Caliban finally looked at him.

  Divan continued. “I won’t be returning here. If you want to talk, I’ll meet you at the tavern.”

  Caliban grabbed his arm. “You’re leaving me?”

  Divan scoffed. “I wouldn’t call it leaving you, since I was never really here to begin with.” His eyes narrowed. “And the two nights I was? Two nights too many.”

  Caliban’s face hardened.

  Divan didn’t care. He was done with this place.

  “Why?” Caliban demanded.

  Divan hesitated. He could have told him about the suffocating darkness that seemed to crawl through the castle. Could have told him about the unease, the way he woke up feeling watched. He could have told him about the unnatural silence in the halls, how the air itself felt tainted. He could have told him he didn’t trust him. But he didn’t. Instead, he simply said, “Because to me, this is nothing but a house of bad memories.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Divan saddled his horse, his hands steady, as he secured his bags across its back. Divan clenched his jaw, forcing his fingers to loosen on the reins. He should ride away, but something held him still. Something was wrong, and for the first time, he knew he couldn’t leave Bran without finding out what it was. Before he returned to Brașov, he would find the underlying cause of it. He would find out what was haunting Castle Bran and his brother.

  Chapter 10

  I woke up lying in the mud, my hands red to the elbows. The taste of blood was thick in my mouth, and the world around me reeked of copper and death. I did not remember. Not at first. The mind is a generous liar. But the tracks in the earth led back to the village. And the screams in the distance told me what my mind refused to speak. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  Divan rode into the crowded streets of Bran; it was unusual for so early in the morning, but this was not the typical market bustle. Something had stirred the villagers. People gathered in frightened clusters, whispering in hushed, urgent tones.

  Divan dismounted, catching a man by the arm as he passed. “What’s happening?”

  The man’s face was pale, his expression grim. “The creature killed again last night.”

  Divan’s stomach tightened. “I’m a doctor. I can help. Where is the body?”

  The man pointed through the mass of villagers, and Divan pushed forward, weaving through the frightened, wary faces. The closer he got, the quieter the voices became, until he finally saw her, or what remained of her.

  Divan had seen death before. He had seen bodies mangled from accidents, from violence, from disease, but this, this was not human. A wild animal had torn her apart.

  Divan knelt, his hands steady despite the sick feeling churning in his stomach. “Why was she out after dark?” he asked, scanning what remained of her.

  “That’s always the question,” a man muttered.

  Divan exhaled, his gaze moving over the corpse. The wounds were deep, the tearing brutal. The claw marks were impossibly large, as if something massive had ripped through her flesh with terrifying ease.

  Then, his eyes caught something on the ground beside her, drag marks. He pointed at the disturbed earth. “What are these?” Two long grooves leading toward the body disturbed the dirt. Someone dragged her. He stood, following the marks backward through the mud and bloodstained earth.

  Then he saw tracks. Large tracks. The mud showed elongated prints, as if a barefoot man had walked through it, but the shape was wrong. They were too wide, too long, and too inhuman. A tall, two-footed creature had walked here, and it was not a man.

  The tracks and drag marks led him through the village, past the watching eyes of frightened onlookers, until they stopped at a small house at the edge of town. Divan turned to the man beside him. “Whose house is this?”

  The man swallowed. “Hers.”

  Divan frowned. “Did she live alone?”

  “Yes. She was a widow. There was just her and her cat.”

  Divan exhaled. “May I go inside?”

  The man hesitated, then nodded. “Go on in, if you need to.”

  Divan pushed the door open and stilled. The cottage stood in shambles. Blood splattered the walls, smeared across the wooden floorboards. The small table and chairs lay in splinters, and the remnants of shattered glass glistened in the morning light.

  He stepped inside, his boots crunching against the broken remains of furniture, pottery, and a life that violently ended. Then he turned to examine the doorframe. Splinters marred the wood, and the latch lay completely shattered. Whatever it was, it had torn its way in.

  Divan gritted his teeth. “Did anyone hear anything last night?” He asked the crowd gathering outside the cottage.

  A silence stretched over the villagers. Then, finally, a woman spoke. “I did.”

  Divan turned to her. She was older, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes darting nervously between him and the wreckage. “What kind of noise?” he asked gently.

  The woman wrung her hands. “Screaming, breaking furniture, glass, growling.”

  “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

  The woman flinched, then lifted her chin slightly. “I tried to tell my husband, but he said to hush and told me to mind my own business.”

  By the looks of this, her husband had been right.

  Divan’s gaze swept over the bloodstained walls. The dark smears and splatters told a story of violence, of something brutal and merciless. Inside the cottage, the air was thick with the stench of blood. The odor clung to his skin and sank into his lungs. He saw shadows despite the morning sun coming through the window.

  Suddenly, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision made him jump. A mouse scurried across the floor, its tiny feet pattering against the stone.

  He crouched near the shattered remains of a small table, the splintered wood jagged like broken bones. Something caught his eye, something small and dark, clinging to the wreckage. He picked one up, rolling it between his fingers. This was fur, coarse, matted, and stained with something dark and sticky. A slow dread curled in his gut. She’d fought back, ripped this fur right out of whatever came at her.

