Chapter 4:
Loyalty
Dedicated to all persons of minimal talent who excel at relentless self-promotion
Romania, Year Two
Rumors of one or more vampire hunters began to circulate in the village of Stilpescu and about the surrounding farms. A year passed with a noticeable drop in the attacks by the Undead. However, the reduction in vampires made little difference in the villagers' practical lives. Though they were the scariest creatures of darkness, it was the everyday demons and spirits that demoralized them.
Everyone suspected that the mysterious man who appeared now and again to drive Kappas and Hinkypunks from the rivers and bogs, Boggarts from the woodsheds, and Red Caps from the dungeons was also the vampire hunter, but they didn't pester him for fear he would vanish as mysteriously as he had come. It had been years since they dared to venture out, but now children began learning to swim again, young men went fishing, shepherds let their flocks seek out lusher pastures beyond the fences. The braids of garlic the villagers all tacked to their doors grew dry and withered. Their full moon nights were no longer rent by howls, and they stopped consulting their lunar charts.
In this interlude of unaccustomed peace, it came as a nasty shock when the Muscaturas' little boy was attacked by a pair of werewolves on his way home from his best friend's house just before dawn.
The boy's father and two local shepherds managed to drive the creatures into an old stable and bar the door. The weather-beaten wood crumbled under teeth and claws, but as the sun rose, the howls were replaced by human cries and the assaults on the door grew less effective.
The town gathered to discuss the best way to kill the creatures. Many thought that in human form, a werewolf could be put to death the same way as any other person. Others insisted upon a wooden stake through the heart followed by beheading. Yet others were certain that silver bullets were required, though no one was sure where to find any, or whether silver coins melted into projectiles would do the trick.
They were scouring the town for silver and wise old grandparents when the cloaked demon-hunter appeared. Nothing showed of his face but a pair of eyes which were weary but alert, and he held his hand at the wand in his belt.
"What has happened?" he inquired of Mr. Muscatura in a hoarse voice.
"A -- a child," the villager replied, unwilling to admit that it was his own son. "Attacked and mauled by werewolves. We've trapped the monsters," he added with some pride, "but no one remembers when we've last had to kill one in this village."
The mysterious man said nothing for a long moment. "Where are they?" he asked.
The villagers led him to the stable, where attacks on the door had stopped. Everything was quiet.
Mr. Muscatura cursed expressively, and turned angrily to the knot of boys -- his son's friends -- who were gathered at the door. "Has anyone -- anything -- come out of here?" he bellowed.
They shook their heads, eyes wide with curiosity.
"They're probably asleep," the monster hunter said in a quiet tone. Then, more firmly, "Open the door." He held his wand ready, motioning for the children to step away. "Stand back," he warned, red sparks flying as he gestured.
The bitten boy's father and the shepherds strode forward, all three removing the bar from the door in a single swift motion. They leapt aside, leaving a clear path between the unknown wizard and the inside of the stable.
The villagers got one good look at the two young men inside before a stream of silver shot from the hunter's wand and encircled them. They were bound head to toe in shimmering cords, one end flying into the hand of the wizard who had conjured them. He jerked the monsters into the bright sunlight, where they blinked sleepily -- then a shower of sparks engulfed them all as they Disapparated.
The werewolves gaped in surprise as they found themselves a second later in Grigore's cottage, the silver that bound them as ephemeral as cobwebs. Grins of recognition appeared on their faces as the monster-killer lowered his hood and stared at them for a long moment in silence.
"I missed you last night, Grigore," said Remus at last. His voice was raspy, and he couldn't suppress a yawn. "I've been looking for you since morning, and it's a miracle I got there in time."
"I can explain, Lupeni Alpha," the younger of the werewolves began, stammering.
"Please," Remus winced. "We're friends, Grigore, I think we can dispense with titles."
"Because you don't deserve them." Spiteful as ever despite the close call, Vlad pushed Grigore away and stepped in front of him. They were all so tired from the previous night's full moon that none of their words or actions had the characteristics of a real fight: their movements were slow, their voices calm, but both Alphas were furious. Vlad stood not six inches from Remus, his lips curled into a sneer. "If we don't bite anyone, we disappear, I think you know that. Do you want to see our kind die out?" He didn't utter the worst word one werewolf could use to another -- "traitor" -- but it was more than implicit in his every drawling remark.
Remus kept his temper by imagining this tall, unkempt bully as Severus Snape. The thought of arguing with a naked Snape almost made him laugh. "For every person we bite, villagers come into the mountains and shoot three of us. Is that what you want?"
"It hardly matters if they kill us old dogs." Vlad was not yet thirty. "We need pups to keep us going."
This seemed unusually philosophical for Vlad, but he was far from stupid; he had probably been thinking hard about this ever since he realized that Pack Five followed the questionable ideal of not biting anyone. "Attacking small children is a cowardly act, and hardly the way to convince anyone that our kind are anything but monsters," Remus responded coolly. He glanced at Grigore, who was cowering to one side, letting the leaders of Packs Five and Six fight it out.
Vlad threw back his shaggy head and laughed evilly. "But that's just the point," he leered, jabbing a bony finger into Remus' chest. "We don't have to convince anyone. Once they're one of us, they realize we're superior. Even you are glad you were bitten. Am I right?"
Definitely, Vlad had been thinking. It took a long time for Remus to formulate a reply. Vlad could be smug because he knew he had the phase of the moon on his side; Remus' memory was full of yesterday's animal joy, the intense sensations of sound and smell that humans could never know. He had to force himself to remember the lonely nights in the Shrieking Shack, and in the shed at his parents' home. "I am glad only when I am free," he managed at last, "and your behavior threatens all of our freedom." Sensing that he'd gained an advantage, he moved quickly -- clever or not, Vlad was not one for subtlety. "If you show your snout in the village at the full moon again, I won't lift a finger -- or a paw -- to help you. Is that clear?"
Vlad hesitated in turn. Remus had, after all, just saved his life for the second time.
Suddenly, Grigore slapped them both on the shoulder, smiling uncertainly. "Aw, don't fight, you dogs, OK?"
