Chronicles of Darkness: Shadows and Dust (29 page)

         "I don't understand
this, and even if I would understand, I would not believe it for a
second!"

         "Indeed? What do you
know about her, hmm?" The vampire didn't wait for the police chief's
answer. "Helena Leosol is a huntress," Azrael announced.

         "A huntress?"
Michel repeated, disbelieving. "But, what does she hunt?"

         "It's wonderful that
you asked. What do you think, my dear Michel?" Azrael's voice took on such
a weird tone that Michel couldn't help but stare at him.

         "You really don't
know? Do you want me to help you?"

         Without really wanting
to, Michel found himself nodding in agreement.

         "Oh, it is a very
exciting secret that I'm about to reveal. Madame Leosol stems from an ancient
family of vampire hunters."

         "A vam... vam...
vampire huntress?" the police chief stuttered.

         "Please, my dear
Michel, don't you go losing your composure," Azrael responded. "How
do you think I felt, when Chalice reported to me every night that Madame Leosol
has been killing my loyal followers. She has been doing that ever since her
arrival in Paris." Theatrically, he placed a hand upon his chest. "I
really cannot allow that any longer. She is reducing their numbers too fast. It
really bothers me." Azrael shook his head. "No, I will not allow that
to happen any longer."

         Michel was frozen with
shock. His pistol fell from his hand and he stumbled to an old leather armchair
in the middle of the room. Absent-minded, he repeated the words over and over
again. "Vampire huntress... she is a vampire huntress..."

         Indignantly Azrael said,
"Oh come on, get over it already. We need to attend my problems. Do I have
your full concentration?"

         Confused, the police
chief looked at the pacing man. Suddenly, the resolution of the case dawned on
him. "
You
are a vampire?"

         "Now, how did you
manage to come up with that? And all on your own. My dear Michel, I'm truly
impressed!" Azrael said sarcastically, flinging his arms up.

         "Then who are the
alleged twins sitting in the theater right now?"

         "Do I really have to
explain everything to you?" the vampire asked, rolling his eyes.
"They are two of my creatures."

The police chief blinked.
"Creatures?"

         "Please, my dear
Michel, I really don't like to be interrupted. Women and men, who I have bitten
and turned into vampires. I call them
my
creatures, because they are
mine
.
And on we go to your next question, which is practically written all over your
face. Yes, while we are sitting here, Chalice is luring your men into a trap.
They will be dinner for my loyal followers. Do not be worried, I can guarantee,
they will not rise again from the dead."

         "Are you also going
to kill me?"

         "I see, you are
thinking ahead. Good for you," Azrael said, petting the distraught man's
shoulders. "That's the point, isn't it? For now, be calm. I need you
somewhat alive to set up a trap for our beautiful huntress."

         "Helena?"

         "Of course Helena
Leosol. Or do you know any other huntress? I am slowly losing my patience with
you. Humans are always so dense. It is really exhausting."

         "You want to use me
as bait?" Michel asked fearfully.

         "Correct."
Azrael looked deeply into the police chief's eyes, forcing access to the man's
thoughts and mind. His voice became very soft. "You want to help me, don't
you?"

         "Yeeees..."
Michel murmured, caught in the vampire's dark spell.

         "You will carry out
all my orders."

         "Yeeees..."

         "Really good. Your
first order is to never let Helena Leosol out of your sight. I will stay in
contact with you."

         "Yeeees..."

         "Now, you will go
home, get some sleep and when I give you the order, you will go to her.
Understood?"

         "Yeeees..."
Mechanically, Michel rose and left the house.

         Azrael stroked his beard,
grinning wildly. "Manipulation is a wonderful gift. And humans are so easy
to manipulate." His laughter rang loudly through the silent house.

         The stormy heralds of
impending winter arrived at Ardeal. Clouds were blown over the simple
Transylvanian village. It was the end of November and the inhabitants prepared
themselves for another long, cold winter.

         It was cozy and warm in
the tavern, which was called 'The Howling Wolf'. The smell of fried and roasted
meat drifted through the air, mead and beer was given out and a constant jumble
of voices, laughter and music filled the taproom.

         István Jovovich, a small
man with a round belly, which was covered by a leather apron, was busy drying
some earthen mugs with a towel. From time to time, his watchful gaze slid to a
group of young men that sat in the back, celebrating loudly. They were
notorious for starting brawls and other nonsense. Among them was Rouven Dimov,
son of the village's mayor and self-proclaimed leader of the group.

         A bit apart from the
others sat Anatol. Every village had its outsider and in Ardeal the position
applied to Anatol. He was slowly sipping beer from a mug as his ears picked up
the sound of approaching footsteps. With lightning speed his right hand shot
forward, grabbed the long skirt of István's daughter Ljudmilla and pulled her
towards him. The wooden tablet fell from her hands as she lost her balance and
landed sprawled on his lap. Strongly intoxicated, Anatol grinned, put the mug
on the table and wrapped his arms around her hips.

