Solomonar Saga: Lost Contracts

The Devil’s Chapel

Part I: Of Hardship and Fright

Old things weren’t supposed to disquiet Alexander.

Age had, to him, ever been a marker of affable traits. Age meant reliability, stability, certainty. Age, in things and in men, was proper and venerable. Age ought not invoke revulsion nor perturbance from any man with more than a spoonful of life experience.

And yet, looking out as the mountainsides of southern Carpathians flashed by him, he couldn’t help the impression that these lands were not merely ancient. Ancient lands weren’t covered by an all-consuming, greyish fog which turned their valleys to lakes. Ancient lands didn’t have such jagged, forking clifftops. Ancient lands didn’t have curtains of emerald pines lining their hillsides, so thick they resembled a forest of ages primeval more than modern woods…

Primeval – yes, that was a better way of putting it. Untamed, primeval lands...

Small wonder then that he could never hope to fully tame them. Especially not on his own.

“You’ll be droppin’ off at Sulfurești then, young mister?” came the croaky, cigarette-stained voice of a wiry old bus driver. Though Alexander’s face betrayed no emotion, he felt a tinge of amusement at the man’s comment. Young mister… curse it, I don’t suppose he’s wrong. I certainly don’t look that old. But I don’t feel too young neither.

Then again, he did have a slightly smaller frame than most men his age, and an unusually youthful face to boot. At a casual glance, he’d known people who surmised he was still in his late teens.

That was, until they saw his eyes. Eyes ever betrayed him.

“Indeed,” Alexander confirmed, shifting in his seat to face the driver. “How often do buses come and go?”

“Twice per week, same time as now,” the man replied, lifting his left hand to show off the time on his wristwatch – it was half past eleven. “Not much traffic in these parts no more, young mister. Work’s dried up years ago. I’m pretty much the only fella’ who still keeps these folks connected with Sibiu.” He paused, then, more hesitantly, added, “’Specially now, what with the vanishings.”

Alexander never passed by an offer of gleaming new information from people. “Vanishings?” he inquired, feigning ignorance by putting on a cautious, wary tone. “What do you mean?”

“Eh, I probably shouldn’t gossip ’bout it,” the driver replied in a voice which betrayed just how eager he was to do just that. “But there’s rumours that folks’ve been goin’ missin’ in the mountains ’round Sulfureşti. Six of ’em, last I checked, all within two weeks.;”

“Accidents happen all the time. Perhaps they are merely stranded in the mountains,” Alexander suggested, throwing out the hook with customary caution. This was the first time the man had tried to start a conversation with him, and Alexander couldn’t exactly blame him, considering he’d donned his usual getup for this mission.

“I don’t know ’bout that, mister. Last I heard, ’twas four separate incidents, all independent o’ each other. Not to mention, the town itself… well, it ain’t the same’s it used to be, mister, y’know?” The driver’s voice gave away he wasn’t sure himself about just what he was implying, but Alexander understood his sentiment perfectly. I do wish my intuition was wrong about these things more often.

“Not the same? How so? Is it something about the people? The mood in the air?” he prodded a bit deeper. At that, however, the driver grew quiet, and Alexander could see his eyes darting here and there in the faint reflection of the front glass.

“Well… forgive me for sayin’ so if I’m wrong, young man… but I sort-of guessed you’d know more ’bout all that than me,” he eventually replied – and as he did, there was the barest hint of a question to his words. A slight stab of guilt shot through Alexander. How many times will your overestimate people’s naivety in these matters? Especially in lands such as these.

“I cannot say I would know anything about these missing persons,” he chose his words with care as he gave the reply. Alexander preferred not to lie when he didn’t need to.

“Of course, of course mister. It’s just that… well, I’s figured, how you look…” the driver shook his head, cutting off further rambling. Then again, Alexander couldn’t exactly blame him. A man dressed head-to-toe in black, carrying an oddly elongated leather suitcase, was not a sight one tended to associate with ordinary – nor pleasant – individuals. “My first thought was you’s come to replace father Anton, seein’ as that coat o’ yours looks so much like a robe.”

“Replace him?” Alexander inquired. “Did something happen to the local priest?”

“Well… people say he too has gone missing, young mister,” the driver eventually replied. “Least that’s what I heard last time I went to Laszlo’s place for a drink. But it ain’t like…” the man stopped himself again, and Alexander could practically hear the cogs creaking along in his skull as he struggled to change the topic. “But anyway, I doubt you’re after consecration comin’ all the way to Sulfurești, are you, young mister? What brings you here, ifin’ you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Work,” Alexander tried to make the curt reply more polite.

“Work?” the driver countered, puzzled.

“Work,” Alexander affirmed. “I have a contract to see to.”

The driver remained quiet after that. Instead, someone else turned to address Alexander from beneath his seat.

“You ought to prod him for more secrets,” an echoing, crystalline un-voice, a mirror to his own physical voice, sounded through his skull as a pair of light-blue eyes rose up to meet his own. A large, jet-black raven cocked its head to the side, expecting a prompt reply.

“No point in that, Huginn. This man can’t tell us anything we haven’t gotten from the precinct already,” Alexander countered, answering the raven with thoughts of his own. He immediately sensed displeasure from the bird, and though its features remained ostensibly avian, Alexander could swear he could see the creature frown.

“Regardless of your presumed assignment here, need I remind you that any and all secrets I document could prove valuable?” Huginn countered. “We still have five minutes before arrival by my estimation. There is no reason for you not to continue your interrogation. Not to mention, there is even less of a reason to allow me to finally stretch my wings!”

“The reason for both of those is simple,” Alexander replied, extending a gloved hand to crack his index finger with his thumb before replying. “I’ve already unnerved the man more than I’d intended. Further interrogation, or your sudden appearance, would but further exacerbate his anxiety. Remain seated and quiet for a few moments longer.”

Beneath his seat, Huginn puffed up and jerked his head sideways – the closest he could manage to a human scoff – but remained silent all the same. For better or worse, his contract with Alexander held him to obey should the latter uphold his end of their deal. So far, that dynamic had worked out for both of them.

Just.

The bus continued rolling down the narrow mountainside road, descending into the sea of too-thick mist below, and for a while, Alexander could see nothing through the suffocating grey curtain. Then, slowly, the outlines of buildings came into view, giving him the impression of entering a new, submerged world.

Grabbing his kit with one hand, Alexander pushed open the window beside him before the bus had even fully stopped. There was a lot to do and little time to do it. As the door swung open, allowing him to exit, Alexander offhandedly addressed the driver one more time.

“Could I ask you to return tomorrow same time? Rest assured, I would pay extra for your detour.”

The driver threw him a sideways glance. “You won’t be stayin’ then, young mister?”

“No,” Alexander replied, prompting a shiver from the older man.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do ’bout it. Gotta talk to the director ’fore I –…”

A sudden burst of cawing strangled the man’s response as Huginn flew out of the bus, perching on a branch of a nearby tree. The driver yelped, eyes fluttering from his passenger to the bird as he hurriedly crossed himself.

“The hell was that thing doin’ here?” he exclaimed, voice shaking.

“Whatever it pleases, I’m afraid,” Alexander replied, throwing his companion a look of disapproval which, as ever, was promptly ignored. Mumbling to himself, the driver closed the door of the bus and hurriedly began turning the vehicle around. It didn’t seem like he was expecting anyone to board.

“Could you not have used the window?” Alexander asked, extending a hand for the raven to perch upon. Now that they were alone, there was no need for either of them to engage in telepathy. He appreciated that – after all, there was no need to overuse their powers wantonly.

The raven descended upon him, claws digging into his overcoat’s silversilk without piercing it. “Come now, how come you are the only one who gets to have dramatic appearances?” Huginn crowed. His real voice, despite also mimicking Alexander’s own, had an oddly metallic, inflectionless tint to it, as though he was speaking through a lead pipe, though he was far more coherent and fluent than a raven had any right to be.

Alexander didn’t respond, turning instead towards Sulfurești’s main road. More mud and soil than asphalt, it wound along a lazy, shallow mountain stream, splitting the town roughly in two. And though the mists obscured his view considerably, he could make out no movement. In all, the town seemed to him a husk more than a home.

“So? Shall we interrogate the mayor first thing?” Huginn inquired, perching comfortably on Alexander’s shoulder. He shook his head instead.

“I want to see how saturated this town is. I gather we ought to take a stroll, see how things stand. Then… well, then we can go for a drink.”