Remus took his eyes off of Vlad's infuriating smirk and looked at his packmate. "You're right, little buddy," he said at last, the exact words he'd used to Peter Pettigrew when the latter was forced to play peacemaker between Remus and Severus, or occasionally Remus and Sirius. Remus' obstinacy when he was sure he was right coupled with his refusal to lose his cool could drive certain opponents into a frenzy.
Vlad shot them both a nasty look and went to get some clothes from Grigore's meager collection in the corner of the hut, despite the fact that he was by tradition unwelcome in Pack Five's territory. He took the broomstick, too, without asking, and as he departed gave Remus one final word. "You won't last long," he said. "Your pack won't survive without biting people."
Remus watched him go, then looked again at his friend, who should have been with the rest of Pack Five last night but who instead had sneaked into Stilpescu with his old leader. By this point, Remus was too human to consider this a betrayal, though he was disappointed that the record of no bites since he became Alpha had been broken by one of his own.
Perhaps Vlad was right. The Fives were no longer starving; they were robust and healthy and didn't spend their human days stealing the way they used to. Remus had considered this his greatest accomplishment so far in Transylvania; but was it all for nothing? Did he really want his kind to die out?
"Get some rest, Grigore," he said wearily. "We're meeting Liszka tomorrow to see about the swamp goblins, right?"
The boy nodded, surprised that his Alpha wasn't calling him to task for his actions.
Remus sighed. In many ways, he could rely on Liszka more than on any of the boys. Female werewolves were rare -- he didn't know why, maybe it was because little girls were less likely to be running around alone at night, where they could get bitten. This meant werewolf society didn't have the parallel male and female hierarchies that real wolves did; the few females had to fight for their place in the male ranks. In some ways this was unfortunate, because Liszka had been bullied horribly by Vlad. In other ways, though, this unnatural arrangement freed her -- she had less instinct to obey the Alpha than the Beta males did, and could readily tell Remus when he was being stupid. Sometimes he needed that.
She was the most fearful when Remus tried get the Fives to interact with the villagers, refusing to believe they wouldn't be recognized for what they were and driven out of town, even killed. She would probably never much care for people, but she was the best witch without a wand Remus had ever seen, and was invaluable in the dirty work of trampling through bogs and creeks to flush out demons. Grigore wasn't bad either, and between them they managed to earn enough money to feed and clothe themselves. Remus hoped they could get their garden and sheepfold going, too, although the pair of spring lambs he'd gotten from Alexandru had been messily devoured at the next full moon.
They just needed to learn to use their minds as much as their instincts. Remus had met people who liked to be bullied before -- the class scapegoats, the Omega wolves (though Romanian werewolf packs were small enough that no one really had an Omega). Grigore was a lot like Peter, and Remus had hope for him. "You don't have to be afraid of Vlad," he told his friend firmly. "He isn't your master. You're a human being, and you can learn to stick up for yourself."
As he Disapparated, Grigore gave the cloud of sparks a look of disbelief like the one he'd worn when they first met. Remus would always be a mystery to him.
Remus rested briefly outside the small stable gate to Castle Arghezi. Apparating and Disapparating the day after a full moon had tired him enormously. He ached, his body crying out for sleep. The luxury of napping in the warmth of the greenhouse or curled up next to the fireplace in his room seemed to be getting rarer as the pack took up more and more of his time.
But life had improved so markedly for all the members of Pack Five in the last fifteen months. He tried to focus on this as he numbly reached for his wand to undo the enchantment on the gate. He made it through the gate, resetting the magical ward behind him and dragging himself into the castle through the kitchen doors. Each movement he made, however small, seemed to require reserves of energy that he didn't have.
The old kitchens were no longer used and dust lay thick everywhere on the shelves and tables. A great variety of dusty black pots hung suspended from the ceiling, looking like misshapen beasts imprisoned in some floating dungeon, silently pleading to be released. Paying scant attention, he followed the well-worn trail that led out of the kitchen and into the old servants' quarters. This was practically the only living space left in the castle. The upper floor, which had been the family bedrooms when Alexandru was a boy, was uninhabitable. During much of his fifty years' absence, those rooms had been occupied by the vampires who had made the castle their own. In spite of numerous Cleansing Charms, they reeked of the Undead and no one ventured up the stairs.
Remus dragged himself finally into the room in which he slept, an unused drawing room off the portrait gallery. Alexandru and Mihail had rooms in the servants' quarters, but Mihail would not tolerate a werewolf sleeping so close. Thus, Remus had chosen the distant, cavernous drawing room as his lair. At least it had a large fireplace at one end which provided much needed warmth, especially on days like this one.
After getting a fire going, Remus sat next to the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket with his legs stretched out before him on a sofa. He stared into the pulsating flames, his mind too full of the day's events to sleep, even as his body drifted away into some semblance of rest.
Vlad was right, he was a traitor if he didn't want there to be any new werewolves. There was no getting around that. And making new ones meant biting people -- biting children. Adults didn't usually survive the bite, they died or went mad, unable to incorporate the beast into their already formed personality. It was a painful event, one that caused grief to everyone involved... but wasn't every birth process painful?
Not that he knew too much about that. Liszka was the first and only female of his kind he'd ever met, and it was she who told him that they couldn't reproduce in the normal way -- the offspring would be born dead, or not at all. It sounded as though she'd had personal experience in the matter, though she provided no details. She, clearly more experienced in this realm, taught him to use the Contraception Charm for magical birth control; even when transformed, it was easy enough to do (how did Muggles manage? Maybe that was why there were so many of them).
When the moon was full, Liszka and the leader of the Fives coupled joyously as wolves. He knew it, without needing or wanting any explicit memory. She was a gorgeous animal, pure white like a Samoyed. She was a beautiful woman, too, now that she was well-fed: tall and strong, with glossy hair and shining eyes.
He shut his eyes, forgetting his guilt for a moment in memories of how pleasant it was to be touched, to feel another's warmth, enjoy the smell of her hair, the softness of her face. Before he met Liszka he'd never even kissed a girl, afraid she'd find out his secret and feel as if she'd been tricked into smooching her dog -- or even worse, that she'd fear he was contagious. Liszka, too, had been starved for affection, thrown out of her parents' house when she was ten, and they clung to each other in a relationship that was purely physical and always lost its magic as the moon waned.
