Then he saw the man.

  Lying on his back in the dirt, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth twisted in a silent scream. His clothes torn open, his chest and throat savagely ripped apart. Blood pooled beneath him, dark against the mud. The wounds were jagged, brutal, as though whatever had attacked him had done so with a primal, unrestrained fury.

  Divan looked around, tracks clearer than the ones from the day earlier, as if the creature cared no more about who knew what it was.

  The house stood crooked at the end of the lane, its door swinging wide on broken hinges. Divan watched as Maria went into the little house to care for the children and the wife.

  He was glad Lila wasn’t there; she had seen enough of this kind of thing. He hated that she or any of them had to witness such horror.

  Divan pushed through the gathering crowd, the smell of blood already thick in the chilly morning air.

  Inside, the hearth still glowed low. A pot of stew bubbled over, forgotten. Children clung to each other in the shadows, wide-eyed, silent.

  Divan knelt by the body.

  Martin, the man who had clapped Divan on the back in the tavern, boasting to the others about the “doctor from Brașov” and how clever he was.

  He was dead now. Torn open like a sack of grain, blood soaking into the packed earth floor. His face still twisted in the last stunned gasp of life.

  From the marks, the deep gouges, the brutal tearing, Divan knew it had happened fast.

  Violent and unstoppable.

  Divan rose slowly, blood chilling in his veins. This was no longer a matter of superstition or fear. The beast was not hiding anymore. Boldness had taken root. Hunger had followed. And the moon would not be its master any longer.

  Then Divan saw Costea.

  The younger man stood off to the side, half-hidden in the tavern's shadow, his notebook propped against his knee as he sketched. His pencil moved quickly, capturing the brutal reality of the body in precise, careful strokes.

  Divan barely had time to react before one onlooker, a burly man with a thick beard, noticed him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the man roared, pointing a thick, accusatory finger at Costea. His face contorted with disgust as he stepped forward. “Are you sick in the head or something? Why are you drawing pictures of men ripped to pieces?”

  The crowd stirred, a few murmurs rising. Divan saw the way Costea stiffened, his fingers tightening around the notebook. His face remained impassive, but Divan could see the tension in his shoulders.

  Before the situation escalated, Divan moved. “Enough,” he said sharply, stepping between them. His voice cut through the gathering murmurs, commanding attention.

  The bearded man turned his fury on him. “You’re defending this? A man is dead, and he’s sitting there drawing all of it like some kind of—”

  Divan held up a hand. “Costea is not disrespecting the dead. He’s trying to understand what happened. The better we understand it, the better chance we have of stopping it.”

  The man scowled, clearly wanting to argue, but Divan didn’t give him the chance. He turned slightly, angling his body between Costea and the growing hostility of the crowd. “Would you rather we remain blind to what’s happening? Or do you want to find the thing responsible for this?”

  The murmurs shifted. Some villagers nodded in reluctant agreement, while others simply turned their eyes away from the grisly scene.

  The bearded man spat at the ground, glaring at Costea one last time before muttering, “Do whatever you want.” Then he pushed past the others and stormed off.

  Divan exhaled slowly and glanced at Costea.

  “Keep going,” he murmured low enough for only him to hear. “But don’t linger. When you’re done, come to me.”

  Costea nodded once and returned to his sketching with a more cautious pace.

  Divan turned back to the body, but in the back of his mind, unease crept in. He had successfully deflected attention from Costea, but for how long? If word of this reached his brother . . . No. He wouldn’t let that happen. For now, he needed to focus. There was still a killer to catch.

  After the villagers carried the body away for burning, the crowd slowly dispersed, their murmurs fading into the morning air. Divan lingered behind, then went into the house.

  The house smelled of blood, smoke, and fear.

  Maria moved through the small room with steady hands, wiping the widow’s brow with a damp cloth, murmuring soft words no one else could hear. The children huddled against the far wall, silent, wide-eyed, too shocked even to weep.

  Divan stood near the hearth, giving space, waiting until Maria caught his eye and gave a slight nod. Only then did he approach the widow, kneeling beside her chair.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said gently. “But if you can remember anything . . . anything at all.”

  The woman’s face twisted with grief, but she forced herself to speak, voice cracking with every word.

  “There was a nasty odor first,” she whispered. “Something horrible. Like... like rot and burning hair.”

  Divan nodded encouragingly, keeping his voice low, steady. “And then?”

  She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth. “A blur. I remember a blur. The room was dark, the blur was like a shadow, dark, fast. I couldn’t see it. Then Martin was gone.” Her voice broke. “There was a noise outside . . . growling . . . and then he screamed once.”

  Divan bowed his head, letting her gather herself.

  The widow wept into her hands.

  “I ran to the door. The children . . . they were right behind me.” She choked, rocking forward. “They saw. Oh, my poor children, my poor Martin, it’s more than I can bear.”

  Maria was there in an instant, wrapping the woman in her arms, whispering comfort. She reached into her apron for a vial of tincture, pressing it gently into the widow’s hand. “A few drops,” Maria murmured. “For the shaking. The tincture will ease you.”

