THE WOLF PACK NEVER RETURNED. Not that we knew of anyway. We both dozed off and on, taking turns adding logs to the fire when it died down . . . and returning to each other’s arms. But once daylight shone through cracks in the walls, we separated without a word.
We’d survived the night. Now we had to get out of the forest.
Huck bravely volunteered to step outside and check around the area to ensure we were alone as I watched from the door. No ghosts or rabid animals—no traps either, which was good, because I was worried our friendly skeleton had booby-trapped the area. However, after we both went in different directions to take care of nature’s call in private, what Huck did find was a rustic but passable bridge over the river, just past the cabins. So we gathered up our things and wasted no time using it.
Hiking through even a little snow isn’t easy; hiking through snow-covered bramble and underbrush was harder. We trudged along for a couple of hours, shoes soaked and feet numb with cold, and spotted seven red deer, ten squirrels, and one unidentified furry animal that may have been a marten or a weasel, or simply a large rat.
Just after nine o’clock in the morning by Huck’s wristwatch, we found a dirt road (no more brambles!) then a paved one—no more mud! And when we stepped around a sharp bend in the road, an entire city sprang to life as if by magic.
Cluj. Unofficial capital of the Transylvania region. Home to Romanian revolutionaries, a large Hungarian population, and Bohemian expats.
And what a city it was, one that teemed with history—baroque buildings, heroic statuary, and Gothic spires. Sunshine glinted off sloping roofs dusted in snow, and traffic along the streets was lazy. It wasn’t as big or bustling as Bucharest, but it had an old-world charm that was appealing.
We hiked through a neighborhood lined with quaint shops and restaurants that were just opening for the day, and on a not-as-quaint side street, I spotted a dark storefront with dirty windows. Big red letters were painted on the glass: AMANET. Pawnshop, last hope of the downtrodden and destitute. We didn’t have enough money to send a transatlantic cable to Foxwood to beg Father’s butler to wire cash, nor even to send a simple telegram to Paris—not to mention that it felt crude to ask Jean-Bernard’s man for money when his employer was on a hospital bed. No. We’d gotten ourselves into this situation and depleted our resources. Best to climb out on our own four feet.
So I did the only thing I knew I could do:
I pawned my precious Leica camera.
I clicked through half a dozen blank photos to finish up the roll of film inside, removed it, and relinquished the best present my father had ever given me, RIP. Maybe some local university student would buy it and take award-winning photographs.
“I’m so sorry, banshee,” Huck said after we’d exited the shop with a handful of lei. “I know you loved that camera.”
But what else could we do? Even if the pawnshop owner gave us a quarter of what that camera was worth, the man was saving our rumps. And we were lucky he traded with us at all, because we looked like the devil’s own rejects, booted from the second circle of hell—Huck with his ripped clothes and me with my black eye. Because, oh, was it black. And bloodshot. I looked like a drunk racoon that had wandered out into the street and gotten clipped by a motorcycle.
Four down, seven letters: H-A-G-G-A-R-D.
No matter. We’d gained enough coin from the pawnshop to feel momentarily wealthy, and that was something.
After stopping at a tiny farmacia to buy aspirin for our aches and iodine for our cuts and scratches, we hiked several blocks to the central railway station, where we purchased bus tickets to Brașov—because the bus was cheaper and faster than the local train. Then we sent a telegram to Jean-Bernard’s house, inquiring about his condition. We had only a few hours before our train departed, but maybe we’d hear something. Promising the telegram window agent we’d return later, we walked across the street and found a window table inside a cozy and very warm café, where we ate a late breakfast: giant bowls of mămăligă, a creamy polenta dish, with cheese and a butter-fried egg on top. It was heavenly. I licked the spoon when I was finished; Huck ran his finger around his bowl. And when the dishes were being cleared away and we still had time to waste, something struck me.
“Father came here this summer,” I said. “It’s in the journal. He said he’d planned to go drop in on my mother’s old professor at the university, that the professor had something important to talk about, but Father changed his mind at the last minute. Maybe it’s nothing, but that was the entry before the torn-out page.”