  “What kind of cat did the woman have?” Divan knew better. This was not cat hair, but his logical mind needed something to hold on to.

  “It’s an orange tiger,” said one man, who stood staring at the blood all over the walls. “I wonder where it is.”

  Divan shrugged. “That cat’s more than likely hiding somewhere, shitting itself after what it saw.”

  Divan brought the fur back to his nose. Somewhere deep in his mind, somewhere in the pit of his gut, he had smelled this before. Where? He searched his memory of patients, hospitals, men dying, men dead. Then it hit him. That morning outside the castle, he had found Caliban, naked, scratched, and bleeding in the grass. That was the smell, clinging to the fur like rot in a wound. It had stained his brother’s skin, faint but unmistakable. A rancid stench of sweat, blood, and something worse, like old meat left out in the sun too long.

  Divan’s hand tightened around the fur. “Drunken bout? I’d say not, brother.”

  He dropped the fur and turned on his heel, following the tracks out of the house. He needed to see them properly. The footprints continued past the house, disappearing into the damp earth. Divan needed proof.

  “Can we clear this area?” he asked the man who had been following him around. He found the woman’s cat. He was holding the fat orange ball of fur in his arms. The poor cat was still shaking, terrified after what it had witnessed. By the way it looked, Divan feared the cat would still have a heart attack.

  The man nodded at Divan. “Yes, I’ll clear the area so no one disturbs the tracks.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” With that, Divan mounted his horse and rode to the Prevalie.

  ***

  The scent of wood, leather, and grain greeted Divan as he stepped inside the Prevalie, the wooden door creaking shut behind him. The dim light of morning filtered through the warped glass panes, sending golden streaks across the shop’s well-stocked interior. Dust motes swirled lazily in the air, disturbed only by the quiet rustle of burlap sacks and the faint clink of metal tools as Ishtak moved behind the counter.

  The old shopkeeper didn’t look up at first, his long fingers carefully sealing a package with twine. “Back so soon, Divan Drakovar?” he mused. “I had a feeling I’d be seeing you again.”

  Divan approached, scanning the shelves absently. “I need plaster powder. Do you have any?”

  At this, Ishtak lifted his head, his shrewd eyes narrowing slightly. “Plaster of Paris? I do.” He turned, shuffling to a cabinet filled with jars and parcels, his movements deliberate. “But that’s an odd thing to ask for. Someone break a limb?”

  Divan hesitated. “No.”

  Ishtak glanced over his shoulder. “Then what do you need it for?”

  Divan wasn’t about to explain outright, not here, not yet. Instead, he let his fingers trail along the worn wooden counter, choosing his words carefully. “I want to see something for myself.”

  The old man let out a quiet hum, taking down a jar of fine white powder and setting it before him. His gaze sharpened, the weight of his scrutiny heavy. “Does this have anything to do with the woman they found this morning?”

  Divan’s grip on the counter tightened. He had expected the news to spread, but hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way he hadn’t yet acknowledged. The woman, the one who he heard screaming in the night, was dead. The villagers whispered of the beast, of the horror that had returned once more.

  “Yes, it does.”

  Ishtak sighed, leaning on the counter with both hands. “And what exactly do you hope to find?”

  Divan met his gaze. “Proof.”

  A flicker of something passed through Ishtak’s expression. Then he chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “You always were a curious one.”

  “Curiosity isn’t a crime,” Divan said.

  “No,” Ishtak agreed. “But it has killed more men than the beast ever has.”

  The words hung between them, a warning wrapped in ambiguity.

  Divan exhaled, nodding once. “How much for the plaster?”

  Ishtak studied him a moment longer, then slid the jar across the counter. “Take it.”

  Divan frowned. “I can pay—“

  “No,” Ishtak interrupted, voice quieter now. “Consider it a gift, but remember this, Divan.” He leaned in slightly. “There are truths that should remain buried. Some shadows don’t want to be chased.”

  Divan didn’t break his gaze. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not afraid of shadows.”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Ishtak straightened, exhaling through his nose as if conceding some unspoken battle.

  “Go on, then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Divan took the jar, tucking it beneath his arm.

  Ishtak watched him go, his fingers drumming lightly against the counter. “Foolish boy, you don’t yet know what you’re looking for.”

  Divan turned back into the store, noting the look of surprise on Ishtak’s face.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you have any goat’s milk and a small vial of honey?”

  ***

  The rest of the village stirred, but an uneasy hush still clung to the air. The scent of damp earth and blood lingered. Divan rode toward the site where he had first seen the tracks, the jar of plaster powder secured in his satchel.

  As he approached, he spotted the man again, the one who’d been shadowing him earlier. He stood near the disturbed earth, keeping curious villagers at bay with little more than a glare. In his arms, he still clutched the frightened cat, its body tense, ears flattened, tail wrapped tightly around itself. The man looked uncertain, as though he did not know what to do with the trembling creature.

  Divan’s boots crunched softly against the ground. He studied the man for a moment, then nodded toward the cat. “You’re still carrying that thing around?”