         She struggled in his
unwanted embrace, especially after he buried his nose in her long, dark blonde
hair, which lurked from below her bandana.

         Inhaling deeply, he
sighed. "Hmmm, Ljudmilla. You smell more wonderful than any spring
flower."

         "Let go of me, you
idiot!" Ljudmilla hissed angered, writhing in his grip. After some
efforts, the young woman finally managed to free herself from his arms. While
Anatol was still grinning at her, she fixed him with a furious glare.

         "What is it?"
the young man asked with mock astonishment. "As your beloved, don't I
deserve a kiss from my adored one?"

         Snorting in disgust,
Ljudmilla drew her hand back and slapped him hard across the face. "Here
you have your kiss!" She bent down and picked up her tablet. With a final
scowl, she left to fetch the empty beer mugs from Rouven's table.

         Disbelieving, Anatol
watched her leave, holding his stinging cheek.

         Dimitri, a tall, thin man
joined him. The giant laughed, slapping his shoulder. "Well, that didn't
exactly go the way you wanted, did it, Anatol?"

         The other man said
nothing. His eyes were still resting on Ljudmilla, who was smiling gently and
adoringly at Rouven, giving the mayor's son all of her attention.

         Dimitri's eyes followed
his gaze. Then he shook his head. "Give it up, Anatol. It's a waste of
time. Her father would never tolerate or allow it. Besides, it is quite obvious
that she is interested in another."

         Anatol clenched his hands
tightly. "Just because he is the mayor's son, Rouven thinks he can do
anything," he spat scornfully. "He is not better than any of us, who
don't have as much money or influence than the highly valued Dimov
family."

         "You shouldn't talk
like that," Dimitri admonished him.

         "Why not? The girls
kiss his feet as if he were a gift from heaven. And why? Is he more attractive
or more intelligent than any other man? I don't think so. The guys look up to
him and chose him for their idol. Why? Is he a better hunter or stronger than
any other man? I'm stronger than he is, believe me."

         "Want to prove to
me
the truth of that statement?" a deep voice interrupted them.

         Startled, Anatol and
Dimitri twisted around. They hadn't noticed that somebody had stepped behind
them to listen to their conversation.

         Rouven stood there in all
his glory, his arms crossed. Although he was two years younger than Anatol, he
was already taller. His commanding figure contrasted with Anatol's rather lanky
appearance. The first signs of a growing beard made him seem older. His long,
hazelnut-colored hair fell over his shoulders as he bent forward, his brown
eyes flashing. Rouven lifted an eyebrow, sneering down at Anatol. "Well?
Tell me, Anatol. Do you want to prove to me how strong you are? Or have you
suddenly lost your voice, loudmouth?"

         "Go and leave us
alone! It isn't very nice to butt in on a conversation, unasked," Anatol
growled and wanted to turn back around.

         Rouven grabbed his
shoulder tightly. "It also isn't nice to talk badly about people behind
their backs. What's wrong? Scared of showing some spine?" he snidely
remarked.

         Meanwhile all laughter
and conversations had died in the tavern. Everybody's full attention rested
solely on the young men.

         "If you want to have
a fistfight, kindly take it outside!" István demanded from his place
behind the counter.

         "Come on, Anatol. I
will give you the chance to prove your strength," Rouven declared and sat
down, opposite him. He put his right elbow on the table, his arm straight up,
fingertips pointing to the ceiling and placed his left arm behind his back.

         Suspiciously, Anatol
glared at his opponent.

         Rouven waggled the
fingers of his outstretched arm. "Well, Anatol? Aren't you man enough to
arm-wrestle with me?"

         "Pah, of course.
I'll take on your challenge, you can bet on that." Anatol hissed, then
wiped his palms on his pants. He also placed his left arm behind his back,
propped his right elbow on the table and firmly clasped Rouven's right hand in
a strong grip.

         Some people had gotten up
from their seats and a small crowd was building, watching the rivals with great
interest.

         Dimitri placed one hand
on the clenched ones of the young men and said, "Ready..."

         Rouven grinned at Anatol,
who glowered back.

         "Set ..."

         As an answer to the dark
expression, Rouven blew him a kiss and winked at him, which made Anatol so
angry that his face turned bright red.

         "Go!" Dimitri
yelled and released their hands.

         Both men tensed their
muscles and the contest began. It would have been easy for Rouven to end the
game in mere seconds, but he wanted to play a bit with his opponent. Their
hands had not moved even one millimeter, although Anatol did his best.

         Rouven just held his
position against the pressure.

         Gradually, small drops of
sweat began to form on Anatol's face and Rouven's grin grew bigger and bigger.
The mayor's son obviously relished the cheering of the gathered people, meant
only for him. "What's wrong, Anatol? Growing weak already?"

         "Stop your silly
babbling!" he pressed through clenched teeth, pushing harder against his
opponent's arm.

