He only pulled away when the hunger became unbearable, his breath ragged as he rested his forehead against hers. His arms tightened around her, his fingers splaying over her back, holding her as if he would never let her go.

  “Lila,” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with desire and something deeper, something raw. He kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, claimed her lips again, gentler this time, but no less possessive. “This, what I feel for you, it’s real.” He cupped her face, tilting it so she could see the truth in his eyes. “I love you. I don’t just want to protect you. I want you. I want everything with you.”

  Lila swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if to keep herself steady. “Divan…”

  He brushed his lips over her temple, his hands never straying from her body. “You have no idea how much I need you,” he confessed, his voice low, unsteady. “Not just like this. I want to wake up beside you, see you smile in the mornings, and touch you whenever I please. I want to know that you are mine and that you’ll never be afraid, not of me, not of anything out there.”

  Lila closed her eyes briefly, as though steadying herself against the weight of his words, then looked up at him, her gaze shining with emotion. “I love you, too, and I trust you.”

  A slow, shuddering breath left him before he pulled her in again, cradling her against his chest as he pressed a lingering kiss to her hair, inhaling her scent, letting it burn into his memory. “Holding you in my arms that night was a small taste of what could be,” he murmured, “and I want more.”

  He didn’t know what lay ahead, but he knew one thing, he would fight for her, claim her, keep her safe, no matter what it took.

  Finally, with great reluctance, he forced himself to step back. His fingers trailed down her arms, lingering at her wrists, as though unwilling to fully let go.

  “Go inside,” he said gently, his voice huskier than before. “Stay close to your grandmother tonight.”

  Lila hesitated, her lips still parted from his kiss, her eyes dark. Then, finally, she nodded.

  Divan let his gaze linger on her one last time before turning toward the tavern, his heart still pounding, his body still burning from the taste of her on his lips, from the feel of her pressed against him.

  Chapter 17

  This monster within me is not mindless. The beast thinks. I feel its cunning, coiling behind my thoughts like a serpent. When it strikes, it is not always the nearest victim, but the most hated. I see how he uses me not just to fulfil his bloodlust but to bring about the deaths of those he despises. Yet I never know when or whom it has chosen. -from The Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  Divan and Costea stepped inside the tavern. Divan scanned the room as he pulled his coat tighter against the lingering chill of the night air. As expected, Gregor commanded the room, his voice booming over the low murmur of conversation.

  Divan and Costea slipped into a table just to the right of the door. Claudiu, the barkeep, barely needed a nod before setting an ale in front of them. Costea pulled out his notebook.

  He took the mug, but his attention had already landed elsewhere.

  Across the room, Caliban lounged in his chair, his feet propped up on the table, an almost lazy smirk on his face as he watched Gregor with keen interest. His fingers drummed idly against his mug of ale, his posture casual, but his eyes were sharp, too sharp.

  This should be entertaining.

  Gregor leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled, his half-empty mug dangling loosely from his fingers. The dim lanternlight caught the sheen of ale on his lips as he took another long sip before continuing his tales of greatness.

  “I tell you, I’ve slain more Strigoi than any man alive!” Gregor bellowed, his smirk widening as several men around him chuckled. “A true hunter must have instincts, a sense for the unnatural, a nose for the scent of death.”

  Divan took a sip of ale, his lips quirking into a smirk of his own.

  From the back of the room, one man called out, “Tell us again, Gregor, how many Strigoi did you slay last winter?”

  Gregor grinned, clearly unbothered by the sarcasm laced in the man’s voice.

  “A whole nest, my friend! Six of them, hiding beneath the ruins of an old monastery. They thought they could escape me, but I set the place alight, forcing them into the open. And one by one—“ He mimed an exaggerated stabbing motion, as if plunging a stake deep into a chest. “Gone! Just like that!”

  A round of mock applause followed.

  Gregor continued, caught up in his legend.

  From his seat, Caliban’s smirk widened as he slowly swirled his ale in his cup, watching Gregor like a cat watches a mouse before deciding whether to pounce.