  The door opened softly, and Lila slipped inside. She knelt without hesitation, gathering the children to her, smoothing their hair, speaking in low, soothing tones. One boy clung to her, pressing his face into her skirts.

  Divan watched from the hearth.

  There was something in the way Lila moved, calm, patient, unafraid, a strength that didn’t shout but wrapped itself around the broken and made them whole enough to breathe again.

  He found himself admiring her for her quiet courage and compassion.

  Divan exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. There wasn’t anything more he could do here. Not now. He would speak with Costea later, go over what he had observed, and see if he had noticed something Divan had missed.

  Chapter 15

  I have spent years chasing ghosts. Books, relics, talismans, anything whispered to hold power over curses. Charms to bind the soul. Herbs to purify the blood. Ancient names spoken at the right hour beneath the right stars. I have gathered them all. Tried them all. Nothing holds. Nothing touches the thing inside me. Sometimes I wonder, did the sorcerer who cursed me take the cure with him when he fled? Did he destroy every scrap of knowledge that could unmake what he had done? -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  Divan found Costea near the apothecary, hunched over a bench with his notebook open across his knees. The young scribe rose immediately when he saw Divan approach, brushing ash and dust from his coat.

  “Doctor,” Costea said, voice low. “You should hear what happened last night.”

  They moved into the shadow of the building, away from curious ears. Costea spoke quickly but carefully about the tavern, the music, and the laughter, forced, too loud. Martin, boasting loudly about Divan’s cleverness and bravery. About Caliban’s reaction, not rage, but something colder. About how he had turned the tension aside with a smile and a call for music and dancing.

  Divan listened, arms crossed, a growing heaviness settling in his chest.

  “There’s more,” Costea said, flipping open his notebook with stiff fingers.

  He held it up, a simple sketch of the tavern scene. Crude but clear. Martin sat at the table, laughing. Otilla dancing. Caliban lounging in the shadows, smiling his lazy, hollow smile.

  And there, nearly hidden in the smudged charcoal behind Caliban, was a crouched, misshapen figure. Half-wolf, half-man.

  Divan’s stomach twisted. “Costea, how. . . ?”

  “The drawing was as if . . .” Costea said slowly, “my hand saw something my eyes missed.” He tapped the shadowy form with his pencil, frowning. “I swear to you, doctor, no one else saw it. I didn’t know it was there until. . . But it was there.”

  Divan took the notebook carefully, studying the image. He couldn’t help but think that whatever haunted Bran, whatever was tearing men apart under the full moon, had been in the tavern last night. Sitting among them. Smiling.

  “Thank you, Costea. Keep your sharp eyes out, but be careful. I’ll come to see you later.”

  Costea nodded and headed toward his cottage.

  ***

  Divan needed to speak to Lila. A while had passed since she and Maria were at the home of Martin Tomescu. The neighbors had come in and brought food and pies and bread for Gina and the children. They helped clean up the cabin for them and stayed with them, no one wanting them to be left alone after the nightmare they had been through.

  He noticed how other women whom he had heard lost their husbands in the same way were there, as if they knew exactly what to do. He loved how these people, despite what they lived under, cared for one another.

  Divan found Lila at her cottage, helping Maria finish breakfast. “Divan, please come and eat,” Maria told him. He sat down, and she put his breakfast in front of him. Lila pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

  “You’ve kept your promise.” He gestured to the cottage next door. “I assume everything is in order?”

  Lila smiled. “Of course. I made sure the stove was working and brought in firewood. There’s fresh bread and cheese, though I suspect you’ll want something stronger after your journey.”

  He smirked. “You know me well already.”

  She gave him a teasing glance before her expression turned serious. “Did you find anything in Brașov?”

  Divan debated how much to tell her. He had uncovered more than he expected, pieces of a truth he wasn’t ready to share. “I found some old records, accounts of creatures like the one that’s been attacking. There are legends, but nothing solid. Only that. . . “

  Lila studied him for a moment. “You’re holding something back.”

  He gave her a tired smile. “Nothing I can confirm yet.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but let it go. “Grandmother and I have been speaking to the villagers. We gathered herbs, salts, and protective charms, things that may help keep it out of their homes.”

  “None of the talismans worked for Martin’s family,” Maria said.

  “There is so much I don’t understand,” Divan said. “Why did it pull Martin out of the house and not go after Gina and the children? As if he specifically came for Martin, but why?”

  “There is nothing to understand,” Maria said. “The beast is intelligent and more than a raging monster seeking blood. There is thought behind what it does. Before these past few days, I had never seen this aspect of the creature. But now I have seen signs of this. To me, it makes it even more dangerous.”

  “Will it strike again tonight?” Lila asked.

  “I don’t know,” Maria said.

  Lila looked at Divan.

  “I am equally in the dark. But we can do what we can to make sure the people are prepared as best as possible.”

  She bit her lip, but nodded. “I understand. You should eat your breakfast.”

  Divan watched as she turned and started eating hers. The medallion Cel had given him burned against his chest as he debated giving it to her then, telling her everything, but he didn’t, not yet. After he ate, he helped Maria clean up and returned to his cottage.

