A Journey of Black and Red

Journal of Peter Seminov

Last night, I dreamed of rope. I felt the harsh caress of woven hemp around my neck and every wood grain of the barrel under my naked feet with unnatural intensity. The recollection was so vivid that I woke up in a jolt, drenched in my own sweat at some ungodly hour. Only when dawn came did I realize the cause of my anguish.

It has been five years since my peculiar proclivities have seen me banished from Guildford in shame, reputation ruined and social credit exhausted. It has been three years since I fastened the fateful instrument around my throat with the desire to follow Micah’s path. So willing I was to see him again that I had not cared where my decisions would lead me, only that we should be together again. To this day, I do not know what held me back. I suspect that my service to the dark ones simply brought into sharp relief the existence of a more sombre world, one where the bible — that accursed book — was more than the tradition it represented.

I considered the works of Hieronymus Bosch that morning as I took my tea on the porch overlooking the bay of Sevastopol, the foamy waves of the Black Sea disappearing to the horizon. Was the mad Dutchman merely an individualistic visionary? Or was there something else pushing him to draw all those hellish vistas, filled with demons and lost souls? Perhaps he was granted a glimpse of the afterlife. Perhaps it was his own. I felt my sanity waver then. I grew up in an enlightened era only to see all my beliefs crashing down as I was already an adult. Fortunately, Saide saved me from my ruminations. The old Tatar woman tsked mightily as she dropped a fried ‘chebureki’ on my plate with all the grace of a bear. Her grounded nature pulled me back from those morbid thoughts, and I prepared to face the day.

Only when I read my mail did my heart skip a beat.

The dark ones were coming, two of them to be precise. They required my services. I had another day before their ship moored, bringing along my latest supply of precious teas.

Although the news chilled me, I had to carry on with my day.

I walked down to the city as the sun shone on fort Constantine in the distance, enjoying the cool breeze coming up the shore and carrying with it the fresh scent of iodine.

Even years after the siege, the city bore the scars of the long siege it had been submitted to by European forces. The local soldiers and people did not hold my Surrey blood against me. They saw me as an exile, and the presence of a Ukrainian grandmother gave me the aura of a lost son returned to roost. The local officers even invited me to card games where they would spend hours teaching me their specific Russian linguo, one idiom at a time. They called me Pyotr Seminovich after my ancestor. I let them.

My own modest shop was but a brick house barely more elaborate than its surrounding dwellings, but it hid such treasures. I had coffee from Zanzibar, sturgeon eggs from the Caspian Sea, tea from Ceylon, and tobacco from Virginia. All the luxuries that lonely sea captains and passing travelers may desire to stave off boredom could be found in my den. Porcelains and antiques to please the lady or to show off at a marriage lined my shelves in orderly rows. In fact, my business would have never prospered were it not for the seemingly limitless supply the dark ones had afforded me, and the reasonable sums they demanded in return for their exotic goods. Oh, I harbored no doubt that the reports I wrote justified in their eyes the expense, and that some of the crates I had been instructed to leave alone hid more than mere curios. The unexpected generosity of my strange benefactors still allowed me to live a comfortable life, one that I did not deserve. I retired early after selling an assortment of chinas to be used as dowries, and spent the evening smoking and reading. My nerves, which I had believed to be jaded by the rigours of life, failed me then, for I could not sleep until late into the evening.

The following day passed as a blur, and so distracted I was by the task ahead, that I nearly missed an opportunity for a social call. A Captain Solzhenitsyn — whom I had met on occasion as he spent his shore leave at the nearby casern — came to invite me for an afternoon tea, and I almost refused him, much to my dismay at that time. Finally, we regrouped on the top floor of a merchant’s datcha with a pleasant infusion, blackberry jam and barley biscuits, and the tanned officer shared with me a most alarming report.

“Beasts! Wild things!” he exclaimed, fingers gripping his ample brown beard, “we are beset by foul animals. Entire hamlets devastated. The Tatars say that Ashina, their mother she-wolf, is angry. Too many Russians, Germans, even Bulgarians settling in and changing the land. Jews too. The commander wants to send a squadron of Cossacks to hunt the beasts.”

Solzhenitsyn leaned forward then. His vast girth bumped against the tiny table and threatened our cups, yet his manic, bulging eyes glared into my soul.

“They will fail. We are not facing mere animals, Pyotr Seminovich, but something older. Veles is on the prowl. The grumpy old god may avoid the Western plains, but this place is ancient and he is passing through to ruin somebody’s day. Pah! You don’t believe me. You have spent too much time on your island, and now you have forgotten your blood. Oh, but you will see. You will see!”