“Except you don’t drink,” Huginn surmised sourly, “and I doubt they sell good mead around these parts.” In response, Alexander scratched the raven’s neck, then pulled a sack of dried meat from one of his numerous pouches. He dangled a strip before Huginn, who snatched it avariciously and started snapping bite-sized snippets off in a distinctly non-avian fashion.

“One for now,” Alexander declared, “one for every conversation where you keep your beak shut. I shall see about the mead depending on your performance.”

“You’re a cursed slaver, you know that right?” Huginn crowed in Alexander’s voice before returning to his meal, prompting a small smile from his contractor.

“I have been called worse. Quiet now,” he concluded, pulling up his silvery tie before stepping forth and into the misty veil.

Sulfurești, like so many other towns in Romania, had seen eras come and go with but a scant few changes. Most houses he could see were old-fashioned brick-and-mortar homes, spacious if not particularly large and right at home in a historical re-enactment. They had seen the Ottoman hordes invade and withdraw, the passions of the revolutionary age rise and abate, the horrors of the world wars ignite and crumble and the misery of communism overflow and recede. Through it all they stood, silent, dour witnesses to mankind’s thousand folies.

There were no visible shops, no service centres, even cars were few and far between, most of those positively ancient Dacias. That was not to say that the town felt abandoned, quite the opposite in fact – the front yards of individual lots were well kept and tidy, no trash littered the street and most houses even had a fresh layer of plaster draped over them. But for all the signs of use and order, the town felt… withdrawn, curled up in some shell from which it wouldn’t – or, perhaps, couldn’t – emerge anymore.

As he walked, Alexander noticed a handful of people, most of them tending to their estates or off on some kind of chore. None of them acknowledged his presence, though a few did hurriedly scamper back inside their houses as he passed, occasionally throwing him glares of ware and worry.

He had seen these reactions before, on more than one occasion. Six years ago, he would see them practically everywhere his duty carried him. They always presented him the same, wordless testimony.

Fear. These eyes would always speak of men living in fear.

A small object suddenly shot out towards him from one of the winding side alleys. He caught it with his boot on reflex, his mental alerts ready to sound off, before recognizing the object as a small, scratched and worn chequered football. Looking up, he noted a pair of young boys in oversized shirts spying him from the alley with a mix of curiosity and dismay.

A lump formed in his throat at seeing children, but he pushed it back into the pits of his stomach.

“S-sorry, sir,” the taller, skinnier boy spoke up in a tone which children usually reserved for their parents after an “incident”, “could ya… y’know, could ya give it back, please?” The smaller, dark-haired boy said nothing, simply eyeing Alexander warily.

Leisurely, he kicked the ball back at the boys, but didn’t turn away. “Do you boys not have a playground around here?” he asked, looking at them without initiating direct eye contact. No need to disturb them more than they already are.

“Well… yeah, we do, but…” the taller boy mumbled.

“’Tis next to the forest, and the forest’s gone haunted,” the younger boy declared, glaring at the stranger. He spoke Romanian with an accent identical to Alexander’s own.

“Michal!” the taller boy hissed at him, grabbing him by the sleeve. The smaller boy shook him off.

“What? Ya know I’m right, Toma! Ever since the woods began to whisper, mom’s forbade us from playin’ near the trees! Why’d she do that if they wasn’t haunted? It’s ghosts I tell ya!”

“It’s not whisperin’! It’s…” Toma paused, throwing a nervous look at the black-clad man who remained patiently standing to the side. “Anyway, let’s go!”

“One moment,” Alexander spoke up, though internally he too would have preferred for the children to leave. But a contract was a contract, and his duty required him to utilize every available resource as best he could. And children, especially in his field of work, were often the best sources of information.

Thus, he produced from his overcoat a slim leather wallet, pulling out a pair of twenty-leu banknotes. “Would you boys take me to Laszlo’s inn? I have some business there, and cannot afford to be late. I shall be sure to reward your help.”

The boys quickly took note of the offered reward, but Michal’s expression quickly turned from surprise to suspicion. “What business, mister?”

“An investigation,” Alexander replied. Both children lit up at his response.

“Like from a spy movie?” Toma inquired.

“Nothing so fanciful, I am afraid. Now, will you two help me out?” he pressed, though a small part of him kept hoping they’d refuse. Still, after some hesitation, the boys exchanged looks and nodded towards him. Of course, they would.

“Sure thing, sir!” Toma almost saluted, turning on his heel. “’Tis right this a way, I’ll show ya.”

The children hurried away, kicking the ball between them as they went. Alexander followed them, easily keeping pace as he spied a raven perching on a nearby rooftop.

“An unnecessary expenditure,” Huginn’s un-voice echoed through his head again. “The town is miniscule; you would have found the place in no time.”

“Not the point,” Alexander thought back at the bird. He waited for Michal to take his turn at kicking the ball, then, almost offhandedly, addressed the boy in his mother tongue. “You said the forest is haunted, is that right?”

The smaller kid’s head snapped towards him, eyes wide. “You speak Slovak, sir?”

“Same as you,” Alexander replied nonchalantly. “So, tell me, why would you say the forest is haunted? Are you sure you didn’t just watch too many scary movies?”

“Did not!” Michal protested, sounding offended. Good. Anger is the surest bane of timidity. “I swear, the forest’s been whispering, every time I tried to come near it. It’s like centipedes running down my back, creeping into my ears, it’s sticky and slimy and…” Michal shivered as he spoke, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t sleep at night no more, and I know mom and dad can’t neither. Once, I heard something moving behind my window, knocking on my glass! Another time, when I went near the playground, I saw someone looking at me from the woods!”

“Interesting,” Alexander mused, keeping his voice inflectionless. “Could you maybe describe what you saw for me?”

“I –… uh… no,” Michal replied, looking away. “I ran away and hid. Didn’t see nothing. But I swear I ain’t lying! I didn’t see ’em, but I felt ’em mister, that icky feeling ya get when ya feel someone’s watching you. I ain’t no scaredy-cat neither, I used to be the one who hid in the woods during hide-n’-seek! It’s just since...” he paused, drifting away. Alexander didn’t push him. “Since father Anton’s been gone… and since the soldiers moved in…”

That peaked Alexander’s interest. “Soldiers? Is there a military camp nearby?”

Michal shook his head vehemently. “No sir, no camp, never has been. They don’t look like soldiers to me neither, though dad keeps calling ’em so – they don’t have no helmets, no uniforms neither! A proper soldier oughta have a uniform, right?”

“Quite right,” Alexander agreed. “These soldiers, what do they do here?”

“Dunno,” Michal replied, skipping to catch the ball again. “Mum said I shouldn’t go near ’em. They come to town sometimes, but I never saw ’em stay the night. Toma says they come from the Devil’s Chapel, but I think no one’s brave enough to try n’ sleep there,” he mumbled, then quickly added. “Course, I’ll be brave enough to do it, someday, but mum and dad said I shouldn’t even think about it, and…”

“I understand completely,” Alexander assured the boy. “But it sounds scary, doesn’t it? The Devil’s Chapel. What is it?”

“That’s easy, sir. There’s an old building in the woods above the town, to the north, nothin’ but ruins n’ bushes nowadays. We’re not allowed to go there, but once I…” he paused, frowning suddenly. “I… I can’t remember. Why –…?” Michal scratched at his temple, then tapped his fist against his forehead, but eventually simply sighed in defeat. “Sorry, sir, I don’t remember…”

“That’s alright,” Alexander assured him. You’re probably better off for it.

“Here’s the spot, mister!” Toma shouted up ahead, pointing to a spacious building, plastered white with a dark timber roof and a stout stone chimney puffing grey smoke.

“Thank you. Here, your reward,” Alexander beckoned the taller boy before handing Michal his own banknote. As he did, the dark-haired child grabbed his sleeve and, quietly, whispered to him, still in Slovak.

“Sir, please… don’t tell Toma what I told ya, alright? Don’t tell no one. Not that I’m a scaredy-cat, not that I’ve been to the Chapel. They don’t like when I talk ’bout stuff like that, though I swear it’s all true, everything!”

Considering briefly, Alexander nodded at the boy, and answered in a voice he thought sounded understanding, raising a gloved finger to his lips. “I know. I shall be as silent as the grave.”

Unfortunately, this had the opposite effect, as the boy shivered slightly, then skipped away as soon as Toma received his own reward, not looking back once. Sighing, Alexander turned towards the inn just in time to see Huginn descend onto the roof.