She was beautiful and feral and warm, but as a person she was rather dull. She didn't even like to read.
A series of reflections on whether it was possible to teach werewolf gangs to appreciate literature was interrupted by a brief knock and the sound of the wooden door scraping across the stone floor. Remus didn't turn his head to see who his guest might be, but waited for him to speak. After a minute or two of silence, he sat up wearily, starting slightly as he saw Mihail. The servant ordinarily never spoke to him, and there was a gleam in his eye right now that bothered Remus.
"Master Arghezi wishes to speak to you," Mihail said coldly, his lips pursed. "He is in his library."
"I am -- " Remus could barely speak through his yawn -- "very tired, do you suppose -- ?" He stopped as he saw that this comment seemed to heighten the smug look on the servant's face. That made it pretty obvious what the discussion was going to be about. He got slowly to his feet, wondering if Mihail had seen him rescue Vlad and Grigore or just heard the story -- certainly he wouldn't do something so low as to follow him?
Such a sentiment wouldn't ordinarily enter his mind, but he really didn't like the look that Mihail was no longer attempting to conceal.
Alexandru was sitting comfortably in a chair with a book propped in front of him on the heavy oak library table, reading glasses perched on his nose. "Ah, yes..." he said mildly as the others entered, glancing back to his book. "Mihail, you may go."
The servant did so, with one more malevolent peek at Remus.
The old wizard did not ask Remus to sit, leaving him standing near the door, flanked by the enormous dark bookcases that dominated the room. He removed his glasses and tapped them on his book, regarding his guest with curiosity. "I understand that the villagers trapped two of your, er, fellows," he said finally. "And that you took it upon yourself to -- "
"To rescue them," Remus said bluntly. Ordinarily, it would have been a tough call which of them could cause the other to explode first, but it had just been a full moon. Remus' emotions were still skewed in the direction of anger and loyalty, and too much complexity was beyond him. Besides, he had spent all morning arguing -- and while Vlad the monster got on his nerves, these humans and their smug conviction that it was their prerogative to kill drove him into a blind rage.
"So," Alexandru peered into his book in a pretense of thought, "I can assume that you didn't do with them as the villagers intended?"
"I didn't slay them like vermin, if that's what you mean," Remus retorted.
"They bit a small boy, nearly killed him." Alexandru was calm as ever, almost dreamy as he looked up and met Remus' hostile gaze. "They were acting like wild animals, and I have yet to meet a wild animal that can be cured by a strict talking-to."
Remus was growing angrier and angrier. "Talking is not all I do," he hissed. He paced the space between the bookcases like a caged beast. "Ever since I came to this country I have been trying to help people -- yes, people! --who were abandoned by their families and friends to starve. Anyone will act like an animal when he's hungry, and despite the way they are treated, my -- my pack are for the most part kind and loyal, much more than I can say for most humans."
Alexandru put down his glasses and raised an eyebrow. "Your pack," he said thoughtfully, as if that explained something. "Pretty ambitious for a city dog like you, isn't it?"
That bit of werewolf slang perturbed Remus. Alexandru knew more than he cared to tell. "This was the first bite in more than a year," he said coldly, leaning heavily on the massive table which separated the two men, gripping the edge tightly out of both fury and exhaustion.
"Well, then," the anger began to show in Alexandru's voice, "see to it that it is the last."
Remus bristled. He thought of the hunters who had come pouring into the forest the first time he had run with Pack Six... Had they been trained by Alexandru, supplied by him, even encouraged by him? Why, for instance, had they used silver bullets then, whereas today the villagers seemed unable to come up with any?
Yes, Pack Six had killed a person. But humans wouldn't play the hunting "sport" unless in was skewed one hundred percent in their favor. He sneered at Alexandru the way Moony sneered at Vlad, a gesture common to both dogs and primates. "The last, or you'll kill us, is that it?" he snarled. In a flash, he remembered their very first conversation -- about the werewolf whom Alexandru had killed, the same one who had bitten Remus -- in a sense, his father. "Murderer," he said, in a low, venomous tone.
"I have a duty to humans, as do you," Alexandru replied, his voice turning icy cold. "You may play at being a wild dog, Remus Lupin, but you cannot abandon your responsibility to humankind."
Unable to contain the rage and frustration which had been seething inside since he first began hunting for Grigore only a few short hours ago, Remus blew up. "I want to protect humans! Haven't I tried to keep the pack away from the village?" He pounded on the table with his fists and slammed his forearms onto the unyielding wood so hard that the pain made him dizzy. "I've done all that I can to protect both humans and wolves. What more do you want?"
Alexandru regarded him with an expression of forced calm, a blankness which Remus found unreadable and unsettling. He tried to move away from the table but, tired as he was from the day's exertions, found that his knees would no longer support him. He looked down at his shaking hands and said hoarsely, "Turn me out, then, if that's how you feel. I'll take my chances with them -- with my pack."
Remus felt himself slipping away, his mind and body having gone beyond their limits of endurance. Alexandru must have sensed this, too.
"Get out," he said crisply. "I can see that you are in no condition to continue this discussion. We will speak of this matter another time."
Remus stumbled out of the library and into the great hall, conscious of Mihail's eyes on him as the old servant prepared dinner at the hearth. The smells of food cooking attacked him like a horde of rabid dogs, making him realize that it had been a full twenty-four hours since he'd eaten anything. But he needed sleep, needed to be alone.
He dragged himself slowly out into the corridor and down the portrait gallery. He had no memory of how he came finally to his room or to his pile of blankets in
front of the fire, but slept a heavy dreamless sleep for the next twelve hours.
Between squabbling with Alexandru, recovering from the transformation, and chores with his pack, it was three days before Remus managed to get into Stilpescu to check on the boy who had been bitten. All his practice at hunting Dark creatures made identifying the house as easy as if there had been a rain cloud over it. He knocked, heard some whispers but no response, and knocked again.