  The fire was already burning low in the hearth. He removed his coat and stretched his tired muscles. Then his eyes landed on something atop the wooden table: a book. At first, he frowned, not recognizing it, but as he stepped closer, he realized what it was.

  Werewolf: A Study of the Beast Within.

  Divan inhaled sharply, running a hand over the cracked leather cover. Cel had given it to him before he had left Brașov initially, claiming it might be of use. Divan had dismissed it as just another of Cel’s eccentricities. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  Slowly, he opened the book, flipping through the brittle pages. Diagrams of monstrous figures, half-man, half-beast, stared back at him, inked in careful detail. The text written in old Romanian, difficult but possible to decipher.

  He came to a place where several distinct types of werewolves were listed with their definitions beside the name – he glanced down, reading the name and the definitions, then stopped at The Umbrawolf or Shadow-Wolf.

  Divan began to read it again, slower:

  Among the rarest and most fearsome of all lycanthropic curses is the creature known as the Umbrawolf. Unlike common werewolves, whose transformations are bound strictly to the cycles of the moon, the Umbrawolf moves between man and beast at the call of its own corrupted will.

  The curse that creates an Umbrawolf is ancient, woven not merely of blood, but of soul and shadow.

  The beast reveals itself in full on the nights of the moon, as other werewolves do, but it possesses a darker gift: the ability to break free at any time, driven not by celestial tides, but by the man’s own faltering emotions.

  The Umbrawolf is cunning and intelligent, feeding upon the thoughts and memories of the human host. Using the man’s fear, anger, grief, and hatred to plot ruin.

  The Umbrawolf will let the host resist him for a time, even for years, but then, as the man’s will to live weakens, the will of the man can command it no longer. Only the will of the beast determines when and where it strikes.

  At this time, the Umbrawolf no longer needs the moon, nor any warning at all.It becomes hunger and rage given flesh, unstoppable until death claims it.

  “There has to be a way to kill it,” Divan spoke aloud as he continued turning the pages. Then he found something.

  There are few accounts of how to destroy an Umbrawolf, and fewer still that agree. Some claim that death must be delivered not to the body, but to the soul. That the beast must be slain at the moment the man within rises to resist.

  Others write that silver alone is not enough; that it must be a blade forged in grief, or a weapon borne by one who carries no hatred toward the host.

  Still others whisper of rituals lost to time, of ancient spells that could unbind the beast from the living flesh, though none now know the words.

  What is certain is this: The sorcerer who cast the spell is the only one who has the power to either kill the beast or create the weapon by which to destroy it.

  An Umbrawolf does not die easily. It does not die cleanly. And sometimes . . . it does not die at all.

  Divan groaned. “Vague and ambiguous. A sorcerer must have written this book.”

  His breath slowed as realization settled over him like a heavy weight. If this were true, Caliban had kept himself in check for years. But now, Divan had been asking questions, stirring old ghosts. . .

  He turned another page, his fingers tightening on the parchment. They will kill those who threaten to uncover their truth.

  Divan closed the book, his jaw clenched.

  He needed to move fast. He felt the medallions in his shirt pocket. He pulled them out and put the one Cel had given him with his vague explanation that it was a protection talisman. Then he looked at the one for Lila. This had power. The black tourmaline in the center had runes carved into the silver, embedded with what looked like garnet.

  He needed to give this to Lila.

  ***

  The woods were filled with the gentle hum of nature. The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy. A stream gurgled nearby, the water glistening as it wound through moss-covered stones. The scent of damp earth, pine, and faint traces of wildflowers filled the air.

  Divan led Lila to a small clearing beside the stream, a place untouched and hidden from the world. The grass was thick and soft beneath their feet, and the air carried the crisp scent of fresh water.

  “This is perfect,” Lila murmured, taking in the secluded beauty of the spot.

  Divan smiled, laying down a thick woven blanket. “I thought you might like it.”

  She set down the picnic basket and knelt, the graceful curve of her body drawing his gaze like a magnet. He watched her, captivated, unable to look away. Something was intoxicating about the way she moved, effortless, fluid, completely unguarded. The sunlight spilled through the trees, catching in her dark hair, turning strands to molten auburn, painting her skin in warm, golden hues. His eyes traced the delicate slope of her neck, the soft shadowed hollow just beneath her ear, and a slow heat coiled in his gut. He imagined pressing his lips there, feeling her shiver beneath him, letting that warmth unravel between them once again.

  “I can feel you staring at me,” she teased, glancing up with a knowing smile.

  He grinned. “Can you blame me?”

  Lila shook her head, her cheeks tinged pink. “You should be helping.”

  “I am.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “How?”

  “I’m appreciating the view,” he said smoothly.

  She laughed, shaking her head as she unwrapped fresh bread, cheese, and ripe plums. He poured them each a glass of honeyed wine, his fingers brushing hers as he passed her the cup.

  They ate in a comfortable rhythm, talking and laughing between bites. Divan kept the conversation light, enjoying the way Lila’s eyes brightened when she spoke of the villagers, her grandmother, and the small joys of daily life in Bran. He let himself forget, just for a moment, the dark shadow looming over them.