  Divan didn’t miss it. He looked over at Costea’s drawing. He hadn’t missed it either.

  Whatever Gregor thought he knew about monsters, he had no idea that he had just walked into the company of one.

  Caliban’s voice, smooth and almost amused, cut through the air like silk-laced steel. “A true hunter indeed. Few men can claim such feats.”

  A ripple of unease passed through the gathered workers.

  The men who worked for Gregor and had been laughing at his absurd boasts now fell silent, shifting in their seats. Divan was starting to understand. There was something about Caliban, something in his tone, his presence, which made their skin crawl.

  But Gregor? He was delighted. A new audience! Someone who appreciated him! He grinned broadly, downing the rest of his ale and slamming the mug on the table. “Ah! Finally, someone who understands what it takes to be a hunter! The patience, the skill, the instincts!”

  Caliban chuckled softly, tipping his ale toward Gregor in a mock toast. “Instincts, yes, they are everything.”

  Divan sat motionless, his fingers tightening around his tankard as he watched his brother carefully. Gregor was too caught up in his self-importance to miss the way the room grew quieter, the way even the fire in the hearth seemed to burn lower. Divan saw how Caliban was toying with him. Gregor, the fool, was about to walk straight into the lion’s mouth.

  Caliban lifted a hand, motioning lazily to Claudiu. “Another drink for the great hunter, on me.”

  The tavern keeper hesitated for only a second before nodding and pouring a fresh mug of ale. Gregor beamed, sitting up straighter as if he had just been officially knighted. “Finally, a man with sense! My thanks, friend.” He lifted his refilled mug in a sloppy toast before taking a deep gulp.

  Caliban smiled, his fingers tracing the rim of his tankard. “It must be exhausting, carrying such a burden, the sole protector of poor, frightened villagers.”

  Gregor nodded enthusiastically. “Ah, you understand! They rely on me, yet do they appreciate my work? No! They mock, they doubt—“

  Caliban leaned in slightly, his expression carefully crafted to show intrigue, interest, even admiration. “I believe you.”

  Gregor’s chest swelled.

  “Tell me, Gregor, how do you hunt them? What are your methods?”

  Divan felt a prickle of unease creep up his spine. Caliban wasn’t just humoring Gregor, he was pulling him in, feeding his ego like a predator luring prey closer to the trap.

  Gregor, now thoroughly emboldened by the attention, launched into an even grander story, his voice booming through the tavern. “My occupation takes skill! A hunter must study his prey, know where it sleeps, where it feeds, how it moves.”

  Caliban nodded slowly, sipping his ale as if savoring every word. “Fascinating. Please, continue.”

  Divan’s grip tightened around his mug. Gregor had no idea how close to the edge he was walking.

  Gregor was in his element, his voice growing louder, his gestures more exaggerated with each fresh drink placed in front of him. Caliban, ever patient, was feeding him just enough rope to hang himself.

  “And you’ve faced a Strigoi in the flesh? Up close?”

  Gregor puffed out his chest, wiping foam from his beard. “Many times! Why, I once wrestled one to the ground with my bare hands.”

  Caliban’s brows lifted slightly, feigning admiration. “Ah, and did it struggle? Did it try to tear out your throat?”

  Gregor nodded vigorously, waving his tankard. “Of course! But I overpowered it, drove my stake straight through its heart!”

  A few of the workers snorted into their drinks, but Caliban didn’t laugh. Instead, his voice took on a curious, almost scholarly tone.

  “And tell me, did its bones shift beneath your grip? Did it try to change?”

  Gregor blinked, his drunken confidence faltering just slightly. “Change?”

  Caliban’s fingers tapped idly against his tankard, his voice lower now, smoother, more insidious. “Yes. The old stories say some Strigoi, those born of cursed blood, don’t remain still in death. That their bodies fight the final blow.”