“What was that last bit about? Were you trying to intimidate?” Huginn squawked towards him.

“I tried to let him know I understand,” Alexander replied. The raven let out a crowing chuckle.

“If so, you failed miserably.”

“Shut your beak,” Alexander silenced the bird, irately pulling at his tie. “I’m going inside. Standard non-engagement procedure.”

“A snack first,” Huginn demanded.

“You just had one,” Alexander protested. The raven cawed, sounding offended.

“Not jerky, silly. Chocolate,” he demanded. Alexander sighed again, before reaching for a tablet of dark chocolate and throwing it into the air. With deceptive speed, the bird took off, caught the treat and returned to its roost, quietly snacking on its trophy.

“I do not have the time to argue. Just keep quiet and don’t draw attention,” Alexander commanded. Huginn crowed in merry assent. For five years now, their contract had held. The raven knew what Alexander would ask of him, sometimes before his partner had realized it himself. And he also knew exactly when and how to press Alexander’s buttons.

***

As he went to open the tavern’s door, Alexander could immediately make out loud, boorish voices coming from within, and briefly considered evading the occupants’ sight altogether. In the end, he settled for subtlety, opening the door quietly and sliding into the room with nary a sound.

He was instantly greeted by the odour of burnt tobacco, hard alcohol and male odour, while throaty laughter filled his ears just as the reek had stuffed his nostrils. Without pausing, he casually walked over to the bar at the centre of the spacious establishment, grabbing a chair with one hand while positioning his suitcase in such way it would allow him to quickly withdraw its contents. Only once he was seated did he look towards the source of the commotion, content to see his approach had succeeded in not disturbing them prematurely.

Four men sat behind a table in the room’s corner, which alone told Alexander more than a little about them. Rookie mistake. Corners are the worst spots one can pick for their seat. Their table was a mess of playing cards, crumpled dollar notes, spilled liquor, squashed cigarettes and empty cartridges. Their weapons, a mix of old Kalashnikovs, Makarovs and Heckler-Kochs, lay about carelessly on the ground around them. Their clothes were a patchwork of camo greens, browns and khakis, though none wore a proper uniform and looked rather more like members of the local airsoft club than proper soldiers. The only thing uniform in their appearance were thick beards of varied length and small crests depicting an aurochs’ head pinned to their left breast. Seeing it, Alexander couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise.

The mercenaries were caught up in a squabble and continued to ignore Alexander’s presence. Someone else had been more perceptive, however, as he noticed a short, stout man hobble towards him from behind the counter. The innkeeper could have had anywhere between forty and sixty years, had a sharply trimmed grey-white beard and small, cutting dark eyes. Those eyes looked at Alexander with a mix of suspicion and anticipation now, though there was, remarkably, not a hint of fear within them.

“Sir,” the innkeeper thrummed, his voice deep and burly, akin to a bear’s growling. “Lookin’ for a drink, young mister?” He spoke with a subdued but palpable Szekely accent.

“Master Laszlo, I presume?” Alexander replied cordially. The man raised a bushy eyebrow, but didn’t seem too surprised by the address.

“Aye, that’s me,” Laszlo confirmed, sounding simultaneously curious and indifferent. “You lookin’ to order, sir?”

“I do not suppose you serve coffee in this establishment, do you?” Alexander asked. If anything, that surprised the innkeeper more than Alexander’s foreknowledge.

“Not ordinarily, no. But fer a good customer, anythin’s possible,” Laszlo replied, thoughtfully scratching at his beard.

“As it happens, I have come with the intent of becoming a very good customer,” Alexander mused, casually taking out his wallet. “Though I expect more than a few of my orders might seem out of the ordinary.” He still pointedly averted meeting Laszlo’s eyes directly.

The innkeeper stood for a moment, continuing to scratch his beard as he considered the implications. Alexander could see the man had an inkling of who he was – or at least, who he was in their hometown. Fools made for poor businessmen, especially in poor lands.

“I’ll have to go brew it in the back. Might take a while,” Laszlo eventually replied. “Will that be an issue?” Alexander shook his head, but leaned against the counter to make it clear he would stay until the man had made up his mind. Quietly, the Szekely walked through a small door, hobbling out of sight.

As he waited, Alexander leaned back to try and listen in on the mercenaries’ babbling, but quickly found it to be of little interest. It was nothing but insults and card-talk, shouted unsurprisingly in a mix of Chechen and Russian, and overall served his investigation no purpose. Time would come later for a proper interrogation.

Instead, Alexander pressed a finger to his lips, closed his eyes and reached out to his partner. “Huginn. Any sign of heavy spiritual infestation?”

“Not as far as I could tell. None of the houses felt particularly concentrated,” Huginn’s echo of his own voice ran through his head. “The surrounding forests might be a different topic, however. I felt a semi-sentient presence observing you at one point, though nothing on a meaningful power level.”

“The boy did say he felt something observing him from the woods,” Alexander considered.

“Children are generally more sensitive to the supernatural than adults. If anyone, a child with an active imagination would be the one to pick up on such impulses. Doesn’t mean a presence of any particular strength has manifested in the area.”

“True, but it would help explain the disappearances in the region,” Alexander countered. “A newly formed entity would be more aggressive and proactive than usual, and expanding its hunting ground would not be out of the question.”

“Perhaps so, but based on everything I’ve seen since my return, entities such as powerful spirits can no longer afford to simply spawn out of accumulated human outpourings. Too little aether in the air for that,” Huginn countered, and Alexander could sense him shiver at the thought.

“Are you implying someone summoned it?” Alexander inquired. “Entities are usually summoned for a purpose. What purpose could there be in abducting random tourists and locals?”

“Thankfully, to know that is not in my job description,” Huginn responded with the mental equivalent of a scoff. “Though I’ve always known what you humans think, how you think remains as elusive as an honest statesman. All I know is, odds are low that there is a single powerful entity around, lower that it would have incarnated spontaneously, and lowest that the other events surrounding this place are unconnected.”

“Point taken,” Alexander responded after some consideration. “It remains to be seen what the mercenaries are –…”

“Oy! Trench coat!” a shout in slurred Russian came from the corner table. Speak of the Devil. Sighing internally, Alexander cut the mental exchange short to refocus on the world around him.

He turned to see one of the mercenaries, a lanky, bony man with a gaunt, sunken face rimmed by a shallow, scrawny beard, shuffling towards him. The look in his wide, watery eyes could most charitably be described as nefarious, and he slammed his fist into the counter next to Alexander’s hand on arrival, aiming for an intimidating loom. Nonplussed, Alexander didn’t deign respond with direct eye contact, and when replying his voice remained as neutral as ever. “Is something the matter?”

“Is something the matter?” the man huffed a mocking echo, chortling to himself. “Aye, your arse seated here’s the matter,” he hissed, inching closer, his breath foul with stale beer and tobacco soot.

“Can a man not sit for a drink in peace?” Alexander asked, making sure to sound genuine. In a stupor, the mercenary was predictably caught off guard by the assumed sincerity.

“Not a man I don’t know can’t,” he stammered, squinting as though to verify his assessment. “Your face I ain’t seen here before, and I got’s me a brain for faces.” He gave a hiccup.

“Perhaps we just haven’t met yet,” Alexander suggested, prompting another mocking laugh.

“Don’t think so, trench coat. We’ve been stationed here for…” he frowned, trying to remember. “Oy, Goran, how long we been ’ere for?”

“Two weeks, methinks,” a mercenary shouted back. Alexander’s companion gave a smug grin. Alexander was tempted to smile in return. Two weeks, eh? How very coincidental.

“Two weeks, and I seen every guy your age come ’ere the first day or two. And there ain’t many of ’em round here. And you’re better dressed than what the yokels here wear. So, mister trench coat, I’ll ask nice-like – what’s your business here?”

“Well, that depends,” Alexander replied, leisurely cracking a finger. “Why don’t other guys like me come here no more?”

At that, the mercenary’s face twisted in a furious grimace, and he smashed his fist into the counter again, harder than before. “Got’s shite in your noggin’? I’m the one asking questions here ya smarmy prick!” he screamed into Alexander’s ear. The noise was enough to silence the man’s buddies in the corner, dropping their cards to watch the unfolding confrontation.

A slim coil of anger began wrapping itself around Alexander’s heart, but he didn’t let it take hold, cracking another finger to focus as he began preparing his response.