Mr. Muscatura flung the door open, blocking the way challengingly. Behind him, his wife put one hand to her chest and the other to her mouth. It was clear that they misunderstood the reason for the monster-hunter's visit.
"Please," Remus exclaimed, pulling aside his hood. Alexandru insisted upon anonymity, but he doubted that this family would reveal anything. "Don't be frightened. I came to see whether your son has had a healing potion." He didn't even know what the appropriate concoction would be called.
"A cure?" the mother gasped, still with her hand near her heart.
"No, it's not a cure, I'm afraid -- but the bite is very painful, and can be dangerous, if it's not treated."
"Why bother?" the father wondered in a low voice, stepping from the doorway and allowing Remus to enter. "What kind of a life will he have?"
"With some precautions, he will be able to lead a nearly normal life," Remus lied, the words somehow sounding familiar. "You might not... er... want to tell people, but -- "
"We're already planning to leave the village," said Mr. Muscatura. "Too many people know, the brats he played with can't keep a secret."
"Well, if you need me," said Remus earnestly, "please don't hesitate. There are magical wards one can set up, so you can keep him inside at the full moon, and no one will hear the noise."
Both parents regarded him strangely; after all, he was supposed to be hunting monsters, not giving them advice on escaping detection.
"It will be some time before his bite is dangerous," Remus added hastily, as if that explained it. "How old is he now?"
"Eight."
"Yes... two years, at least. By then he should understand enough to be able to help you keep him safe." The magnitude of that last lie astounded him. "I'll be back with the potion in a few hours. Don't abandon your son; he needs you now more than ever." Feeling light-headed, he went out the door and ran for the mountains. Without a local herbologist, these poor people would be entrusting their son's life to someone who barely passed Potions and who could himself not touch wolfsbane. Where's a Slytherin when you need one, he wondered, racing up the stone trail to the castle.
He didn't wish to face Alexandru - they'd both been chilly since the quarrel -- but fortunately the library was empty. It was the first time he'd taken a close look at what was there, and he wished now he had time to browse. Every book, ancient and modern, on every topic related to Dark Magic seemed to be there, piled two and three deep, floor to ceiling. He was already familiar with the books on werewolves; he'd read all of them at Hogwarts with morbid fascination, lurking under the Invisibility Cloak because he was too embarrassed to check them out. None of these featured potions, though. He tried Healing Herbs, which was well-thumbed but didn't have anything; 101 Common Potions (no, it wouldn't be in there); and finally, almost by accident, he flipped to a worn and bloodstained page in Magical Mandrake. It was a Fang Formula, a treatment for all magical bites, but a note in the margin told him this was the best recipe for the bites of roofdraks, werewolves, and cerberi (who on earth had been bitten by a cerberus, he wondered).
Well, now he had the recipe, but wasn't much closer to having the potion. Finding mandrake would be difficult -- unless Mihail had some already dried, he couldn't imagine being able to locate a plant around here, never mind pull it up correctly and dry it -- no, he was going to have to ask. Quickly, he scanned the rest of the ingredients: garlic, that they had in abundance; ginger, ginseng, spider silk, nightshade (no wolfsbane, at least)... and a drop of blood from the creature responsible.
The very same creature? Remus wondered, with a small smile as he imagined going after Vlad with a needle. Reading further, he discovered that any of the same species would do. That made it easy, of course, but he was slightly disappointed at not having to bleed Vlad. He marked the place in the book with a strip of parchment, stepped out of the library, and took a deep breath as he steeled himself for a confrontation with Mihail.
The servant was already at the hearth in the great hall, standing at a large pot stirred by a three-foot long magical wooden spoon. It smelled of garlic and chicken, and would probably be delicious. Remus was too nervous to think about food, though; he'd never tried to address Mihail, having previously learned that it was impossible to change those who couldn't forgive him for what he was.
"Er, excuse me," he said, with his best possible manners.
Mihail looked up, and his face froze. They watched each other icily for several seconds.
"I have a potion to brew," Remus began finally, managing to keep any emotion from his voice, "and there are some ingredients that you might have--" He held up the book and opened it to the marked page.
Mihail's face twitched slightly. "Garlic, ginger, ginseng, spider silk, nightshade, mandragora," he recited without emotion.
"Oh, you know it? Good!" Remus was greatly relieved. "Potions was my worst subject at school. It's not even clear from this recipe whether you drink it, or -- "
"You do not drink nightshade," Mihail interrupted in the same flat voice. "It would kill you. You apply the solution to the bite, making sure it penetrates all the way into the wound. This is for the bite of what sort of creature?"
Remus hesitated. "It's for the little boy -- in the village -- from three days ago..."
"Ah, yes." A malicious smirk appeared for a second on Mihail's lip, then vanished. "One of yours. I'm sure that pleases you."
"It doesn't," said Remus flatly.
Mihail did not reply, but went out and returned shortly with an armful of vials, bags, and a special coffin-like box, from which the dried face of the mandrake peered in an expression of angered surprise. The piece the servant cut from the mandrake root came hurtling magically at Remus, who almost didn't catch it in time. Mihail combined the other powders all together into a marble mortar, measuring with an expert eye.
"There are some," he said, turning to face Remus as he ground the ingredients with a stone pestle, "who may argue that he is better off untreated."
"You mean left to die," Remus translated. He hated euphemisms.
"His parents will turn him out." He handed the pestle to Remus, who consulted the book again (the trouble with this business was that you always had to be two or three steps ahead of yourself). "If not now, then when he is large enough to frighten them. That is the silk," he added, "the ginger, and the ginseng. The mandrake root must be boiled for an hour; I trust you can do this."
"Yes..." said Remus thoughtfully. "Is it OK if I do it in here? So near the food? I mean, with the nightshade and everything..." He didn't trust potions.
"Be my guest," said the servant coolly, and Remus went to the stone hearth and tapped a kettle of water with his wand to start it boiling.
Mihail returned to his cooking, but kept a wary eye on Remus -- for which the latter was grateful, as somehow he'd always managed to do something wrong in those dark Slytherin dungeons no matter how simple the concoction. This one seemed to be thickening nicely, though, and the mandrake let out the proper squeals (he'd been given part of its hand; did that matter?). He needed to concentrate -- but he also tried out the lies on Mihail that he had on the boy's parents, that he could lead a normal life, go to school, be a regular child twenty-eight days out of twenty-nine.