No reassurance that I would keep an open mind placated the boisterous man, and he spent almost an hour extolling the deeds of ancient deities who hid from the Chirstian cults in the more remote recesses of the world. I gave his speech little attention, for I was still distracted by the impending arrival of my guests, and yet some of his words latched onto my heart. Indeed, hidden things existed, this I knew for certain. Perhaps there were more creatures haunting the edges of civilization, and I had found why I would be receiving visitors. As to who would be haunting whom, I knew not, and dared not consider.

I bid adieu to my graceful host with the promise to return the favor and headed to the pier, where I waited, restless, for the ship to arrive. It landed on time as the sun was setting and drew the attention of the crew. It was a modern sail and steam ship, painted a dark green so deep it was practically black, and it attracted the attention of the various crews around. The Black Sea fleet might not have been the most dangerous navy in the world, but it was the mightiest here and its members knew that here was a ship that could outrun their fastest frigates. Though it bore no obvious armament, its sinister nature prevented the local sailors from lowering their guards.

After the necessary paperwork was completed, their old and dignified captain disembarked and two dark ones walked down the gangplank with the unworldly grace that defined their kind. I recognized the man on the spot. His name was Octave, and I had met him the day I chose exile.

He had not changed in the slightest.

Despite the wind, even now sending my hair aflutter, he was only dressed in a cotton shirt and tight leather pants that would have given him the appearance of a cavalryman were it not for his lack of moustache. He had spotted me long before I noticed him, and I met his eyes as he climbed down. Behind him walked a blonde woman with clear eyes and an impassible face that, I suppose, others would have found gorgeous, but I merely found distant. She gave me the barest inspection before returning her attention to her surroundings.

“Ah, Peter, so good to see you,” the dark one greeted with a hint of Italian accent. We shook hands and I tried not to shiver at how cold his palms were, nor at the hidden strength held in those artist’s digits. The powerful man placed a hand over my shoulder and led me back, robbing me of any illusion of agency.

“Will you be staying the night?” I asked with a weak voice.

“We have made our own arrangements. You are welcome to join me, by the way. I am sure that you miss speaking the tongue of Oscar Wilde.”

The double-entendre was thick enough as to earn a condemning glare from the woman. She deliberately chastised the man in a breath-taking display of audacity, caring not one bit for social propriety. I immediately wondered if the source of her bold assurance was her nationality, as she had an American accent.

“Octave, you are being uncouth, and flustering the poor boy.”

She wore a sarafan of good make, a traditional Russian attire in the form of a jumper dress. Hers was dyed a deep blue, and white on the chest and arms. From afar, she could pass for the daughter of an affluent merchant, but the masquerade would fall upclose. Her traits were too sharp and exotic. She was also too confident. Her hair was not braided properly, instead falling freely to her shoulders.

The implausible boldness stunned me so thoroughly that I could not help my reaction. I knew with certitude that Octave played a major role amongst the dark ones, yet she did not defer to him in the slightest.

Undeterred, we walked through the muddy streets, gathering the attention of sailors and soldiers alike, until the woman turned to inspect the cliffs in the distance and I leaned into the ear of Octave.

“Your friend fears no one, it seems. Is she perhaps an important member of your organization?” I asked.

“One with her lineage will show respect, but never deference. ”

With that cryptic remark, I gave up on the conversation to search for the origin of a curious hiss I had heard, but my inquiry remained fruitless. Octave stopped us as we were nearing my home.

“We should each go our own way,” he said. “I have preparations to make, and I was told by my dear Ariane that she had an interest in the local landmarks. Would you kindly guide her, and we shall reconvene here later tonight?”

I must have babbled some excuse then, for I soon found myself moving with the woman to the outskirts of Sevastopol proper and to the ancient Greek site of Chersonesus on a less-traveled road, our arms linked in the semblance of kinship, and my other hand grasping a lantern. We came across a detachment of hussars whose members gave me a knowing smile. I made no attempt to return them, fully aware that any expression would have betrayed the deep unease I felt at the cold skin against mine.

“There are only ruins there. The crown has already excavated the place thoroughly.” I noted, unwilling to provide false hope and risk the consequences of disappointment. I need not have bothered.

“Ruins themselves have always been an important source of inspiration, especially neoclassicism. Surely, a man of the world such as yourself should know this?” she asked in a courteous yet curt tone. Her voice carried despite the wind, and I found myself shivering in the rapidly cooling air, against which my meagre jacket offered little protection. If the temperature bothered her, she displayed no signs of it.