“Shamil,” Laszlo’s voice cut through the heavy silence as the innkeeper emerged from his privacy, speaking in gruff Russian. “Sit your arse back down. You know the deal between Ruslan and me–…”

“Ruslan can go n’ gobble the turds fallin’ out your arse for all I care!” Shamil shouted back. The old man’s frown deepened.

“You sure you want to be talking ’bout your commander like that?” the threat in Laszlo’s voice was clear as a mountain stream. Shamil barred his teeth in a snarl, but then threw a cautious look over his shoulder, as though measuring his companions’ discretion. Finally, he swerved back to growl at Laszlo.

“Your deal, gramps, is we don’t cause you no trouble far as I recall,” Shamil’s voice grew very low, his words progressively less slurred. “I got’s no intent on starting any. Which is why I asked the guy nice-like, ’fore he thought to be all cheeky ’bout his answers. If anythin’, it’s his fault I shouted.” Again, he leaned in close to Alexander, literally breathing down his neck. “So, mister trench coat, all you gotta do is say who you are n’ why you’re here. Then we can all be buddies here, aight?”

Alexander figured it was time to increase the pressure. Thus, he finally turned to meet the mercenary’s eyes.

The effect didn’t take long to manifest. As soon as his steel grey eyes met Shamil’s brown-green, the mercenary instinctively recoiled and took a step back, reaching for a sidearm he’d left by the table. Only then did the man catch himself, cursing under his breath while forcing himself not to yield more ground.

“Very well, I accept. On one condition. I have some questions myself, you see.” Alexander broke the eye contact at that, pressing a finger to his lips as he looked to Laszlo, now stiff with anticipation. “Questions such as what a group of handsomely paid Taurus employees is doing in the middle of nowhere, without the local authorities having received any notification of their presence.”

It took Shamil a moment to respond, though now the anger in his voice was clearly more forced. “So you recognize the company, and what of it?! You a cop or wha’? We’re a legal business, I’ll have ya know!”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Plenty of things are legal that ought not to be. It is not your legal status I find intriguing, but rather your reputation and, to put it delicately, work ethic,” Alexander replied. “We are both in the same business, we both know what sorts of contracts Taurus takes up.”

“Oh yeah?! Come on, trench coat, what’s that?” Shamil growled daringly. Alexander noticed his buddies in the corner had by now wholly forgotten their game in favour of watching the unfolding confrontation. Well, might as well cap it off.

“The kind anyone with even one single brain cell or moral fibre in their body wouldn’t dream of taking. Smuggling, trafficking, piracy, intimidation, assassination, the whole putrid package. You also have a nasty habit of engaging with my side of the underworld,” he threw the reddening mercenary a nonchalant look. “Of course, I am sure your business here is perfectly –…”

With a vicious snarl, Shamil grabbed Alexander’s arm and squeezed. Inside his chest, the coil of anger burst into something altogether more sinister and violent. On the outside, he didn’t let anything show as he calmly met the mercenary’s furious gaze.

“Shamil!” Laszlo barked, stepping closer to the counter, one hand reaching below. “Sit your arse back down!”

“No worries, gramps,” Shamil sneered, squeezing his arm harder. “Say, trench coat, how ’bout we take this outside? Unless barkeep here wants a new coat o’ paint on his –…”

“I am in a good mood, so I will tell you this once. Do not touch me,” Alexander’s voice cut across the room despite barely rising above a whisper. Fortunately, Shamil was on a roll.

“I said, we’ll take this outside, you –...!”

Alexander didn’t need to augur himself for what came next. With measured, mechanical speed he grabbed Shamil’s offending right hand, squeezing his index and middle finger until they crunched, then proceeded to brutally twist the hand itself until he heard the carpal bones give way. In an instant, Shamil’s hand hung twisted ninety degrees and dripping blood from two of its digits.

For an instant, Shamil remained unable to process what had just happened, staring dumbly at his now useless hand. Then, the pain started hitting home. His scream of agony turned to muted gargling as Alexander followed up with punch to Shamil’s nose, crushing the cartilage and flooding his mouth with his own blood. The mercenary tried to bend over in pain, but Alexander caught him by the throat and held him in place, making the man gargle his own blood and mucus to draw shallow, scrambled breaths.

With his right hand, Alexander reached beneath his overcoat, pulling a long-barrelled revolver from a side holster before aiming at the startled aurochs in the corner. The mercenaries’ frantic scrambling ceased as soon as they heard the weapon click, turning to survey Alexander with wary, hateful eyes.

“I am not one to repeat myself,” Alexander declared to no one in particular. “Now, I believe me and master Laszlo have something to discuss, and I find I don’t appreciate your presence here. Since I intend to become a good customer, I would prefer to abide by his wishes and not start a fight within his establishment. And despite all else, my good mood still holds, so I will tell you this once. Get out.” Alexander’s voice never rose throughout the confrontation.

For a precious moment, the inn remained very still, the only sound coming from Shamil’s choking. Then, slowly, the other aurochs raised their hands in the air. One of them, Goran, reached out to try and collect their scattered possessions.

“Ah-ah,” Alexander tsked, stilling them again. “You take your friend and nothing else. Feel free to come back for it later. Now go.” He put emphasis on the last word, prompting the men to begin shuffling towards the exit, one by one, their eyes glued to Alexander’s weapon. As they passed him, Alexander shoved the moaning Shamil into them, the wounded mercenary toppling onto his comrades. Two of them grabbed him by the shoulders to drag him away while Goran backed away behind them, closing the door on his way out.

Even after they left, Alexander kept the weapon drawn for a moment longer, reaching out to his familiar. “Huginn. Are they leaving?”

“Confirmed,” came the response. “Not much they can do without their weapons I suppose. You really pulled a number on that one fellow, though. Let me guess; he touched you, didn’t he?”

Alexander didn’t respond, though he thought he could hear the raven’s amused cackle from outside. Finally holstering his revolver, he turned back to sit across from Laszlo, who now eyed him with twice the amount of suspicion as before.

“My apologies,” Alexander declared, returning his voice to its usual neutral monotone. Laszlo snorted in what sounded like amusement.

“Well, it ain’t like I was never tempted to do something similar,” the Szekely grumbled. “Though I ain’t lookin’ forward to their return now either.”

“I’d suggest you don’t concern yourself with that prospect overmuch,” Alexander noted, glancing at the small pool of blood at his feet. The innkeeper remained quiet for a while.

“Should I be gettin’ worried?” he finally asked in a conversational tone. Not one to cower at the prospect of violence, I see. Then again, I suppose most Romanians his age wouldn’t be.

“Well, that depends,” Alexander repeated, taking out a handkerchief to wipe the blood off his right glove. “Say, why don’t local men my age come to your inn anymore?”

Laszlo gave him a crosswise, judging look. “Is that what you’re ’ere for, mister?” he asked, not bothering to hide his distrust but also sounding genuinely curious.

“Let’s say I am, for the time being. As I said, I intend to become a good customer, provided you can offer the goods I’m looking for.”

The Szekely man mulled the matter over for a short while, then turned and barked “Gabi! Come out girl, and bring that damn coffee!”

Alexander raised a brow at that. “So, you do actually serve coffee here?”

“Boy, we serve everythin’ a customer might want ’round ’ere. Just not fer everyone,” Lazslo chuckled, grabbing a chair to seat himself. As he did so, a young, wisp-thin girl slid out of the door behind him, carrying a tray with a pair of porcelain cups and a worn brass kettle. As she placed the tray on the counter between the men and began pouring their drinks, Alexander pretended not to notice the anxious glances she kept throwing his way. As she finished, she turned on her heel to try and vanish just as she had arrived, but a grunt from Laszlo stopped her.

“I want ya to go pick up the supplies from Mikula today, Gabi,” he grunted while stirring his coffee. At that, Gabi threw him a look of surprise.

“Today already, sir? But I thought –…?”

“Yes, today girl. Things are ’boutta change, n’ I wanna be ready fer the worst ifin’ it come to pass. So go an’ grab ’em soon as ya can.”

Shivering, the woman nodded in wordless assent before throwing Alexander one final, nervous look, then vanished into the back room.

“I’m surprised you can afford an assistant,” Alexander remarked, prompting another chuckle from Laszlo.

“She’s more ward than assistant, that one. She helps me run the place and I keep an eye on her, for her ma’s sake. Which, nowadays, means I also gotta hide her in the backroom,” he almost spat the last words, then took a long sip of his drink.