He knew they were falsehoods, and yet he persisted in believing them. He had spent the seven years before Hogwarts without a single friend, becoming increasingly bitter as he learned more of how his kind were hated, and increasingly unpredictable and frightening as the monster fought the human for control. Here he was, nearly twenty-five, and he still didn't know who or what he was. How could he pretend that things would be any different for this boy? Perhaps the kindest thing would be to take him from his parents and give him to Liszka to raise.
And yet he believed that things could be different, that this child could learn to master his dark urges before he was old enough to be a real danger.
"My mother didn't wish to be treated," Mihail confessed suddenly, as Remus removed the pot from the flame and waved his wand over it to cool it. "She preferred to die rather than to raise her child as a monster."
"I'm sorry," said Remus sincerely, and the servant watched in horror as he pricked his finger with a sharp knife and added a single drop of his own blood to the
rapidly thickening formula.
It was almost nightfall before Remus returned to the village. The castle wards extended nearly all the way down the mountain, which meant he'd run fifteen miles that day, five of them carrying a large vial that he had to be extremely careful didn't shatter against the rocks. As he made his way through the small square in front of the church, he was surprised to see a knot of people. For a moment he felt apprehensive, especially after that conversation with Mihail. Could this be another mob forming to take on the poor child bitten by the werewolf? As he drew closer, he did not hear angry voices. Instead, he heard perhaps the last thing in the world he would have expected in the little village of Stilpescu.
English. Someone at the center of the crowd of ten or so villagers was speaking English.
A tall peaked hat, the kind that British wizards often wore, stuck up above the crowd. The peach-colored hat perched on the wavy blond hair of the man speaking English. Incredibly, he had matching peach-colored robes. Remus wondered if he had missed some important trend since leaving Britain.
Remus had difficulty making out anything intelligible since everyone seemed to be talking at once. He set the vial down on the low stone wall in front of the church and approached an old witch near the edge of the crowd.
"Who's that?" he asked in a low voice, pulling the hood over his face as much as possible.
"Come all the way from Bucharest on account of those werewolves they caught," she replied, eager to explain this most unusual occurrence. "Says he's a famous wizard from ... I can't quite remember where. He come to write about us."
Inwardly, Remus groaned. This sort of publicity would only turn more attention to werewolves and make it harder for the pack to co-exist with the villagers.
"...killed several myself..." English words in a clipped, haughty accent floated through the noisy crowd. A hush fell and someone else could be heard translating this into Romanian. The fellow hadn't even bothered to learn the language, Remus thought. The translator related an incredible number of the feats of this alleged werewolf-hunter to the listeners. Unfortunately, some of them were dead wrong. There was no such thing as a Homorphus Charm; unless you could speed the earth on its axis, there was no way to make a werewolf turn back into a person. It sounded like one of the stories he made up in Dark Arts class when he was a student.
"Aren't you that fellow that caught those wolves?" asked the old witch, eyeing Remus suspiciously.
Shaking his head and pulling the hood closer about his face, Remus hurried away from the crowd. He picked up the vial of potion and headed for the Muscaturas' house, hoping that this chap would keep talking about himself for a while longer.
At the house, Remus found the mother at home. Yes, she had heard about the famous werewolf-hunter and her husband had gone to listen, but she stayed behind. She ushered him into a room at the back of the cottage where there was a bed of stuffed straw and a stinky Muggle oil lamp. Remus had to get very close to be able to see in the dim light.
Despite his philosophical words, Vlad had not been trying to convert the boy -- he had been trying to kill him. An unmistakable mark of his jagged fang ran all the way across his throat, and the wound was red and swollen, the child tossing with fever.
Remus sat beside the low bed, placing the vial between his knees so he could tap it with his wand to release the cap. A plume of purple smoke emerged that made him choke. He leaned over the boy, wondering if he were conscious. "This will make you feel better," he said. "It might hurt for a second, so get ready, OK?"
The boy opened his eyes slightly and gave a low growl. When Remus went to touch him, he sat up and sank his teeth into his hand.
The mother, watching closely from just behind the wizard, gasped and clutched the wall. Remus glanced at her, then smiled at the boy. "Biting's rude," he said pleasantly. "Now, growl all you like, but this will help, I promise." Waving away the purple smoke, he splashed the contents of the vial on the bite.
The red welt caused by Vlad's fang swelled even more, then began to drain a thin black liquid as it shrank back in on itself to leave a scratch no more conspicuous than if it had been from a rose bush.
The boy groaned the whole time, Remus smoothing the hair off his hot brow and trying in vain to think of something comforting to say. He didn't remember any of this; he just hoped they'd made the concoction correctly.
After a few minutes the boy breathed more easily, though his forehead was still very hot. Remus sat there until the child had fallen into a deep sleep; as he waited, Mrs. Muscatura came closer, and finally sat on the bed and took her son's hand.
"He hasn't slept well in three days," she said hopefully.
"Yes..." Remus felt he should apologize. "I haven't... um... ever done this before, so if there are any problems... I'll come back tomorrow, anyway, and see how your boy is doing. What's his name?"
"Bela," said his mother, watching her son sleep.
"Good-bye, Bela," said Remus. "You'll be OK, you hear?" He handed Mrs. Muscatura the vial. "I don't think you'll need this, but just in case." He made as if to say something else, but the sound of voices and the scrape of the door opening drove his final words away.
The peach-colored robes showed up brightly in the dim bedroom, as did the pursuing red eye of the magical camera. The English wizard and his entourage pushed their way towards Bela's straw bed, shoving the boy's mother and Remus into the corner.
"Stay away, don't get too close." The Englishman stood by the still-sleeping boy but didn't look at him, addressing a toothy smile to his adoring crowd. "A werewolf's bite contains a foul poison, one drop of which would be sufficient to transmit the curse to all of us in this room."
Remus shook his head at Bela's mother to signal that this was nonsense, forgetting for an instant that she wouldn't get the meaning of these silly words until they had been filtered through the uninspired and emotionless translator.
