City Under the Moon (21 page)

“Lord’s name,” Beethoven admonished him.

“You’re right.
Christ
fuck.”

They waited silently, bracing for…
something
. But the howls faded and their muscles reluctantly released.

Mantle looked down and whispered, “Werewolves.”

The coach came to a stop and everyone craned to look out the cab’s small windows. On one side of the road was a ditch swallowed by more forest. On the other they saw a modest farm that probably once grew potatoes and grains. Now it was unkempt, dead, and frozen. A footprint path cut through the snow, leading to the shriveled corpse of a log cabin. Even in the bright reflecting moonlight, its entrance was barely visible beneath the porch’s sagging awning. The sight of it made Lon realize that he hadn’t taken his Lexapro.

This couldn’t be Valenkov’s home, not if he wore handcrafted clothes and certainly not if he was truly of royal lineage. No, this was Ilecko’s place.

The coach quaked as Ilecko climbed down from his driver’s seat. Without a word, he set off on the path toward the cabin.

After a moment of uncertainty, Tildascow ushered the others out of the coach. They took cautious steps in the crunchy snow, keeping their rifles trained on the dark woods.

Lon was drawn to the bed of frosted purple flowers running along the perimeter of the farm. They were well-kept, an anachronism amid the decay.

“Wolfsbane,” Lon said, taking in the flower’s peppery smell.

“That’s supposed to scare away werewolves?” asked Jaguar.

“Yep.”

“I say we eat that shit up.”

“It’s poisonous. Paralyzes your respiratory system. They used to put the toxin on arrowheads.”

Jaguar backed away, but Tildascow bent down to examine the flowers, breaking and smelling the leaves.

“Fuck on a stick, man, look at these horses!” Mantle pointed to the four emaciated horses driving Ilecko’s carriage. He ripped open a Velcro patch on his sleeve and produced an energy bar.

“Mantle,” warned Beethoven. He was tired of wrangling the kid.

“It’s
my
food.” The horses excitedly smacked at the pieces he handed out. “Y’all got any to spare?”

Tildascow handed over two bars with an unenthusiastic glare.

Another wolf bayed from somewhere deep in the forest, causing the horses to neigh.

“Jesus motherfucking porn star Christ,” Mantle mumbled.

They moved a few yards up the path, putting distance between themselves and the forest. The Shadow Stalkers crept with rifles at the ready, but Tildascow remained cool, sniffing a sprig of wolfsbane as if it were a rose.

They stopped halfway up the path, when they heard goats bleating from a small barn at the rear of the farm. It was hidden from the road by a snowy patch of willow trees, a cascading of green and white.

Tildascow ushered Lon ahead. “Keep this guy moving.”

“Me? Why me?“

“He trusts you. That’s why we’re here. You trust me, that’s why
you’re
here. See how that works?”

Lon hesitated, but Tildascow nodded him toward the cabin. And so he found himself approaching this mysterious shithole while the others stayed put midway on the road, well out of saving-his-ass range. From here, he could see that the front door was closed. God knew what Ilecko was doing in there.

When he stepped onto the porch, the necrotic wood creaked like some kind of alarm. He froze and waited for a reaction—it’d be great if Ilecko came out and explained himself—but he got nothing.

With an empty swallow, he rapped on the feeble door. It rattled in the uneven frame.

When the giant emerged, Lon stumbled backward and nearly fell off the porch. As Ilecko hovered over him, he felt like he was looking up at the red monster who’d gotten a manicure from Bugs Bunny in those old Looney Tunes cartoons. Except Ilecko was more fearsome. And smelled. And might kill him.

“Return to the coach,”
Ilecko said.
“We will leave soon.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find answers.”

Ilecko went back inside and the door groaned behind him.

Lon turned back to Tildascow. She mimed pushing him forward.

No!
He shook his head.
Fuck no!

But she gestured more adamantly, with a “don’t disappoint me” glare.

He sighed, wondering why the hell he did whatever she—because she’s hot, that—but he had Elizabeth, and she—but she’s
really
hot—but it’s not like he was going to get any—so then why would he—because she’s
really, really
hot, and that makes it—but no, it was more like he wanted to prove himself to—

Lon stepped onto the porch again, using the creak like a doorbell. No answer.