“Because of Taurus?” Alexander began to inquire, sipping his own coffee in kind. The beans had been roasted just right, and the pleasant taste helped further subdue his grating anger from before.

“If that’s what those wannabe soldier-pricks are called,” Laszlo scoffed. “With their lot runnin’ about, you’re almost glad there’s not more young lasses ’round town. Makes it easier to hide ’em.”

“What of the young men then?” Alexander pushed the question politely but firmly. The innkeeper took a moment before replying, staring into his cup.

“When the soldiers first came down here, local lads were my most regular clientele. Stefan, Radu, Giorgi. ’Bout your age, all of ’em. Didn’t get along with the newcomers one bit. The first encounter ended with a bar fight, first one I’d seen in years. Me and a couple others put a stop to it just as the knives came out. ’Twas when I first made a deal with Ruslan – their commander, or so he says – that I ain’t gonna pour if they ain’t gonna behave themselves n’ play nice. The message seems to have gotten across.” His frown deepened as he looked down into his mug before continuing. “And yet, I ain’t seen the lads ’round since then. Not here, not anywhere else neither. Nor have their old folks, far as I’ve heard. N’ they ain’t the only ones who’ve vanished since that lot arrived.”

“Do you suspect a kidnapping then?” Alexander asked, still trying for a conversational tone. Unfortunately, Laszlo proved anything but oblivious – after throwing Alexander a sharp look, both men seemed to acknowledge their conversation had shifted from a chat to an interview. The innkeeper took a long pause before continuing.

“I don’ know what I suspect. Experience tells me the lads would’ve made a lotta noise if they was getting jumped – specially by a lot like that. Not tae mention, they might’ve gotten jumped while walking ’round somewhere, but others who’d vanished… Older folks ’round here rarely leave their homes nowadays, much less wander ’round deserted places.”

“Then there were no further incidents? No other violent confrontations, no midnight break-ins, nothing of the sort?”

“’S right, mister. As I say, the soldiers are a rowdy, grouchy bunch, but they ain’t been botherin’ folks who ain’t gotten close to ’em – that is, those who don’t come ’round here no more.”

“The sack-man took ’em,” Gabi’s shaking voice broke their conversation. Alexander looked up to see the slim girl shaking like a birch while holding onto the doorframe, her eyes widening as he looked at her. “Just so he did! The snatcher got ’em, all of ’em, one by one every night…!”

“Gabi!” Laszlo barked, making the girl flinch. “When I told ya ta go shoppin’ today, I meant now! Not sit ’round here peddlin’ fairy tales durin’ –…!”

Alexander raised two fingers to silence the Szekely. “It’s all right. No need to raise your voice.” Looking back to Gabi, he beckoned for her to continue speaking, cracking a finger. “The sack-man, you say? What exactly do you mean?”

“I… I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t right, but… but I saw him. Saw him right as rain, I swear by the Lord’s name. Cowled n’ twisted, tall n’ gnarled, with such hateful, hateful eyes! A sack o’er his shoulder, a scythe in one hand, like he tore himself out of a scrawled picture he was! If I hadn’t screamed, if I hadn’t run…” She looked away, shaking her head vigorously as though to rid herself of bad memories by force.

“Interesting,” Alexander noted, leaning forward. “Say, can you remember when and where this happened?”

“Right! It was… I… when I was… ehh…,” Gabi trailed off, her unease replaced with plain confusion. “Where was I going? I, uhhh…”

“I told you before, Gabi, if you can’t remember the place nor time, ’twas nothin’ but a nightmare,” Laszlo scoffed. “We’ve got a real problem on our hands, no need to go confusin’ him with –…”

Again, Alexander raised a hand to silence the innkeeper. “Miss Gabi,” he spoke, weighing every word carefully, “it is perfectly natural for you not to have a perfect recollection. All I need to know is this – when you think back on the sack-man, do you get nauseous? Do you feel the urge to vomit, does your spine itch?”

Gabi’s wide-eyed expression of shock gave him the desired answer even before she shook her head in vigorous assent. He nodded, taking a sip from his coffee. “Thank you for your assistance. Now I would advise you to get your affairs in order and return to this establishment as quickly as possible. Oh, and thank you for the coffee as well.”

Before, he used to try for a smile when complimenting people, but he’d long since realized it usually had the opposite effect. As the young woman vanished, Alexander turned back to Laszlo, who eyed him with ever greater suspicion.

“Say, you a detective, mister?” Laszlo finally asked, opting for a conversational tone once more. Alexander had to admire his composure.

“In a manner of speaking, you could say so.”

“I see. Ya work for the cops then?”

“Perhaps “for” is not the best word to describe it. I work with the police on occasion.”

Laszlo grumbled in response. “You’ve got the poise, ya know. Ya act like a cop.”

“I suppose it is hereditary. My father was a policeman.”

The Szekely bent a brow at that. “He raise ya that way?”

“He never got the chance. I am posthumous. He died a month before I was born,” Alexander stated matter-of-factly, insulating the thought. Warily, Laszlo nodded in turn.

“Sorry to hear that. Anyway, you’re the first detective I’ve known tae consider fairy-tales in his investigation. Which leads me tae believe that either ya ain’t very good at your job, or ya ain’t a detective at all. And I ain’t sure the implications of which I like less.”

“Sounds like you have bad experiences with the police,” Alexander suggested, prompting a snort from the man.

“I’m old and I’m Romanian. Do the math, kid,” Laszlo gave a bitter chuckle.

“Is that the reason why you have a shotgun beneath your counter in a town like this?” The sharp look of surprise Laszlo threw him could have pierced through steel. Eyes narrowing, the innkeeper looked away, sighing.

“Guessin’ ya’d be a piss-poor not-detective without bein’ perceptive. How’d ya know?”

“Lucky guess. It is what I would select if I went for indoors protection. My question stands, however. Why would an innkeeper in the middle of the mountains need a shotgun under his bar?”

“Ya get to my age, ya realize that ain’t the question you’ll be askin’ yourself once ya need the damn thing for somethin’.” He paused, considering, before hesitantly adding. “’Sides, there’s more reason fer keepin’ it ’round now than usual.”

“Because of Taurus?” Alexander reverted to his interview tone. This time, Laszlo continued looking away when replying.

“Not just that. I mean, they’re dangerous pricks, no two ways ’bout that… but ever since they came, I ain’t slept well. I know I ain’t the only one neither. And what the lass said… well, I ain’t had a good feelin’ ’bout the forest for a while now, to be honest. Been livin’ ’ere fer thirty years, not once before did I fear goin’ inta these woods, even though there’s wolves, boars n’ bears aplenty.”

“Has anyone ever gone missing before?” Alexander sipped at his coffee. Laszlo shook his head.

“Not a once. Plenty o’ folks left though. Headed for the capital, or abroad if they could. Sulfurești’s lost ’bout half o’ its population since I arrived. Not all o’ those departures were on good terms.”

“Which I am sure the local police were quick to point out when you informed them of the disappearances,” Alexander finished for the man, sipping from his cup. This time, Laszlo barely bothered shooting him a look of mild surprise.

“Somethin’ to that effect. We called ’em right after we’d gotten an inklin’ they’d gone missin’. A pair o’ officers came investigatin’. Real clean, smarmy types, the kind ya’d hoped had gone extinct after eighty-nine. They came, looked ’round, took interviews n’ said they’ll look into it, all the while askin’ whether the lads mightn’t have simply left abroad fer work.” Laszlo almost spat with disgust. “Same shite, different era. ’Course, after father Anton went missin’, they did nae even bother showin’ up. Said they’d add him to their case and handled it all through a phone call.”

“When did father Anton go missing?” Alexander inquired, quietly cracking a finger as his brain began sorting and compartmentalizing the new information into continuously realigning slots.

“’Boutta week after Radu, who was the first o’ the lads to vanish. Father Anton, he’s a… well, stubborn as a mule’s the first thing comes to mind, in faith as in everythin’ else. They was constantly squabblin’, him and the mayor, for years now, but I hear it got downright nasty since that lot arrived. A week ago, young Gabi’s mom went to church to give him some bread, as she’s want to do, n’ found the place locked from the inside. When Horia came with a spare key, they found the church was empty. Nothin’ stolen, nothin’ missin’, even Anton’s possessions all in place, save the man himself. All o’ Sulfureşti was up in arms ’bout that, the mayor in particular. Still, no one’s seen not a hide nor hair of him since last week.”