The wizard in peach held up his large, white, manicured hands to the crowd, turning them back and forth to show that they were ungloved. "But fortunately I, Gyro Idle the Great, am protected by a Cave Canem Charm -- so I dare to touch this boy, tainted by vileness as he is, with my bare hands."
Howling Hecate, Remus thought, even I never made up anything that outlandish. "Tainted by vileness" -- no wonder I never had a date. He pushed his way out of the corner and through the crowd, the urge growing in him to act like Madam Pomfrey, to pull this blabbermouth away and scold, "The boy needs rest!" Mrs. Muscatura trailed behind in the gap he made in the throng, finally able to reach her son's bedside again.
Gyro Idle the Great was holding up the sleeping boy, motioning for the camera to photograph them both. He inspected the rapidly-healing scratch with some disappointment; the poor light really demanded a more melodramatic wound. When the first pictures were complete, he turned to the translator and had him ask Bela's mother whether he might have a more photogenic injury somewhere else.
The mother grabbed her son back from Gyro and tried to make his head comfortable on the pillow. The boy slept on -- Remus recalculated how much nightshade he'd added to the pot, starting to get a little worried. He pushed forward again, elbowing the translator, and felt Bela's forehead and pulse: cool and normal. It's probably about as exhausting as a transformation, he thought, trying to reassure himself. At least he's spared this awful scene.
Mrs. Muscatura lay her hand on his shoulder, addressing Gyro. "This man brought a potion that healed my son," she said firmly.
Remus made to escape before the words could be translated, but his exit was blocked by the cameras, the translator, and by Gyro himself, who gave Remus' robe such a sharp tug he was afraid it would come off. He found himself looking up at the immensely tall wizard's jutting jaw, flashy white teeth, and coifed blond locks. He didn't look familiar, though he was certainly the right age to have been with Remus at Hogwarts. Was he a real wizard at all?
Remus thought fast. "I am but a humble potion-brewer," he said to the translator in Romanian, "not the hero who rescued our village from these terrible monsters." He made little effort to hide the sarcasm in his voice, though as he expected, it didn't make it through the translation. "Great Gyro Idle, would you consent to have your picture taken with a poor Romanian peasant?"
Gyro Idle looked stunned.
Remus pretended to misunderstand. "Oh, of course, if you cannot spare the time, I more than understand -- "
The Englishman grinned broadly, his teeth glowing in the dingy room. "It is a burden of fame, I must confess. A great burden on one so young -- "
"Perhaps you should carry around a stack of autographed photos," Remus muttered and the translator fired off his comment to the toothy apparition.
"A fine idea!" Gyro beamed. "Yes, I couldn't have thought of a better idea myself! Well, noble peasant, the great Gyro Idle will be happy to give you one of his few precious moments." He gestured towards the translator, who pulled the wand from his belt and pointed it directly at Gyro's head.
This made Remus start in surprise; but then from the wand came a thick bluish goo that dispersed itself throughout Gyro's hair, separating the curls and smoothing his forelock. A Curling Charm.
As he led Gyro and his followers from the room, Remus took one last look at little Bela, sound asleep with his mother watching over him. He couldn't catch her eye, but he hoped they'd have some peace now that the Englishman had been distracted.
"Sadly, my religion forbids me to uncover my face," Remus said through the translator as they queued up to have their pictures taken. He hoped to get his picture and be gone, but Gyro held him tightly.
"Everyone line up for their photographs, Gyro Idle the Great and the Romanian potion-brewer who saw with his own eyes how the small village of St-- Sp-- Stordescu? - was saved from marauding beasts!" thundered the wizard. As Remus had feared, now the villagers couldn't leave them alone: they needed to know how, and where, and with what.
Gyro turned to Remus. "Show them," he cried, extending his palms. "Tell your countrymen how I performed this feat of bravery and courage."
Sighing to himself, still wondering if nightshade was supposed to be weighed before or after it was juiced, Remus led Gyro and the crowd to the old stable where Grigore and Vlad had been trapped three days before. Everyone oohed and ahhed over the clawed door, and Gyro bent to pick up several long, gray hairs.
"Yes, the fur of a werewolf has many magical powers -- " he began.
"If you weave it into a rope, you can hang the creatures," Remus finished, unable to stop himself. He wore around his wrist a cord Liszka had braided from his and her fur that they shed in Grigore's cottage during the spring. It had no magical powers whatsoever -- but the white and gray looked pretty together.
"That is correct," Gyro announced as soon as he had received the translation. "But this is not what I did this time. I came unprepared, without magical fur, or herbs, or weapons -- I was forced to use a complex charm, one which our peasant friend had never seen before. But I am sure he can describe it -- "
The pause for translation gave Remus plenty of time to come up with something. "The Lupus vegetarianus charm," he told the crowd solemnly. "Those werewolves will live on lettuce for the rest of their days."
"Lettuce! Indeed!" Gyro smoothed his hair. He showed no signs of tiring. "Vampires, too, can be made to adopt a diet of greens with the same spell. And so, humble peasant, let us show your countrymen how this charm is done." He ushered Remus into the stable and pulled out his wand. "Go on," he urged, "get down on all fours, and be the wolf."
Smiling oddly to himself, Remus did so, watching the other flick his wand about like some Muggle idea of a wizard. No sparks came out, and again he wondered if Gyro were for real, or if he were a Squib, or a Muggle making a movie. The teacher in him wanted to take Gyro's hand and show him how to do it properly, the way he had to do with the worst of the first-years at Pufflepod Academy... The wise-ass in him, who seemed to have the upper hand, was just laughing.
"All right, very good," Gyro checked to make sure his crowd was still there. "Can you give us a howl?"
Remus looked straight up into Gyro's blank face and empty blue eyes, and did.
Gyro went white.
"Er... " he choked. He took a step backwards, pushing the translator between himself and Remus. "Uh... yes. Fine acting, lad, very good! Just... er... don't do that again, OK? Now, come on and -- no, don't bite me! but just like that -- "
Cameras snapped. The villagers watched intently, trying to push their way into the pictures, and to pick up stray hairs that Gyro had dropped. They were Grigore's hairs, and quite a few of them -- Remus wondered if Vlad had attacked him.