“We are in a rush,”
Lon called out.

No response.

The door was so far off-kilter that he could see movement through the gap in the frame. Balls sweating, he peeked inside.

What he saw might once have been a homey living room; now it was all but abandoned. The centerpiece wood-burning fireplace was empty and ashen. A reading chair sat next to it, draped with an afghan that had practically gone grey. There were assorted stacks of books, ancient hardbacks, but they looked as untouched as the rest of the place.

He shifted left to see the other side of the room, where a cot lay in the corner. It was covered with a shabby cotton blanket and sheets that had been stained brown. The cabin seemed large enough that it would have a bedroom; strange that he’d be displaced in his own home.

But it isn’t a home,
Lon realized.
It’s a crypt
.

The cabin shook as Ilecko returned from a back room. He had a rawhide bag slung over his shoulder, and he’d changed into a proper shirt and coat (black and long, not all that different from Lon’s trench).

Lon took cover so Ilecko didn’t catch him peeking.

The shaking stopped. Ilecko was still.

Lon took a careful step to his original position on the porch. He’d learned the art of memorizing creaks while trying to avoid his stepfucker’s drunken attention. Annnnd mission accomplished.

A moment passed. And then a couple more. What was he doing in there?

Lon tilted his head and squinted. He could see Ilecko standing by the fireplace and leaning against the mantle. He was looking at something.

Lon tilted further, trying to see over Ilecko’s shoulder. Or under his elbow. Neither of which was remotely possible.

Ilecko was still for a very long time. What was he doing?

Lon’s legs went aquiver. Saliva rushed into his mouth. He
had
to know.

The porch shifted again, far more softly than before as Ilecko took lighter steps. Lon stooped to find that he had moved away from the mantle and left something behind. It was a fuzzy swash of color, probably a photograph.

He turned back to Tildascow. She threw her arms out as a question. He shrugged, since there was no universal sign for
I’m probably about to get myself killed.
But he had to know.

He took the tenuous step back toward the doorframe, avoiding the creak, and peered inside.

It was indeed a photograph—a stunning one, of a beautiful woman twirling in a flowery meadow, her candy-orange curls collecting pools of sunlight, shading her porcelain skin and pale eyes.

And then the door opened and Lon fell backward.

Ilecko’s eyes shifted from Lon to the photograph and back again.

“I’m sorry,”
Lon said in Romanian. In the darkness, he couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell if he was seething or sobbing or what. The awful silence made him feel sick and stupid. Finally he fumbled up,
“Was that your wife?”

Ilecko stepped forward and extended a hand. Lon took it, and his shoulder was nearly ripped from his socket as the giant yanked him to his feet.

Lon followed him back to the stagecoach. He was happy to leave that tomb, but he felt miserable for Ilecko’s life and even more so for his own callous intrusion. He wasn’t looking forward to the self-flagellation he’d face when he reviewed this moment in the dangerous confines of his own mind.

But how could someone live in that hopeless cave? Lon wondered what Ilecko would think of his relatively palatial dungeon.

Ilecko arrived at his horses, and took note of the crumbs on the ground. The horses were still smacking their lips. Tildascow shot a look of frustration at Mantle, and she stiffened to apologize, but Ilecko nodded modest approval and tossed his rawhide bag onto the drivers’ bench.

“He knows we’re short on time, right?” asked Tildascow.

Ilecko climbed up onto the cab. He sat pensively, silently waiting for the others to get in the coach.

“I think he understands the situation, yeah.”

Tildascow motioned for the Shadow Stalkers to get in, but she stopped Lon. “Ride up front. Find out whatever you can about Valenkov. Make sure we’re not wasting our time.”

“No, please.
You
ride up front.“ He tried to push his way past her.

“Ride up front, Lon.”

She hopped in the cab and shut the door, leaving him outside. He weakly smiled upward at Ilecko, who nodded him toward the shotgun seat. As he walked around the cab, he glared at Tildascow the whole way.

He reached the passenger side of the driver’s bench. And he sighed. The floorboard was
so
high. Lon couldn’t even get out of a pool without a ladder.