“Huh,” Huck said. “Did Fox give a hint about what was so important that this professor wanted to discuss?”
“Something the professor was researching? He teaches history and archaeology. Father wrote in the journal that they’d been corresponding by mail, but he’s never mentioned that to me.” Then again, he never told me anything, so that wasn’t a big surprise. “Dr. Mitu—that’s the name of the professor—was my mother’s mentor. She practically worshipped him. Nice man. I haven’t seen him since . . . well, since my mother died. He came to New York for her funeral.”
“Could have been anything, I suppose,” Huck said. “If this man studies archaeology, he may have uncovered a lead about some hidden treasure or tomb somewhere that could interest Fox. Might be as simple as that.”
Perhaps. “Might be. Father apparently lost his nerve after making plans to visit him. Guess it dredged up old feelings for Mother.”
“Fox hates feelings.”
“Loathes them.”
“Unless they’re angry feelings. He quite enjoys grumbling and shouting.”
“Like it’s cake with buttercream frosting,” I agreed, repeatedly tapping my nails on the table. “It’s probably none of my business, whatever Dr. Mitu wanted to tell Father. Right? Nothing to do with Vlad’s ring. I mean, we already have a good idea about where Father is now, so speaking with Dr. Mitu wouldn’t give us any insight.”
“Don’t know,” Huck said.
“Then again, there’s the torn-out page in the journal. Could be to do with all of this mess. Might be something helpful to know. Can’t be that far from here . . .”
“Banshee?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to go talk to this Dr. Mitu?”
I smiled slowly, flashing him my teeth. “We do have a couple hours before our bus, and he is an old friend of my mother’s—and when am I ever going to be able to say ‘I dropped in because I was just in the neighborhood’ again? Maybe never.”
“Grab your stuff,” he said, pretending to be put out. “Let’s find a taxi.”
The ride to the university in Old Town was a few short blocks down wet streets lined with snow-filled gutters. The campus, a pretty collection of classical buildings topped with sculpted marble friezes, was small but elegant, and after instructing the taxi driver to pull over so that I could ask a couple of students for directions to the archaeology department, we stopped alongside a golden-bricked building with arched windows.
After paying the taxi driver, we passed through a pair of elaborate ironwork streetlamps and entered wooden doors into the building’s threshold. It was dim and nearly deserted inside. Perhaps classes had already ended for winter break? We finally spotted someone who pointed us up a wide staircase to the second floor, and we took a long corridor to the history department.
“So strange to think that my mother walked these halls,” I murmured as we passed a line of old photographs from archaeological digs—all before my mother’s time. “She finished two degrees here, you know. Field archaeology and ancient history. She met my father after she graduated.”
“Seem to recall Fox saying that, yes,” he said in a low voice.
It was intimidating, being here. Felt as if decades of studious and serious academics were judging us inside the old walls. Like we didn’t belong. Perhaps this was one of the reasons my father had gotten cold feet. Then again, I couldn’t imagine him being intimidated by much of anything.
We found a small wooden door with an opaque glass window upon which was painted in gold:
DEPARTAMENTUL ARHEOLOGIE
DIR: PROF. DR. TOMA MITU
Heart racing, I pushed open the door, and we stepped inside a musty-smelling reception area with a sad potted plant and a few more photographs on the wall. I recognized the person in the largest picture: an older man in a dark gray suit, brimmed hat, and metal-rimmed glasses. Dr. Mitu.
But it wasn’t the professor at the reception desk. It was a dark-haired girl who didn’t look as if she could have been that much older than me. She looked up from a pile of graded tests and a paper cup of steaming coffee.
“Yes?” she said, looking us over critically. She had the kind of look in her eye that a bank teller might have when trying to decide if the customer who’d just approached could be a bank robber and she was considering whether to punch the panic button beneath the desk.