         Rouven relaxed a bit, his
hand now dangerously close to be slammed onto the table top. "Want to add
something to increase the interest?" he asked innocently.

         Anatol frowned and his
arm began to tremble from the strain. "Why? Are you scared I will
win?"

         "No, I just thought
about a little... um... incentive to spur you on," Rouven answered with a
smug grin.

         "In case you didn't
notice, it is your hand that's about to hit the table and not mine!"
Anatol retorted triumphantly.

         Rouven's eyes searched
for the tavern owner's daughter. "Hey! Hey, Ljudmilla! Does the winner get
a kiss from you?"

         Ljudmilla glided toward
him, placing her slender hands on his broad shoulders. "Since I know that
you are going to win, I can give you one right now."

         Anatol looked up and his
eyes widened as the young woman bent down and pressed her lips in a gentle kiss
against Rouven's bearded cheek.

         The mayor's son made use
of his opponent's inattentiveness. Abruptly, he tensed all the muscles of his
arm, pressed with all his might against Anatol's hand and smashed it hard
against the tabletop.

         Thunderous applause broke
out to celebrate Rouven's victory.

         Humiliated, Anatol rubbed
gingerly at his bruised knuckles, his face contorted with pain. Then he jumped
up, pointing a finger at Rouven. "I want a second chance!"

         The mayor's son rose,
staring disdainfully at the man in front of him. "Don't you ever have
enough? How many more times do you want to become laughingstock, you poor
fool?"

         Dimitri placed his hands
on Anatol's shoulders, intending to guide him out of the tavern. "A smart
man knows when he has lost. Just leave it be, Anatol."

         The furious, young man
just shook off his hands. Standing proudly and supporting his fists on his
hips, he demanded, "What's wrong, Rouven? Afraid I will beat you this
time?"

         Rouven rolled his eyes.
"You are beginning to get on my nerves, guy! It was a fair contest. I won,
you were beaten! Get over it and leave!"

         Anatol just stared at
him, challenging.

         Suddenly, Rouven had an
idea. "You are very stubborn, I have to give you that. Alright, you shall
have your second chance," he said, his voice calm and bland.

         The young man was about
to retake his seat at the table for another round of arm-wrestling.

         Rouven held up a hand to
prevent him. "No, not that. I embarrassed you enough with that. I suggest
the following." A sly gleam appeared in his eyes. "You know about the
abandoned camp, up in the woods. The camp of the wolf hunters, you
remember?"

         Some men of their
audience grew pale, others crossed themselves in a haste.

         Anatol nodded.

         Pacing up and down,
Rouven stroked his beard. "You will go there."

         The gathered crowd
protested, whispering and murmuring in shock. "You cannot do that, Rouven!
The place is cursed! The poor boy could die out there!"

         "Quiet!" he
shouted and everybody fell silent immediately. "Like I already said,
Anatol. You will go to said camp and spend a whole night there." He looked
at him, assessing, and added after a pause, "All alone."

         Anatol's heart skipped a
beat, but he didn't want to betray his fear. There was no way, he would allow
to be once again humiliated. "And that's all?" he asked with more
courage in his voice than he actually felt.

         Rouven smirked. "So?
It isn't enough for you to spend a night in a cursed place? Well, to prove that
you've been really there, you have to bring something from the abandoned huts.
What do you say? Are you a man or are you scared shitless?"

         "Fine. It's a deal.
Just one more thing."

         "Yes?"

         "What do I get when
I succeed?" Anatol wanted to know.

         Rouven turned to his
second in command, Sergej, who stood grinning smugly beside him. They whispered
for a moment, before he turned back to Anatol. "If you truly make it, you
will become one of us."

         The young man thought
about it for a while. He had barely survived the recent massacre, which still
caused him nightmares. Rouven knew that all too well. Anatol would not chicken
out. He didn't want to give Rouven that kind of satisfaction. Bravely, he
extended his right hand to Rouven. "I want your word on it. Here, among
all these witnesses, so you can't change your mind later."

         "Alright,"
Rouven answered, shaking his hand.

         "Good. When does it
begin?"

         Rouven glanced out the
window. Dusk had fallen. "Right now. Pack something to eat, some warm
clothes and blankets. Since I'm not a monster, I don't want you to be frozen
stiff before you reach your destination." He laughed

         Mumbling curses, Anatol
left the tavern.

         "I hope those were
nice words!" Rouven called out after him. He went to Sergej, slapping him
on the shoulder. "This whole thing is going to be very interesting."

         "Yes, I think so,
too. But above all, it will be very amusing," Sergej replied smirking,
rubbing his hands gleefully.

         "Take Dimitri along.
You two will lead the idiot to the edge of the woods. From there on, he will be
on his own. You will make camp there and wait, until he is back at dawn."

         Sergej nodded, "Understood.
Come on, Dimitri. Let's go."

         Thinking about it, the
tall blonde man didn't feel well. "I don't think this will have a good
ending."