“Do you need help?” Tildascow asked.

“No,” he said, and he waited for Tildascow to disappear into the coach before he tested his footing on the wooden spokes of the wheel. He heaved himself up with a disturbingly feminine grunt, but he didn’t have a clue where to step next. Fucking hopeless.

The car shook as Ilecko stepped off. Lon put his head against the wheel and wished he could be anybody but himself. The big guy came around and unceremoniously hoisted him into the carriage by the waist of his pants.

As Lon plucked his underwear from his intestines, Ilecko climbed back into the drivers’ seat and took up the reins.

They continued their slow creep through the eerie Transylvanian forest, heading toward the sinister moon on the northeast horizon. The mountains loomed on their right, occasionally blocking the moonlight and shrouding them in darkness. Animals stalked them from the thicket, rattling the trees.

They rode in silence for more than twenty minutes. Lon wanted to open a dialogue, but he couldn’t imagine how.

Ilecko’s brows cast heavy shadows over his face, making his features shapeshift in the skittering darkness. His smell, though—salty and fruity—that was quite clear. It wafted from every move he made, playing a pivotal role in his “get out of my way” aura. And then there were his hands, so swollen and calloused that Lon wondered if he could feel anything at all.

The wolves still bayed from the forest. Each one would set off a threatening chorus, just in case the travelers forgot they were outnumbered.

Those hills are alive with the sound of music,
Lon thought.

Eventually the swaying cab lulled Lon into remembering his exhaustion. The others must have felt it too.

“Anyone got any family in New York?” Mantle asked in the tone of a wake-up call.

Nobody answered.

“I got a bunch of cousins I ain’t ever met,” he continued. “My father’s brother’s kids. They all came down south a couple times. Nice folks, but man they’re soft. All of them are soft in New York, stuffed in ties and drinking their cocktails, letting other people drive for ‘em. No wonder they’re fallin’ apart right now.”

The silence that followed felt too much like a requiem.

“My grandma spent most of her life in Yorkville,” said Beethoven, cutting through the morbidity. “My great-grandpa came over from Germany, just as it started to get real bad over there. He had someone sending him fine chocolates, so he opened a candy shop. He sent for his wife and kids, but they were all got by the Nazis. After a while, he re-married and had my grandma. She took over the shop after he died. That was just after the war; she was in her early teens. The importing dried up, so my grandma taught herself how to make chocolate. She once told me she’d worn an apron every day for 40 years.”

The others chuckled.

“Good people over there in Yorkville.”

“You heard from her since this began?” Tildascow asked.

“She died about two years ago. Tough end, she had Alzheimer’s, but it was a good run. She taught me about shuttin’ up and doin’ hard work. My wife and I are gonna name our daughter after her. Due in May.”

A gloomy silence followed. On this road to nowhere, through a forest of monsters, the idea of Beethoven seeing his daughter in May seemed dangerously optimistic.

“My girlfriend is in New York,” Lon said, hoping to change the channel.

“That right?” Jaguar asked, shifting to look at Lon through the coach’s front window.

“You in it to rescue the princess, flyboy?” Mantle asked.

“Kinda.”

“I wish I had me a girl back home,” Mantle chortled. “I had two, but they found out about each other. Now I got none.”

“Your girl a looker?” Jaguar asked.

“Yeah,” Lon answered, hearing the lie in his own voice.

“What color hair’s she got?” Jaguar asked.

Great, now how the fuck do you answer this? You lie, right? But what if they ever meet her? But how would they ever—

“She bald?” Tildascow tried to help.

Even Ilecko turned toward him.

“No. She’s not bald. She, um…”

“Got like that multicolored hair?” Mantle asked. “Y’know, the blond in the front and the—“

“I don’t know,” Lon muttered. “I don’t know what color her hair is.”

And then there was an awful silence.

“How’s that work?” Mantle finally asked.

“We…”
Please, God, if one of these werewolves is going to attack, please let it happen now.
“We met over the Internet. In a chat room.”

“That’s great!” Tildascow said, trying to shut the door on the conversation—

“When?” Mantle asked.

“Um… two years ago.”