The spectacle came to an end at last, with Gyro's magical camera providing prints for all the villagers, as well as dozens of extras that he tucked into the pockets of his peach-colored robes. A pen hung in midair, magically autographing them all -- so there was a spell he could do.
Remus turned to head back to the castle, thinking that he may not ever have bitten anyone, but he had certainly created a monster.
Meals at the castle were a grim exercise for a while. Alexandru insisted Remus eat with him, when he was there, even if they spoke little to each other. However, Mihail seemed to have lightened up somewhat, perhaps as a result of seeing Remus' concern over little Bela. Mihail frequently visited Stilpescu and it seemed likely he knew of the many calls Remus had made at the Muscatura house to check on the boy's condition. Mihail would at least make eye contact with him while serving food now and did not resist his offers to help clean up.
The old wizard avoided talking to Remus since their quarrel in the library the day after the full moon. Now the moon had waned to nothing and still Alexandru did not re-open their discussion. Remus was not entirely sure that he wanted to continue the argument either. He feared there could be no rapprochement between them.
Alexandru even took to departing solo on his forays into vampire country; Remus could tell where he had been by the dirt and straw on his boots, the bat guano in his hair, and the haunted look that lingered on his face. One evening he returned late, taking his seat at the dinner table just as Mihail had removed Remus' plate and poured him coffee. Remus gathered up the book he was reading and his notes and rose to leave, not welcoming another hour of stony silence, but the old wizard gestured so vehemently for him to sit that he did so.
As usual during these past two weeks, Alexandru said nothing and Remus ignored him, focusing on his coffee and Atlas of Magical Wards and Enchantments. Mihail brought a plate of bread and butter, followed by a steaming bowl of chicken soup. The vampire-hunter took a piece of bread but seemed to forget what he was doing with the butter knife halfway to its target. His hands sagged, dropping the food onto the table. "A glass of wine..." he murmured, turning his head slightly towards the servant. "Or brandy, perhaps..."
Realizing something was wrong, Mihail approached quickly with the drink, unable to hide a look of concern. "What else may I bring you, Master?"
Taking a long sip and steeling his face, Alexandru managed to regain his composure. "Nothing, thank you, Mihail." He waved him away.
The quaver in his voice made Remus look up. Alexandru's face bore a look of horror that reminded the young wizard of Sirius Black, in prison, surrounded by Dementors. Their eyes met, and it was a long moment before Alexandru spoke just three words.
"He has returned," he said.
There was a cry and a shatter of china -- Mihail, his face impassive but ghostly white, had dropped a soup bowl.
"Come." Alexandru rose and beckoned Remus, with a warning glance at the servant. "I think it is time that we put aside our trivial differences."
Advocating the cold-blooded murder of his kind was not exactly what Remus would call a "trivial" difference, but his curiosity overcame his anger and he followed the old man into the library, where the door magically shut and sealed behind them. The disappearance of many but not all noises from the Great Hall made Remus realize there was a spell on the room to filter out the frequencies of the human voice. He sat in a chair opposite Alexandru and waited, taking in the mud on the other's clothes which looked as if he had been walking through a rain storm.
"I do not wish to lose you, Remus," came the quiet words after some minutes' silence. Remus looked into Alexandru's face to find a respect he'd never seen before from the old wizard. "I trust you. I have trusted you with my life at times when we hunted vampires together." He drew a deep breath. "And now we will be facing our greatest challenge."
_______________________
Under heavy clouds, a solitary traveler walked the dark night-time road between Orastana and Albimare. The man had a pack slung over one shoulder and seemed to be in a hurry. Vlad loped easily alongside the road, far enough away that he was screened by trees and hedges. Even as a human, he could hunt as silently as a wolf.
And he was hunting tonight. He had watched the man, a farmer, counting the money he had gotten from selling his sheep in Orastana. The man stayed a bit too long in the tavern, so now he was forced to make his way home in the dark, which suited Vlad perfectly.
Vlad did not understand Fido's insane desire to find jobs for the Fives. No one in their right mind would hire a werewolf; wizards seemed to know instinctively what he was and Muggles just became nervous around him, although they didn't understand why. He survived on stealing; money or food, he would take whatever he could find. Tonight's quarry seemed to have plenty of money and Vlad aimed to take possession soon.
It began to drizzle as the road wound through the tiny hamlet of Catunescu. Most of the village had been abandoned long ago; a crumbling stone church and a few run-down houses were all that remained. The man ducked into the church as the rain came down harder and a crack of thunder boomed through the hills. Vlad watched him disappear into the dark opening as lightning sizzled and the rain began to come down in sheets. This was going to be easy.
Crossing the road openly in the driving rain, he stopped at the door to the church. It would be easiest to wait for the man to come out again, he thought, rather than chase him around inside a dark church. A little stone porch kept him mostly dry as he scrunched next to the door. As soon as the rain let up, the man would want to get back on the road and then Vlad could jump him as he came out. It seemed like a good, simple plan, the kind that worked best for Vlad.
The rain settled into a steady drizzle, although lightning continued to play across the sky. From inside the church, Vlad heard the faint scuffles of someone walking. The sky went white for a moment from an intense burst of lightning. Vlad expected to hear the boom of thunder soon, but in the split second before the drumbeat echoed from the sky, he heard something else. A scream. Faint, but unmistakable, it came from inside the church. The scream was not repeated, but Vlad heard another sound, the heavy thud of something or someone falling to the floor.
Had someone beaten him to the robbery idea? That didn't seem likely. Catunescu had been empty of people since Vlad was a small boy. He didn't expect a thief to spend his nights waiting inside an abandoned church in a town nobody lived in. Perhaps a demon or spirit? Vlad debated with himself for some time, but in the end greed won the argument. He would take a peek into the church, knowing that his vision in the dark was at least better than that of any human he might find inside.