“Pardon me,” I said in Romanian. “We don’t have an appointment, but we were hoping to speak to Dr. Mitu? I’m an old family friend. Or rather, my mother was. She was a student here almost twenty years ago, Elena Vaduva.”
“Elena Vaduva?” The young woman’s face brightened. “I know her. At least, I feel as if I do. I helped Dr. Mitu work on a project, and she . . . that is, it concerned her. She was well known in this department. Practically a legend. First woman at the university to earn an archaeology degree . . . Dr. Mitu brags about her after all these years. You are her daughter? Your father is the American adventurer?”
I nodded, excited that she knew about my mother. And my father? Wow. My mother really must have been Dr. Mitu’s favorite pupil, all right. “Yes, that’s me,” I told her. “Miss Theodora Fox, and this is my, um . . .” I gestured toward Huck. I’d be damned before I introduced him as my brother again. Friend of the family? That didn’t sound right either. Boy who broke my heart? Love of my life? Best friend?
“Huck Gallagher,” he said simply when I took too long. Then he told the young woman, “I don’t speak Romanian. Sorry.”
“I speak English,” the woman said, switching languages. “I am Liliana Florea, Dr. Mitu’s graduate teaching assistant. Just Liliana is fine.”
“You’re a student?” I asked.
She nodded. “For five years. Like your mother was, I suppose,” she said, fanning her hand above the desk. Then her smile faded, and her brow wrinkled. “I’m afraid I have bad news, however. Dr. Mitu isn’t here. He’s at a dig in Egypt, outside of Memphis. He left two weeks ago.”
My heart fell. Not sure why, exactly. I suppose, unlike Father, I was hungry for connections with people who knew my mother—hungry for memories and stories, anything that kept her alive in my head.
“I’m disappointed to hear that,” I told Liliana. “He’d contacted my father, Richard Fox? My father mentioned that Dr. Mitu was doing some research, and I believe he was coming to see him this past summer but . . . got sidetracked.”
Liliana nodded, eyes bright with interest. “I know all about that. I helped Dr. Mitu—it was such an exciting project. He was so looking forward to seeing your father to share his discovery.”
“Really?” I said. “Do you mind me asking . . . what discovery was this?”
“Your father didn’t tell you? I’m quite certain it’s of interest, especially to you, since you’re part of the tree.”
I glanced at Huck. He wasn’t following either.
“Tree?”
“Family tree. Is that the right word in English? Dr. Mitu was researching Elena’s genealogy—her family’s lineage. He’s been attempting to trace it through historical documents. They started working on it when she was a student here. You didn’t know about his project?”
“Oh, right. That project,” I said, pretending I knew all about it. “The professor made a recent discovery about my mother’s family?”
She took a sip of hot coffee, holding the cup in both hands. “About the House of Drăculești.”
All the hair on my arms stood up. Huck made a small noise. “Vlad the Impaler’s house,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“The very one,” Liliana said brightly. “Dr. Mitu was going to send all the documents to your father, but he was excited to show him in person. You didn’t know? Vlad the Impaler was Elena’s ancestor.”
A wave of dizziness rolled over me. My legs stiffened painfully. I felt as if someone could push me over with the tip of their finger and I’d topple sideways to the floor like a captured chess piece.
“Her ancestor,” I repeated, licking dry lips. “You mean, in a general sense? As in Vlad Dracul was a kind of founding father of Romania?”
“No. I mean quite literally. Elena was tracing her family tree before she died, and Dr. Mitu was helping her. Over the years he forgot about it, until he came across a record of a wedding in 1487. It was for the marriage of Vlad’s child from his first wife, Mary—illegitimate daughter of John Hunyadi, Prince of Transylvania. Your mother can trace her family back to Vlad’s daughter.”
I blinked at Liliana, unable to process this.
Huck said, “Hold on. You’re saying Theo here is related to Vlad the Impaler?”