“I see. Did he have any interactions to speak of with Taurus employees?”

“Not that I’d know of,” Laszlo replied, scratching at his temple. “Can’t think o’ what he might want with ’em. He’s got a thing ’gainst violence, he does, in all forms. Even took issue with me ’cause o’ that, though I never begrudged him.”

“Did he have anything against mayor Nicolescu then? You mentioned they quarrelled frequently.”

“Aye, but Horia quarrels with all o’ us,” Laszlo waved a hand dismissively. “That’s just how he is. We’ve got some ideas, he’s got different ones, and we’s can sometimes only resolve ’em through a bit o’ shoutin’. Nothin’ major, and there’s rarely hard feelings after all’s said n’ done. Got twice as irritable after his wife left with the kids, true, but never was petty ’bout nothin’. In the end, he lives here too, fer some reason, and really tries tae help ’round.”

“So would you say their most recent dispute was nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Well… the dispute itself, no… but there was somethin’ off about the good father this time ’round. He seemed… worried. Not just fer our immortal souls n’ all that, but about somethin’ more imminent. Like I said, I was nae that close to ’im, so that’s just my impression. But I got the feelin’ he was not just upset – he was actually perturbed about their last argument.”

“Could the mayor have threatened him with something?” Alexander suggested, but Laszlo shook his head.

“Horia ain’t like that. He can be right loud n’ disagreeable, but he ain’t a bully. One of the reasons he was run outta real politics, y’know,” the innkeeper gave a bitter chuckle. “In all the years I’ve known ’im, he would always get his way by just beratin’ n’ debatin’ ya until ye had tae agree. Never once got sly ’bout nothin’. One o’ the reasons he keeps gettin’ voted in as mayor I suppose.”

Alexander did not reply to that, merely nodding as he gulped down the last of his coffee, savouring the bitter aftertaste. Finally, he looked back up at the innkeeper, dropping the inquisition from his voice.

“Thank you for your cooperation. Now, would you be able to tell me where I can find mayor Nicolescu at this time?”

Laszlo leaned back at the request, still cautiously sizing Alexander up, top to bottom. “What for, mister not-detective?”

“For questioning, same as with you” Alexander gave the honest reply, though Laszlo merely raised a bushy brow.

“Really? After ye’ve already picked ’im as the main suspect, am I to believe ye won’t try n’ get ’im to confess to somethin’ so you can have yer theory confirmed?”

“I never once suggested mister Nicolescu is the main suspect,” Alexander pointed out. “Nor do I believe that to be the case. However, there are information only he can provide. For as much as it is worth, I swear upon my name I shall treat him fairly and respectfully, as I have yourself.” He raised an eyebrow in turn now, expectant. “So? May I know where to find him?”

For another long moment, an oppressive silence lay on the pair once more. Finally, Laszlo sighed and gave an exasperated shrug. “Not many folks swear on their names no more, lad. Fine. What time is it?” he looked down on his wristwatch before continuing. “Since Anton’s gone missin’, Horia’s been spendin’ his afternoons tendin’ to the church in his stead. Ye can prolly find him there. If not, he’s already back home. His house is the seventh down this road, the one with the red brick fence.”

Alexander nodded, fishing a handful of banknotes from his wallet to lay them on the counter. “The coffee was delicious. Roasted just right, with the tiniest bit of roughness to it. My compliments to your aide.” He stood up, grabbing his suitcase as he noticed Laszlo counting. “Keep the change. For your help. And,” he paused, throwing a glance at the scattered Taurus possessions still laying in the corner, “as recompense.”

Laszlo huffed at the notion. “Nothin’ much that was, lad. Ya think you was the first tae throw hands in this establishment?”

“Hardly,” Alexander conceded. “But… well, see it as a potential advance payment. And should anyone come looking here, asking after me, make no secret of my whereabouts. Once again, I thank you for your cooperation,” he finished politely, then spun around and exited the establishment.

***

The streets were just as empty as when he had entered, though it was harder to tell now – the fog, already heavy when he’d arrived, had grown thick as tar and darkened with the setting sun. Thus, none could see as Huginn landed back on Alexander’s shoulder, crowing contently.

“Coast clear,” the raven confirmed, nestling itself beside his neck. “It’s been a while now too. You sure they’ll be coming back?”

“About seventy percent certain,” Alexander confirmed, peering through the fog to just barely make out the rising tower of the town’s church. “Maybe eighty, if I punched the first man light enough for him to regain his bearings. They will be back, no two ways about it. The only question is, what will they be back for – revenge, or something else?”

“And how are we split on that?” Huginn’s inquired, taking off into the air once more as Alexander began striding towards his next destination.

“Sixty to forty I would say,” Alexander mused, cracking another finger. “Depends on who leads them and whether they recognize me, though I doubt the latter. Still, all evidence points to us dealing with a hostile takeover, or an attempt at one – beings in charge of such operations don’t usually take chances.”

Huginn remained quiet at that, contemplative. For all his avian chatter, the familiar was usually as serious about their work as Alexander himself, and would engage in the same careful contemplation whenever receiving new information about a case.

With the sun steadily descending, Alexander made his way through the empty streets, fog roiling with every step he took. He no longer saw anyone even through the windows or sitting afore their porches – Sulfureşti, apparently became void of human presence as sunset approached.

The town’s church looked even older than the buildings surrounding it, though it showed few signs of wear – its white coat of paint was fresh and well maintained, its steel-grey roof lacked any holes and Alexander could make out no rust on the bell hanging within its lone tower. Still, it had an air of anciency about it, of solid, thick foundations which had lost their allure in much of the modern world. Or maybe it seemed that way because of the cemetery surrounding it – dozens and dozens of gravestones, spanning all ages, styles and qualities, reared their gravelly heads from the fog, akin to some kind of morbid stone sunflowers.

Despite its age, the church lacked a wall, or at least it hadn’t survived alongside it, allowing Alexander to cross through the spacious courtyard before it right up to its thick, oaken doors and gently pull on them. It was still open. “Huginn,” Alexander beckoned for the raven to take up its position, watching the bird ascend to the tip of the belltower before noiselessly slipping into the temple.

Alexander had never considered himself particularly aligned with any religion – despite his line of work, true faith was a… complicated topic for him to make up his mind on. This, however, did allow him to conclude that orthodox Christians had the most beautiful temples, at least among western religions. Even small, simple churches tended to have elaborate interior decorations, all gilded halos, vibrant clothes and watchful, piercing gazes of the painted saints. Even with minimal lightning coming from a couple dozen burning candles, the reflecting light ensured sufficient illumination for Alexander to have no issues making out the kneeling figure quietly whispering in front of the altar.

Alexander kept his presence subdued as he approached the mayor, his footsteps silent and his movement sliding, until he stood about five steps behind the man. Only then did he speak up.

“What do you say?” he asked, a hint of guilty satisfaction flashing through his mind as he observed the expected reaction from the mayor. Nicolescu practically jumped out of his skin, spinning around, bloodshot eyes behind thick glasses dashing haphazardly from one side to the other. A man unnerved is twice as likely to let secrets slip from his grasp as a man threatened.

“C-come again, please?” Nicolescu stammered, pushing up his glass in a clear display of a nervous tick. His receding, dark-grey hair was unkempt and slick, and he had a nasty rash at the stem of his prominent nose. Laying down his suitcase, Alexander repeated his question.

“What do you say? During prayer, I mean,” he repeated, his tone ever cordial as he shifted to stand at a comfortable distance from the sweating mayor.

“Forgive me, but do I know you, sir? I’ve spent most of my recent years stuck here, so I’m sorry to say I cannot recall if we’ve ever met somewhere.”

“Your reaction would have been different had that been the case,” Alexander suggested, cracking a finger for emphasis. “Still, my question stands, if you would be so kind as to answer it. I’ve been to many a church myself during my life, but I never can think of anything to say which seems… right? Authentic, perhaps that is a better term. Worth saying, even.”

“Oh, well,” Nicolescu shifted from side to side, evidently taken aback by the question. “Well, I… I must confess I haven’t been quite exemplary in my faith for most of my life, really. I’ve been having… difficulties for some time, which is why I’m here now, but I’m not sure I feel qualified to advise anyone on these matters.” He threw up his hands. “Our priest, father Anton, he’s the one you ought to seek for such advice…,” he paused, a hint of a shadow flying across his face before continuing. “Unfortunately, he isn’t here at the moment. As for what I say… well, I don’t pray, exactly. I am simply honest. Honest with the one person with whom honesty is inevitable. That, I suppose, is the best advice I can give.” He tried for a smile, but his unease and fatigue twisted it into a rictus cringe instead.