  A hush fell over the table. Divan noticed the workers shifting uncomfortably in their seats. The laughter that had filled the room earlier had vanished. They didn’t like the way Caliban was speaking. There was something about the way he said it, too knowing, too casual, too real.

  Even Gregor, drunk and boastful as he was, showed a flicker of unease. He waved his hand dismissively, forcing a chuckle. “A mere legend, nothing more.”

  Caliban leaned back in his chair, his smile deepening.

  Divan exhaled slowly, watching the scene unfold with wary eyes. Gregor had finally stopped talking for the first time all evening. Divan wondered if Gregor realized he might not be the most dangerous man in the room.

  Costea had captured the scene perfectly. First, Gregor standing proud and boastful, then limp and drunk in his chair.

  The tavern had started to empty, leaving only the stragglers, the drunks, and those who preferred the company of shadows. The once-rowdy laughter had faded into a low murmur, the occasional clink of glass against wood breaking the silence.

  Gregor remained, slumped in his chair, still drinking too much, boasting too loudly, completely oblivious to the watchful eyes upon him.

  Divan sat with his drink in hand, posture relaxed, but he watched the scene unfold, observing, calculating. Across the room, Caliban watched him. “I need to go speak to him. Don’t stop recording.” Divan waved to Claudiu to get Costea another drink, and he joined Caliban at his table.

  “What do you think of him, brother?”

  Divan didn’t answer right away. He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the warmth settle before setting the glass down with deliberate ease.

  “He is playing a role.”

  Caliban’s lips curled slightly. “As are we all.”

  Divan’s gaze flicked toward him. “Yes, but the difference is, we know it.”

  Caliban tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes.

  Divan’s voice was quiet but pointed, matter-of-fact. “You’re playing him. You know that I know that. He, of course, does not.”

  Caliban smirked, swirling the last of his ale in his glass. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Divan’s expression remained unreadable, but his voice held a quiet sharpness. “A man like you does not flatter a fool unless he wishes to see him dance.”

  For the first time that night, Caliban laughed. His laugh wasn’t loud, not for show, it was a low, rich chuckle, dark and knowing. And in that moment, Divan knew this was not a game to his brother. This was a test.

  Caliban leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as if the mere thought of Gregor Balan exhausted him. His fingers tapped lazily against the rim of his glass, his posture relaxed, yet there was an edge to him, something simmering beneath the surface.

  “I hate men like him.”

  Divan studied him carefully. “Why, because they are fools?”

  “Because they are worthless.”

  Divan’s eyes narrowed just slightly, not in judgment but in curiosity.

  Caliban’s voice took on a low, almost lazy disdain, but there was nothing indifferent about it. “They waste breath, waste space. They are loud, posturing creatures who think noise makes them mighty. They are an exceeding bore.”

  Divan nodded, as if unsurprised by the sentiment. “And yet you keep him alive.”

  There was a pause, then Caliban smiled, but it was not a kind smile. “For now.” The candlelight flickered as he lifted his drink to his lips.

  Divan leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. “Even the most tiresome jester can be entertaining, until he is not.”

  Caliban’s lips parted in a slow, sharp grin, his fingers drumming once against the wood. “Exactly.”

  Divan took another sip of his drink, watching him closely. Gregor was playing the fool, but he did not realize he was playing to a predator. “And do you think he will kill it? Whatever this thing is, he has come to hunt?”

  Caliban laughed, shaking his head fondly, like a man indulging a child’s foolish question. “Not a chance.”

  Divan nodded slightly. “A shame. I was almost curious to see how he would attempt it.”

  “Oh, he’ll try.” Caliban set his drink down, his smirk widening into something almost delighted. “And watching him fail? That will be magnificent.”

  Divan said nothing, but the weight of the words hung between them, thick with meaning unspoken but understood.