“Why, yes,” the young woman said, leaning back in her chair with the coffee cup steaming under her chin. “I helped verify the documents for Dr. Mitu. You see, Vlad’s second wife was a Hungarian noblewoman, a cousin to Matthias Corvinus, the famous Hungarian king who was born here in Cluj—his statue is just down the road,” she said, gesturing with her head. “That line may have died out years ago, or there may be a descendant—the professor is still researching that. But what’s forgotten is that Vlad had a previous wife, when he was younger. His first wife drowned. She was a Transylvanian noblewoman from a village near Brașov.”
“My mother’s hometown,” I murmured.
“Exactly,” Liliana said in an excited voice. “In Vlad’s time, there was no united Romania. Transylvania and Wallachia were under separate rule. His first marriage would have likely been an attempt to keep things friendly between the two regions. But yes, the professor believes the research is sound. You are a daughter of Wallachia and Transylvania. Vlad’s blood flows in yours.”
“That is . . .” Shocking. Alarming.
“Unbelievable,” Huck murmured.
The assistant didn’t notice though. She just looked pleased with herself—proud, even. “You are excited, I can tell.”
That was not the word I’d use. In fact, I couldn’t use any words. I was speechless, and possibly on the verge of passing out.
Liliana cleared her throat. Her gaze flicked from Huck’s paled face to mine. “I hope you’re pleased by the news. I know it’s a little shocking, what with Vlad’s dark reputation. But much of that was probably exaggerated by his enemies. You should be proud. The entire history department has been fascinated by this research. If you publicized it, you would be the darling of all Romania.”
I blinked at her several times, trying to paste a smile on my face. “Thank you for sharing this. It’s a bit of a shock, but I’m certain . . .” I trailed off, not knowing what else to say. “I’m sorry, but we need to . . .” Need to what? I was losing my mind. Was this shock? I thought it must be.
“We need to catch a bus,” Huck quickly said, rescuing me deftly before tipping his cap at Liliana. “Sorry to rush out of here. It was nice to meet you. Please tell the professor we stopped by when he returns from Egypt.”
“Of course!” she said, flustered. “The pleasure has been mine.”
I mumbled my thanks in a daze, but when Huck put a hand on my shoulder to lead me out of the office, I remembered something. “Sorry. One more thing,” I said, turning back to Liliana. “You said there was possibly another descendant. From Vlad’s second wife?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s a Hungarian in his forties. Dr. Mitu has been in touch with him. Actually, the professor was doing some ancestral research for this man this past spring when he first stumbled across the record that connected your mother to Vlad. It was a complete surprise.”
I stilled. “You wouldn’t happen to remember this man’s name?”
“Let me see . . . ,” she said, biting her lip. “I believe the man’s name was a Mr. Rothwild.”
“Fuuuuuu . . . ,” Huck drawled under his breath.
Goose bumps blossomed over my skin. I was not going to faint. I was, however, very close to vomiting.
Liliana either didn’t notice or misinterpreted our shock. “Dr. Mitu has yet to conclusively find a link for him like yours. Regardless, I can say in all confidence that you are Vlad’s scion.”
“Lucky me,” I whispered. “Lucky, lucky, lucky . . .”
I didn’t finish. I just turned around and headed for the door, strode down the hallway, away from the office. Steel spine, chin up. Steel spine, chin up . . . I repeated it endlessly, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t calm down. I just walked and walked, aimless and confused, until I heard Huck’s boots slapping against the floor as he jogged to catch up.
“How do we get out of here?” I said, spinning in a circle. “I can’t remember how we came in. . . . I need air.”
Huck grabbed my arm and hurried me across the hall to a set of glass doors. Cold air rushed over my face as we stepped onto a narrow balcony that overlooked an empty collegiate courtyard. A cracked porcelain bowl filled with cigarette butts sat near my feet.
“Breathe,” he said, one hand flattened on my back. “Slowly. Exhale, inhale . . . There you go. You’re all right now.”