Cautiously, he slipped through the partially open door and stood against the wall, surveying the dark interior, lit by occasional flashes from outside. The windows were up high, meaning that they couldn't easily be used for an exit. In one particularly bright flash, he saw the ruined altar, but there did not seem to be another door at that end of the church. Good, he thought, only one way out or in. It took a few minutes for him to pick out the figure of a man, lying amidst the jumble of benches in the middle of the floor. He sidled closer, moving away from the door but still hugging the wall. The traveler lay face up, his pack by his side. In another brief flash of light, Vlad noticed that the pack appeared untouched. No one else had tried to rob the fellow, at least. Perhaps the man had tripped over something in the dark....
Greed continued to hold the upper hand in Vlad's mind. He couldn't just leave that pack, now that he was so close.
Dropping into a crouch, he crawled across the dusty floor. Musty odors, dust and ancient incense, mingled with the perfume of rain. Approaching the body, he smelled something else that he couldn't name right away. Tentatively, he touched the body. The traveler's hand felt cold, too cold. Vlad grabbed the pack and was ready to flee when a flash of lightning showed him the man's face. In an instant, he knew how the man died (yes, dead for sure) and what that mysterious smell was.
Vampire.
Of all the stinking piles of dung for him to fall into, this was one of the worst. He had to get out right away.
He stood up and turned toward the door, picking the straightest path through the wooden debris. A faint flutter from above made him hurry all the more, trying not to trip over the benches sticking out at odd angles at his feet. With a tremendous rush of air, something appeared above and behind him. As he threw himself toward the door, he felt strong hands gripping his shoulders. He lunged, but tripped over the leg of a bench, hitting the floor hard while fighting off the fingers that closed around his neck.
The vampire -- no question about it now -- tried to choke him and he felt himself blacking out. Just try to make a meal out of me, he thought as he passed out.
"A thief and a dog," were the first words Vlad heard. He looked up from the floor to see the tall figure of a man, standing before him with a glowing wand. The situation kept getting worse. The vampire must be one of the old ones, a wizard and not some clueless local who got bitten and turned into one of the Undead. He had never run into one of the old guys before, but had heard plenty of tales.
"Cadavru," Vlad spat, "I hope you got a good taste."
Dark, empty eyes regarded him coldly. The face was bony and hard, the skin looking quite rosy for a corpse, but of course the vampire had just eaten. A smile played across the vampire's face, making it seem harder still.
"You think I'll spare your miserable life, dog?" That last term was not spoken with any of the affection of the wolf pack, but rather like describing a bug about to be squashed.
Vlad sat up, noticing that the vampire held the traveler's pack in one hand. "Just try it, you stinking corpse," he growled.
"I'll admit," drawled the vampire, as he casually strolled toward the door, blocking the only exit, "that killing a dog like you would take some work. But I am feeling quite -- er -- energetic tonight."
In response, Vlad lunged, snarling at the vampire as he tried to pull him down. Pain and bright light shot from the wand, knocking him back down to the floor. In the glow of the wand, the vampire's face appeared to float above him in the dark, cruel but thoughtful.
"You want whatever's in here, don't you, thief?" He threw the pack at his feet, not close enough for Vlad to reach. "Hmmmm. I have only recently woken after a rather long...sleep. After my meal, I hunger for certain information. Perhaps I would be willing to let you live, if you have something of value to trade."
Vlad glared at him, intrigued, but not willing to give away anything without a better idea of what the vampire wanted.
"What do you call yourself, dog?"
"Vlad," he replied reluctantly as he warily pulled himself to a standing position. He and the vampire were both tall, about the same height, and Vlad felt better being at the same level, although he could not look into those empty eyes for very long. They stood about six feet apart, glaring at one another in the soft light of the wand.
"Well, Vlad, I have not seen too many of my old friends recently," began the vampire. "My old, old friends are neither awake nor asleep. What do you know of this?"
"Vampires have been getting scarcer. People complain more about us, now that they're not getting bitten by you corpses." Vlad did not seem to answer with anything other than a sneer, but the vampire was too intrigued by the information to notice the insult. "They say there's a vampire-hunter killing them off."
"Indeed? How long?" The vampire raked Vlad with his dark eyes, impossible to read because they swallowed up rather than reflected light.
"Dunno. Twelve months, maybe fifteen. You know how rumors are."
"And do you know the identity of this hunter or where he lives?"
"No. No one's owned up to it, if that's what you mean. I hear about it mostly around Stilpescu and Orastana."
"Now, that is interesting," mused the vampire, "because I recently discovered that Castle Arghezi is protected by certain magical wards. Who lives there now?"
Vlad knew at least one person who lived there, although he didn't think that Fido was tough enough to kill vampires. Other people lived in the castle, too, but Lupeni never talked about them. He sensed that anything related to the castle could be very valuable.
The leader of the Fives was his own kind, however, and had recently saved his life for the second time. Vlad felt a strange loyalty tugging at him. He never expected to be shielding his rival, but the enmity between vampires and werewolves ran deep; somehow he couldn't sell out one of his kind to a vampire.
"Some wizards live at the castle," he said slowly, "but no one sees them much or knows who they are."
"But you do see them occasionally, don't you?" asked the vampire sharply, perhaps suspecting that he knew more than he was telling.
"Yeah, I guess." Vlad tried to shrug casually.
"Perhaps you might learn more? I would reward further information," crooned the vampire softly. "I collect many trinkets which humans -- and dogs like you -- might consider valuable, if you are willing to tell the truth, that is."
The vampire regarded him coldly, staring with the unnatural stillness that only the Undead could maintain for long. Rain still fell heavily outside, monotonous and hypnotic. Vlad grew afraid that the vampire had seen through him and was starting to think of another way to attack, when the silence was broken by the scrape of canvas on stone. With one elegant boot, the vampire kicked the pack toward Vlad.
"Take your stolen goods, dog," he sneered. "But remember my offer."
Vlad scrambled quickly to grab the pack, hugging it tightly, and edged toward the door as the vampire moved aside slightly to let him pass.
"Suppose I do find out something," he said boldly, "How do I get in touch with you?"
"Others of my kind will know how to find me," the vampire said casually, extinguishing the light from his wand so that only his silky voice remained floating in the dark. "The Vampire Cuza. That is all you need say."