for.
Bowie’s brows draw tight. “Báthory’s own court master is against her?”
Petru gives a shaky nod. “Much of her staff lives in fear. Including Deseo.” He pauses. “We’ve all heard the screams.”
Perhaps this won’t be as difficult as I thought.
Petru continues, “She’s well protected. Her personal guard and servants are loyal. Anyone who objects or causes trouble disappears.”
As I’m wondering how Janos found this man and convinced him to risk his life to speak to us, I notice his gaze hasn’t wavered from Petru’s face. Something intense is shining in his eyes, a deep focus that raises the hackles on the back of my neck. My ears twitch beneath my hat.
Janos is using his vampire persuasion on Petru.
I’m concerned the man is unwilling. That he risks himself unknowingly. But when weighed with the safety of the remaining victims, the scale tips decidedly in favor of Cecily and the girls. Still, my stomach is unsettled at the thought of using coercion.
“Where does she keep the girls?” asks Bowie.
A bewildered expression crosses Petru’s face. “I don’t know. All over? I’ve heard there are cages in her personal quarters. There are whispers of girls locked in closets without food for days. There’s her school and the chambers of the noble girls who, despite their status, aren’t off-limits when Báthory’s worst moods strike. Some are just regular staff, young seamstresses and kitchen maids. They have the run of the house, live in servant’s quarters, and scramble to avoid her wrath.”