I grasped the railing and breathed in brisk air until the shock passed. “I’m okay,” I said when I came back to my senses, and then, trying to minimize my embarrassment, “We keep ending up on balconies, don’t we? Good thing you’re wearing more than a towel this time.”
He made a surprised noise in the back of this throat and glanced at me from the sides of his eyes, both sheepish and amused. “Well, you know what they say. Clothes make the man.”
I wanted to laugh, but the cold air caused my eyes to water. “Oh, Huck,” I murmured.
“What in the devil is happening?” he said, leaning on the railing with me.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” I whispered, knuckling away tears before they could fall.
“Is this what Lovena meant by the ‘hands of fate’? Because they can go to hell right now.”
When a student walked through the hall behind us, Huck mumbled something about ears listening and pulled the balcony door shut. “Okay, let’s think about this. Let’s say all this is true about your bloodline. It would explain why this dragon order has been hounding us. Maybe they don’t want the journal. Maybe they want you.”
“Why?” I whispered.
“Rothwild is obsessed with Vlad. Your father said as much in the journal. And this woman just implied that the professor was doing work for Rothwild. Is it a stretch to think they may have told Rothwild about your connection to Vlad? Maybe that’s why Rothwild hired Fox in the first place. To get to you. To play some kind of cat-and-mouse game.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Are you sure? Think about it, banshee. Fox says in the journal that he was constantly frustrated because every lead he chased had already been investigated by Rothwild.”
I heard what he was saying, but I couldn’t make all the puzzle pieces slot together. Rothwild wanted Vlad Dracula’s ring, and I was positive there were three bands—that much I knew. And when Rothwild hired Father this summer, I was back home in New York, so he didn’t hire him to get to me. I think he truly wanted Father to track down the ring components. Father took the job, failed to find the other two bands this summer, quit the job, and then a few months later found a new lead in Turkey and renewed his search. There was no way Rothwild could know I’d be along for this trip.
I wasn’t even convinced Rothwild knew there were three bands. For all we knew, he was still under the impression that there was one real ring.
And yet he’d hired Dr. Mitu to research his ancestry?
This was maddening.
“Do you think Father knows about this genealogy research? The page in the journal that was torn out . . . Do you think he came by here after all, or telephoned Dr. Mitu? Did Father know and not tell me? He kept everything else from me—I didn’t even know he was in Romania this summer until he dropped me off in Istanbul. That’s when he told me he was hunting Vlad’s ring, Huck. When he had one foot out the door of my hotel room and was ready to go to Tokat.”
“That was wrong,” Huck said. “That was very wrong.”
“And if he knew this . . . this bombshell about my heritage and kept it from me?” I shook my head violently as anger heated my chest. “It’s not even his to keep. It’s my bloodline, not his. My connection to my mother, not his!”
“Whoa,” Huck said, hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. “You don’t know that Fox knew about this. I can’t believe he’d hide that from you—”
“Oh, I can,” I murmured. “He doesn’t respect me. He doesn’t care. He would definitely hide a piece of vital information from me and then toss me to the lions—or, in this case, the dragons. We’re surrounded by murder and mad occultists, Huck. Father has kept this from me and put us in danger, all in the same stroke.”
“If, ” Huck insisted, forcing my gaze to connect with his. “If he even knew about your mother’s bloodline, maybe in his own bumbling way he thought he was protecting you from all this chaos—I know! It’s still not right. It’s more than not right; it’s downright foolish. He’s a great man, banshee, but he’s also a stubborn, shortsighted, occasionally stupid man.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I mumbled.
“He doesn’t think. He’s not a planner. He just flies by the seat of his pants and hopes he lands on his feet. Usually he does, and that’s the maddening part of it. But I can’t for one second believe that he would do something on purpose to endanger you. And I don’t believe you think that either.”
“Believe what you want,” I said, and then winced. “Damn it all! My eye hurts like something is splitting the socket from the inside out.”
I turned away from him, angrily stripping off my beret so that I could rub my head in a feeble attempt to make the pain recede. Huck tugged on my arm and turned me back around.