Alexander nodded at that, pressing a finger to his lips. “All that sounds quite reasonable, truly.” Locking eyes with the mayor, he shifted the tone of his voice ever-so-slightly. “So, can I count on you to follow your own advice, mister Nicolescu?”

The forced smile on Nicolescu’s face vanished at once. “Who are you?”

“I shall follow your advice if that is what you will do, too,” Alexander declared, slowly closing the distance between them. “Can I count on that, mister Nicolescu? Can I count on you being honest with me, here and now?”

“Answer me! Who are you?!” He tried to sound commanding, but the frustration and fear in his voice utterly betrayed him. Alexander noticed his hand shot up, clutching at something in his shirt pocket.

“Someone very interested in the local goings on. And, more importantly for you, someone who believes you know quite a bit about them,” Alexander coldly recounted, inching closer to the retreating man. “Someone particularly interested in, say, Rand Resources reportedly planning on sending a scouting party into the long defunct Sulfurești gold mines, based on confidential reports of new deposits found within them. Remind me, mister Nicolescu, how long has it been since the mines were originally exhausted? Ninety years? Ninety-two, was it? How unlikely to still uncover new deposits after so much time.”

“I’ve no knowledge of whatever this is!” the mayor protested, though the drop of sweat trickling down his nose betrayed the truth.

“Is this the kind of honesty you had in mind?” Alexander stepped forward, tilting his head. “What of the perils for local tourism then? No accidents or incidents for over fifteen years, and now, suddenly, six missing person reports in swift succession, all within Sulfurești’s vicinity? Discounting your fellow neighbours, that is – I believe seven of them have gone missing as well?”

“I’ve already told the police all I know of this!” Nicolescu insisted, now backed up fully against the altar with no room left to retreat.

“And I’ve no doubt the police made sure to take you at your word,” Alexander nodded, cracking another finger before continuing. “I fear that will not be enough for me. Especially since I would also like you to explain what a group of Taurus mercenaries is doing stationed in the middle of nowhere. Who are they working for? What are they staffing?”

“I shan’t speak of private matters to anonymous inquisitors!” Nicolescu barked at him, though there was no spine to anything he said. Alexander pressed deeper still.

“Then there are matters you’ve yet to speak of in this regard?” He watched the man bite at his lip, evidently unsure what to do.

“I…,” he began, then broke off, his right hand sliding into his pocket as some semblance firmness finally descended over his features. “No. I’ve nothing left to say, to you or to anyone. Now, am I under arrest?” he took a step forward with the question.

“By no means would I have the authority to place you under one,” Alexander acceded. Nicolescu nodded in turn.

“Then we’re done here. Good day to you, sir.” Composing himself, the mayor stepped forward, still refusing to look Alexander in the eye as he began to walk past him.

Alexander placed a hand on his shoulder as he did so. Nicolescu halted at once.

“However,” Alexander continued, his voice never rising, “authority and capacity, as you should know, are two entirely different matters. And I can assure, I possess the capacity to do far more than merely place you under arrest.”

“Such as?” Nicolescu spat as he stepped back, and Alexander felt the tiniest bit of respect for the man’s composure.

“Firstly, let me make it clear your consent in providing me with the necessary information is strictly optional. I can extract the necessary information from you at my leisure, with or without any cooperation on your behalf. Granted, such an outcome would likely see you reduced to a sub-optimal mental state, but ensuring otherwise is not currently among my priorities.” He watched the man carefully, searching for any sign of comprehension in his eyes. Rolling beads of sweat springing up from Nicolescu’s brow gave him all the answer he needed. “And it seems you understand the nature of my statement.”

“I… don’t believe I…,” he tried to stammer out, but Alexander had given him courtesy enough by that point.

“Mister Nicolescu, you obviously have an inkling as to who I am and what I can do, so let us dispense with the small talk. You have made contact, and possibly pact, with forces unnatural which have already hurt and possibly killed some of your fellow neighbours and countrymen. I want you to tell me what you know so I can stop them, and I shall not afford you the luxury of choice in that matter.” He paused for a meaningful moment before continuing.

“However, I would like to believe that I found you here and now for a reason. I haven’t yet been given cause to suspect malice at the root of whatever actions you chose to undertake, and you would do well not to provide me with any now. You must have realized yourself that what is happening in your town has already crossed well past “not kosher” and into “dangerous”. So, I give you this one chance – cooperate. Your people are in danger. It is a mayor’s duty to help his citizens.”

At that, Nicolescu seemed to pass from fear to exasperation. He took a step back, sat down on one of the benches and remained quiet for a long while. He spoke just as Alexander was about to bid him to act again, his voice firm, tired and voluminously sad.

“Help my citizens… But you see, that’s how all this mess began. That is all I wanted, to help us all escape this senseless misery of stagnation and poverty.” He waved a hand around him, choking down a bitter laugh. “Have you seen this place? Its falling apart, rotting away right around us. We’ve been saving up for a modern sewage system for two decades. Three for the motorway’s renovations. General supplies lacks half of what we need six out of seven days per week, and even our garbage is only collected sporadically. Our kids have to go to boarding school to even attend high school, which puts the parents in debt immediately. And why?” He looked at Alexander, his eyes sullen and bloodshot. “Because we’ve no money. Work’s dried up in this place since before the regime change, and now it’s non-existent. A quarter of us subsist off pension or welfare, if you can even call it that. The rest either work abroad to return to their families once a year, or get by on whatever scraps of work they scrounge from the region. Our population’s dying on its feet, and shrinking by the year.”

“Then why remain? Why not leave?” Alexander inquired, but the bolt of searing pain in the mayor’s eyes at the remark let him know the answer before he spoke. It was the same answer which drove him to do what he did, equally foolish to boot. Home is home. Once it is, you can never replace it. And mountain folk roots run deeper than most.

“I didn’t want to give up on this place. For all its flaws, it’s still precious to me. Not to mention, leave for where? Perhaps I could afford to get some cushy desk-jail in Bucharest, but most of us have next to everything invested in our property. Who would buy their houses to allow them to move out? The government? Western companies?” He gave a dismissive laugh. “No, simply moving was never an option without leaving most of us behind. I had to create work, real work, somehow.”

“The mines,” Alexander surmised, the mayor nodding weakly in assent.

“Sulfurești hadn’t always been the little den you see today. Centuries ago, our gold was the source of numerous conflicts between Wallachia and Transylvania, and the town changed hands a dozen times at least. Three other settlements could partake in sending their people to work in our mines, all benefiting from the work. This,” he waved at the church’s ceiling, “this was all built thanks to that money, as well as the town hall and half of the houses. Even after the other towns grew to believe Sulfurești cursed and ceased cooperation, our town still held on, getting by on the sweat and toil of our miners. Until we didn’t.”

He went silent, Alexander making a mental note of the claims of the town’s cursed status.

“The gold ran out, sometime in 1902 I believe. And with it, our value to the country ran out as well. Sulfurești has an inconvenient location, a small population and archaic infrastructure. No one wanted anything to do with us now that we had nothing to offer. For the best part of a century, we’ve been bleeding population, but after the revolution that trickle became a tide. In the next thirty years, our home will become a ghost-town.”

“A common enough occurrence in our countries,” Alexander nodded, the mayor’s words hitting closer to home than he’d like. “Yet you embarked on something unorthodox. Who led you to it?”

Nicolescu bit at his lips for a while, squeezing his hands white. Alexander knew the man was now on the crossroads, contemplating where to commit himself. When finally he spoke, his voice had the quiet intonation of surrender.

“He approached me in Bucharest for the first time, while I was negotiating with Internal Affairs. My interviews were being constantly delayed, so he offered to do me a favour if I grabbed a cup of tea with him sometime. Next thing I knew, my interview was successfully completed and my request approved in full. I realized what the deal was, of course, but I was desperate by this point. So, I went to meet with him.”

“Him?”

He breathed in deeply before speaking the name, eyes closed. “Helmut Zinder. A Swiss fellow, based on the accent, though he might be some other brand of Saxon, my German isn’t the best. I don’t know what he does for a living and I was smart enough not to ask. He had a lot of questions about our town, the local history, geography culture and so forth. After our chat, he asked me whether I’d like to see the goldmines ’round us reopened. I laughed, of course, saying that you need gold to run a goldmine, no matter how much influence you might have in the business sector. Then, he picked up the stone.”