  The man shifted, glancing down at the bundle of fur in his arms. “I don’t know where else to take it. She won’t stop shaking.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Costea Stinga, Anica was my friend.”

  “Anica, was that the name of the woman killed?”

  Costea nodded, his face filled with sadness.

  Divan pulled a small woven basket from his saddle. Inside, a covered jar of goat’s milk and a small pot of honey nestled against a folded cloth. He held it out.

  “Costea, take this and the cat and go find Lila Unger.”

  The man frowned. “Lila?”

  “Yes. Tell her the cat is in shock, and that I sent you to her. Give her the milk and honey. She’ll know what to do.”

  “Can I come back and help you when I’m finished?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  The man hesitated, looking down at the cat as it trembled in his grasp. He shifted it carefully against his chest, balancing the basket in his other hand.

  With the crowd now kept at a distance and the distraction handled, Divan turned his attention back to the ground. The tracks were still there, deep impressions on the earth, preserved by the cold of the night. Whatever left them was not human, nor was it a cursed spirit of the dead returning in wolf form, as the villagers believed, but he needed proof.

  Taking a slow breath, he crouched and unlatched the jar of plaster powder. Now was he time to see exactly what kind of monster had left its mark in the village. He reached into his bag, pulling out the jar of plaster. He had used it before in medical practice to set broken bones. But he believed it would work for this, too. He poured the white powder into the deepest of the tracks, adding water, mixing it quickly with a small wooden tool until the plaster thickened.

  The villagers watched, silent, as he worked.

  As Divan waited, kneeling by the drying plaster, he heard footsteps crunching. When he looked up, it was Costea returning.

  “What are you doing with that?” Costea asked.

  Divan rose slowly, brushing his hands on his coat.

  “I’m using plaster to make a copy of the footprint of the beast,” he said.

  Costea crouched a few feet away, careful not to disturb the drying cast, and opened his notebook with a dramatic flourish.

  “May I?” he asked, already sketching the wide, distorted shape of the print.

  Divan raised an eyebrow but gave a slight nod.

  “As long as you don’t get in the way.”

  For a few minutes, Costea worked silently, tongue poking out in concentration. Divan watched him out of the corner of his eye, struck by the earnestness, the hunger to understand.

  “How big would you say it is?” Costea asked, glancing up.

  Divan crouched again, measuring with his hands. Then he stood and surveyed the trails leading to the house, and the others moving away from it, in alignment with the drag marks.

  “Larger than any man’s foot I’ve ever seen. Wider, too. And the depth...” He shook his head. “Whatever made this was heavy and powerful.”

  Costea scribbled furiously.

  “He wasn’t moving quickly here as if he were running from something…” Divan pointed to the footprints heading toward the cabin. “…but as if he were hunting.”

  “Hunting?”

  “Yes, you see the stride length is wrong,” Divan went on. “Longer than a man’s walking stride but too even for a running pace. The creature was moving with speed, but not panic. There was purpose and strength in what he was doing.”

  “Hunting,” Costea repeated as he wrote in his notebook.

  “Over here, the footprints coming from the cottage are closer together because it was walking casually as it dragged the body behind it. You can also see the weight is on the heel, not the toe.”

  Costea looked, nodded, and continued writing and drawing in his book.

  A gust of wind stirred the trees beyond the village, and Divan instinctively glanced over his shoulder.

  “How long before the plaster sets?” Costea asked.

  Divan pulled his pocket watch out of his pocket and then said, “In about fifteen minutes.”

  Divan straightened slowly from the plaster cast, brushing dust from his gloves. The villagers still lingered at the edges of the street, huddled together in small knots, whispering behind their hands.

  None approached him directly. But he caught fragments of what they were saying, “The doctor...”. . . “Mixing something...”. . . “Marking the place...”

  Their eyes kept flickering between him and the place where they found the broken figure lying still in the dirt. Blood still stained the grass and dirt.

  Divan turned toward the small crowd, raising his voice just enough to carry. “She deserves to be laid to rest.”

  For a moment, no one moved. Then an older man, stooped but wiry, stepped forward. His hands worked nervously at his cap. “We’ll take her,” the man said. His voice was rough. “We’ll burn the body. As we must.”

  Divan blinked, surprised.

  “Burn it?”

  The man nodded grimly.

  “Yes, so she does not rise again as a Picolici or Strigoi.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

  Divan hesitated, the physician in him rising to protest the futility of burning the dead against superstition, but he swallowed it down.

  This was their grief. Their fear. Their ancient way of surviving what they could not name. He inclined his head slightly, respectful but firm.

  “Do what you must.”

  Several men moved forward then, carrying rough shrouds and wood. They worked swiftly, grimly, without ceremony, without weeping.

  Divan turned back to his cast, the plaster dulling to a pale, chalky crust in the chilly morning air.

  A few more minutes. Just a few more minutes. And he would have the first real piece of truth in this place full of shadows.

  Divan crouched, feeling the plaster with his fingertips. The cast was firm now, pale and dull against the mud, cold to the touch but solid. He worked his hands carefully around the edges, loosening the cast from the earth. It lifted free with a soft sucking sound, trailing wet soil and broken blades of grass. He turned it over and stared.