“Go on, then, let me look at it,” he said, hand lifting my chin, first gently, then insistently when I didn’t comply. “Quit being mulish and let me see. There. Was that so hard? Oooh, yes, that’s a shiner, all right. The swelling’s gone down since this morning, though, so that’s good.”
“Nothing’s good,” I complained, shoving my beret into my coat pocket.
“Mmm. Nothing at all?”
“Almost nothing.”
A soft smile rose, quivered, then hid.
“What?” I said.
“About what?”
He shrugged lightly with one shoulder and turned my chin, inspecting my face. “The last time one of us was tending to the other’s black eye.”
His gaze flicked to mine and then skittered away, back to the surgeon-like examination he was conducting on the scratches near my temple.
“I remember,” I said softly. “First and last time I ever threw a party at Foxwood when Father was out of town.”
“Aye, nothing like a little stolen champagne and a house full of rowdy teenagers to turn a birthday into a brawl. Scrapping like junkyard dogs.”
“James Kendrick got you good in the eye that night.”
“Sheer luck. It was his elbow, not his fist. And I recall getting in a pretty good hook of my own.”
“You broke his beautiful nose, Huck—or at least, that’s what he shouted about a hundred times,” I said, smiling. “Saw him in town a month or so after you left. His nose looked fine, in case you were wondering.”
“A shame.” His thumb feathered over my jaw, tracing a path, ever so lightly, as if he were studying roadways on a map. Tingles blossomed across my skin.
A warm wave of shivers cascaded over my chest and down my arms. I forgot about the chilly air and the balcony. Forgot about Vlad Dracula and the bombshell that had been dropped on me. Rothwild. My anger at Father. The pain of my black eye. All of it vanished as I gazed up at Huck’s face.
Hazel eyes, golden as whiskey, stared back at me under a fan of dark lashes and heavy lids. “Banshee,” he murmured in a deep, rich lilt. “Swear by all the saints, I really want to kiss you right now.”
My heartbeat went erratic.
“Do you?” I whispered.
“You have no idea.”
Oh, but I did.
“Like I’ve never wanted anything in all my life.”
“Like you’ll die without it?” I said, fisting his lapel in my trembling fingers.
His nose grazed mine. “We shouldn’t.”
“Probably not.”
“Will only make things worse if we’re separated again,” he whispered as his hand cradled my cheek.
“Unbearably painful,” I agreed.
“But . . . ,” he murmured.
“But . . .”
His mouth hovered over mine, lingering. Hesitant. His hands held my face. I tugged on his lapel, pulling him closer. Closer.
Until his lips brushed mine. We were both trembling. Both breathing as if we’d been running from a pack of wolves. I shuddered violently, and his mouth came down on mine.
For a moment a stranger was kissing me. Someone wholly unfamiliar, unsure and clumsy. Someone who was nervous and made me nervous, and it was all wrong, and it wasn’t supposed to be like this, and then—
We found each other.
There you are.
Rapture.
We kissed each other like we’d been apart for lifetimes, searching for each other. Soft lips, warm mouth, deeply. Nothing between us. My armor disappeared, and he dropped his weapons, and we were both defenseless and exposed, and all the agony of the last year just . . . fell away. He was Huck. The same and yet different, a stranger and yet still mine. All mine. The scent of him, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands running down my back, pulling me against him until I could feel the unmistakable warm length of him between us, my breasts pressed to his chest . . .
He still wanted me.
I still wanted him.
Nothing else mattered.
This was too good, and I’d waited too long for it. Us. Together. Our separation had chiseled away at my soul, and now I held him like he was the answer to life itself. Everything I wanted.
“Banshee?” he said against the side of my head.
“Yes?”
“It’s still there, what’s between us. It didn’t break or die.”
“Still there,” I agreed.
“Strong and stubborn, this thing.”
More than I dared to imagine.
But was it strong enough to survive the wrath of my father again? Or would we live to regret this?
Being enemies was easy.
Falling in love was harder.