At that, Nicolescu fished in his coat-pocket, taking out an oval piece of stone – a bright, glistening, yellow piece of stone.

“Wasn’t like this the first time,” he clarified. “Was a regular old cobblestone snatched of the street. He turned it to gold before my very eyes, then proffered it to me. “One month in your town,” he told me, “and you’ll have gold to mine for generations, even should your town quadruple in size. Which it can, my friend – if our bargain is struck”.” Nicolescu threw Alexander a hard, guilty stare. “I think I knew who I was signing a pact with then. But the offer was simply too good, and I had proof he could deliver what he promised. Am I really such a bad person for wanting to make the most of a bad situation?”

Alexander didn’t reply, making Nicolescu sigh before continuing.

“He asked to be leased the Chapel of St. Sáva the Goth, owned by the town. For archaeological research, he claimed. Even paid the fees without issue. His only conditions were that the site be declared off limits to the public for the time, and that he be allowed to hire his own staff. Privately, he assured me that the month he’ll spend in the mines will be more than enough to create sufficient gold to attract private investors, and that he’ll be long gone before they arrive. I believed him. I wanted to believe it would all be worth it. Even after the soldiers came. Even after our forests turned cold. Even after our people went missing, goddammit I wanted to believe there was a point!”

“May I see that?” Alexander asked, extending his hand. Hesitantly, Nicolescu offered up the golden bead, which Alexander diligently looked over inch by inch. No residues of alchemy… then it must be… “As I expected. Mister Nicolescu, look here. See the spots where the gold seems to pale, becoming whiter?”

He drew his athame, making Nicolescu inadvertently wince, then pressed the wavy blade’s tip against the stone, focusing on it. Sure enough, the cobblestone’s gilded sheen quickly receded, leaving behind an unremarkable grey oval. The mayor’s breath caught at the sight.

“Had someone tried to cut it in twain, the result would have been similar,” Alexander explained. “It takes sophisticated alchemy, not to mention years of practice, to permanently transmute any substance. It is not a trick which can be performed on the spot. This cobblestone was naught but an elaborate illusion – a perfect one, no doubt about it, but an illusion nevertheless. And most likely not one any man might be able to cast upon an entire mine.” He let the final words linger, watching the mayor carefully.

Nicolescu’s chest heaved as he took the news in, entering a state close to shock. “So… it was a lie? All of it?” Again, he grabbed at his chest pocket, beginning to hyperventilate. “Then that too… No, no, no, no, no…!”

Alexander stepped in and slapped the mayor across the face. Not a hard slap, just enough to take him out of the growing state of hysteria. “Focus,” Alexander told the man, his voice stern but not condescending. “There is no shame in being fooled by illusions, especially those that show what we wish to see. But you must not allow failure to cloud your judgement. Your people are in danger, but we might still be able to help them. The Chapel, tell me about it. What is its history?”

Nicolescu took the slap well, blinking away the small tears from his eyes. “The Devil’s Chapel, you mean? Well, it used to be a –…”

“We have visitors incoming. Aurochs,” Huginn’s un-voice reverberated through his head, urgent yet measured. Alexander raised a finger to quiet Nicolescu, then closed his eyes to focus fully on the telepathic communication.

“How many?”

“Ten… no, a dozen. Full fireteam.”

“Weapons?”

“Six AKs, two Molot shotguns, three Vityaz submachine guns and a Dragunov for good measure. Sidearms too, and at least five are packing grenades.”

“Any artifici among them?”

“None apparent, though they have a… presence, clinging to them. I suspect it is not their own.”

“Commanders?”

“Tall man, dark brown hair and beard, khaki cap. Seems to be in charge of the entire team.”

“Location?”

“They have just left the inn.”

“Then they know my location. ETA?”

“Two minutes tops. Wait… The marksman’s separated, climbing a roof one block away.”

“Engage overwatch,” Alexander nodded, already moving before the link had faded away, reaching to lift his suitcase onto a seat before him before quickly unzipping it.

“What are you doing?!” Nicolescu uttered in an alarmed voice, but Alexander beckoned for him to quiet down once more.

“I have previously made my presence known to the Taurus forces stationed in your town. They have returned to confront me, in force.” He threw off his overcoat, unveiling a pitch-black uniform of unorthodox design, elaborately embroidered with silvery threads and fitted with exactly twenty-seven pockets and pouches of various size. “I suspect not just to deliver a stern talking to,” he continued, swiftly checking and holstering the pair of CZ75 handguns hanging beneath his arms before doing the same with a bulky, Mjolnir-pattern revolver strapped to his right hip. “And if my assumption is correct…,” he trailed off, holstering the gun beside the wavy, slender dagger. He briefly considered also retrieving his own rifle from the suitcase, but judged it unnecessary. “Well, you will want to remain very quiet in here for now.” Instead of the rifle, he pulled forth a long, silky piece of fabric, unfurling it and letting it fall upon his shoulders before clasping it together with a star-shaped brooch. All smooth, shifting darkness from the outside and serene, midnight blue from the inside, marred only by tiny constellations of gold and silver thread, the scáth cloak felt like second skin upon Alexander’s back.

“Are you… you cannot mean to fight them here!” Nicolescu exclaimed. “Please, despite all else, I want no bloodshed in this town! Could you not –…?”

“You still don’t see it, mister Nicolescu,” Alexander cut him off, untying from his collar the length of silvery cloth which usually served as his tie. With a whispered word, the gleipnir slid into his left sleeve, wrapping itself comfortably beneath his hardened bracer, between and around a set of silver-coated throwing blades, all ready for usage. “Your town is not at peace. Hasn’t been since the moment you made your bargain. Sulfurești is currently conquered land.” Carefully, he pulled off his gloves, revealing a set of white-gold rings, all inscribed with tiny, cursive glyphs, adorning his slender fingers – three on his right hand, two on his left, all faintly shining in the dimmed candlelight. “Occupied, by forces hostile to man. And there is but one way to fight an occupation.”

Reverently, as though it were made of glass instead of argentinid steel, he pulled from the case a long, straight-edged bastard sword, all sheathed in brown leather and broad straps of brass. Its deceptively simple design belied a bewitchingly intricate system of engraved glyphs, stretching like vines across the weapon’s crossguard, chappe and well onto the blade. With practiced grace, Alexander slid the sword into the previously empty holster hanging from his left hip, its familiar weight giving him a sense of completion. As his hand rested upon the evening star adorning the sword’s pommel, Alexander felt tempted to sigh with sheer relief.

He turned to find Nicolescu gaping at the display, eyes bulging with a mix of fear and incomprehension. “Mister mayor, if you’d be so kind,” he walked over to his satchel, fishing out a spare Glock. He checked it was working before inserting a fresh magazine, then handed it over to the startled man. “In case any get through into this place. I trust you know the basics - here’s the safety. Mind you, only use it as a last resort. And keep an eye on my other possessions, please and thank you.”

He turned to leave, but Nicolescu’s shaking voice still gave him pause. “You can’t… I don’t kill people! I never even held a gun in my life! This has to be a joke, I can’t…!” He trailed off, lost for the right words, before spuriously shaking his head as if to wake up. “This can’t be right! We’re not at war, no one is dying, and I don’t –!”

“Oh, but you are at war,” Alexander noted, turning to face the man directly, now looking him straight in the eye. The cold in his grey made the mayor shrivel and recoil. “You probably don’t know it. Your town certainly doesn’t know it. And the cutthroats coming for my life are probably ignorant of it as well. But whoever sent them knows. And so do I,” he declared, cracking a finger – gloveless, the snap sounded sharper. “This war is the oldest of them all, waged by man from the moment he was brought into this world and spanning since our forgotten prehistory. Count yourself lucky you haven’t had to fight it until this very point. But now, you do. A little, at least. Your choice in that has been snatched away the instant your pact was sealed. You’re already in a trench, mister Nicolescu. The only question is, on whose side of no man’s land shall you end up?” he left the final implications unsaid. Sweating profusely, the mayor’s panicked eyes kept darting between Alexander and the gun in his hands before the man almost collapsed into a seat beside him, a hopeless expression smeared across his face.

“Try and steer clear of the door,” Alexander noted, turning around to walk out of the door, roiling mist enveloping him at once.