  Chapter 18

  The forest groans tonight. The animals sense the shift, even if the villagers pretend not to. A bear’s rage may tear flesh, a wolf may devour, but they do not choose cruelty. They are not cursed to crave it. There are darker things than claw or fang roaming this wood. Things that do not belong to nature. But none of them, none are as dangerous as the monster who wears my face. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The market booth was quieter now, the early morning bustle subsiding into a gentle hum as villagers began their daily routines. Divan was carefully arranging his assortment of remedies when a weathered villager, Joren Popescu, the local baker, stepped up, his eyes darting about as if he carried secrets too dangerous to speak aloud in the open.

  “Divan,” Joren began, lowering his voice so only the two of them could hear over the murmuring crowd, “I was at the tavern the other night when Caliban was at it again, baiting Gregor, provoking him like he’s got nothing better to do than stir up trouble.”

  Divan paused, a brush of concern creasing his brow as he met Joren’s earnest gaze. “Caliban doesn’t have anything better to do, Joren, but tell me what you saw.”

  Joren’s tone was laced with a mix of anger and apprehension. “I watched him, grinning like a fox with a secret. Every word he spat was designed to push Gregor over the edge, mocking him, insinuating things that had no place in calm company. His words were not just idle banter, they were calculated, like he wanted chaos to take root.”

  The sound of clinking bottles and murmurs of the market seemed to fade as Divan absorbed the account.

  Joren’s voice came even lower. “I’m beginning to wonder if that man is more trouble than he’s worth. I mean, every time he surfaces, he leaves a trail of strife behind him. Honestly, I can’t help but think we should do something about him. How do you suppose we get rid of a troublemaker like that without unleashing even more turmoil?”

  “Are you talking about Gregor or Caliban?”

  “Caliban Drakovar, that’s who.”

  “I don’t understand what he has done that makes you feel so strongly. All he was doing was exposing Gregor for what he is. Surely you could see that?”

  Divan’s gaze drifted over the artfully arranged herbs and vials before he continued, measured and thoughtful. “Removing a man from our midst isn’t as simple as sweeping dirt from a stall. Caliban, as far as I have heard, has always been everyone’s friend. Gregor, on the other hand, is not part of this village, and we don’t know what his intentions are.”

  A tense silence fell between them as Joren shifted his weight, his eyes troubled. “I know it’s not our place to mete out judgment, but I can’t stand the thought of him tearing our community apart piece by piece. There has to be a way to quiet his tongue, to neutralize the poison before it spreads any further.”

  “Poison, tearing our community apart? Joren, we don’t even know Gregor Balan. Have you not been listening to what I am saying?”

  Joren’s expression darkened with a mix of resignation and determination. “I only wish we could rid ourselves of that instability, without stirring up a storm.”

  Where all of a sudden had this come from?

  “What I’m trying to say is get rid of Gregor, send him on his way, and Caliban will retreat to his castle, and things will get back to normal.” He knew that wasn’t true, but Joren didn’t need to know anything.

  The two men talked some more, and Divan was exasperated. Joren wasn’t listening, just talking at him. He had made up his mind what he thought, and that was all there was to it. If Divan didn’t agree with him, then he would find some others who did, then they would get together, get drunk, and make some really bad decisions about Caliban that could very well end their lives.

  Divan didn’t think there was anything he could do about it. Joren was not willing to hear sensibility. Divan hoped he didn’t carry this through, or he would find himself like Martin and the others, but worse.

  In the afternoon, the market began bustling with life again. Maria stood behind the wooden stall, her warm smile engaging the villagers as she deftly managed to speak kindly and care for them. In one corner, Divan was meticulously preparing his cures, grinding herbs, mixing tinctures, and arranging his tools with quiet precision. The rich aromas of fresh produce and drying herbs entwined in the air, punctuated by the lively banter of local traders.

  When the crowd’s chatter faded into a lull, Divan leaned over the counter toward Maria. “Maria, what do you think about this, Gregor Balan?”

  “I’ve seen men like him come here in the past, finding nothing and then leaving, after they have fleeced the money from the villagers to save them from the monster or be found ripped apart by the creature himself. This man won’t be here long, just a matter of time before he’s on his way like the others, although it does cause tension among the villagers.”