It took us a good hour to walk to our destination, most of it spent in silence. As luminosity declined, I feared that we might lose our way, and I was only spared floundering by my companion’s sure steps and unyielding grip. At last, we found the site, where walls of white stone still stood amidst dry grass, and the moon peeking from behind the cloud bathed the scene in an otherworldly light. There she stood, the strange dark one, in the middle of an extensive, once-flourishing city like some ill portent. Broken fragments of civilization jutted from the ground like the ruined bones of some great beast eons-dead, and yet she sang an off-tune, strange warble with a pleasant face as she strolled through the remains with obvious interest.

As for me, the memories of Solzhenitsyn's tale proscribed any warm thoughts, and the frigid wind froze me to my core. I mistook every moving bramble for the steps of beasts. The few stars visible through the cloud covers shone briefly like blinking wolves through the underbrush.

“Bloodshed has tainted the land,” I tell the wraith-like woman, “some evil is afoot!”

“I am aware,” she calmly replied.

“Are you not concerned? We are far from the city now,” I tell her with impatience, some anger at her casual dismissal, yet she simply turned and there was now something sharp in her blue eyes, which shone brightly despite the encroaching darkness.

“I am not, and you should guess why.”

She kept moving without care and for the first time tonight, I disdained my surroundings to study her, and it finally occurred to me that her steps were perfectly confident even when she left the lantern’s protective halo. It occurred to me that her gait had a predatory air that we mundane folks could not easily match, and finally, it occurred to me that I was the fool for agreeing to such a visit. Feverish thoughts of blood on corroded stone froze my heart in my chest and, to my dismay, the woman stopped and sniffed the air.

Terror gripped me then, but the woman merely chuckled.

“You belong to Octave, Peter.”

The way she said my name showed disdain, a distance and carelessness that her next words belied.

“So long as I am around, you are one of the safest mortals out tonight, I assure you.”

My mind screamed not to believe her words, animated by some ancient instinct, and yet I remembered then that the dark ones always kept their word. I clung to this reassurance like a shipwrecked sailor to flotsam as we made our way back and I realized that the woman was not breathing. I dared not look at her anymore, instead forcing one step after another, and it took an eternity for us to find again the lights of my domain in exile. We did not go in. Instead, I followed my silent guide to a nondescript and isolated stone house at the edge of the city. She walked without hesitation through its steel gate, as though guided by some mysterious means. When I inquired about her ability, and to fill the silence which weighed so heavily upon my heart, her cryptic answer raised more questions than it solved.

“Oh, we can always find one another if we wish. Octave’s presence is more… flamboyant than most.”

She did not wait for my reaction and we quickly found ourselves on the modest ground floor of the unknown building, its only noticeable feature being banality itself. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth and I could finally recover from my ordeal. My companion sat by its side after grabbing a notebook from a nearby table. She busied herself drawing and ignored my presence entirely. I clung to the appearance of normalcy with all my might and silenced the persistent voice that told me to run.

“Octave is upstairs, if you wish to see him,” the blonde woman finally said. She had still not raised her eyes from the paper before her. She had merely offered a suggestion, yet something pushed me to obey, to seek the stairs. It was the call of the void gripping me in its inexorable embrace, for I knew that if I headed home now, sleep would elude me for another night.

The second floor consisted of a single large bedroom merged with a study. As soon as I closed the door behind me, the sounds of the world faded, until only the fire and Octave’s pen scribbling on a sheet of paper broke the eerie silence. The dark one signaled me to take a seat without turning his head, and I obeyed, noticing what occupied most of the central table. It was a map of the surrounding area.

“I take it that everything went well?” he asked as he placed his letter in an envelope.

“Yes,” I replied with hesitation, “your companion has curious interests.”

“One of the few among us who has developed a passion for the visual arts. I hope that you did not make any requests of her.”

“No. We barely spoke.”

His brown eyes captured mine as he stood up. Octave’s height and impressive physique were easily overlooked until he stood by one’s side, then it became impossible to focus on anything else.

“I should have mentioned it before. Ariane comes from a… background that gives a lot of importance to those who make requests, and expects a word given to be fulfilled. Be careful, and do not provoke her,” he warned me off-handedly.

“Is she also a warrior?” I asked, curious despite the circumstances.

“Yes, and she is one of the few with the potential to match me, one day. Come, let me show you what we will be doing.”

Surprised by the non sequitur, I follow the tall man to the central table depicting a map of the south of the Crimean peninsula, with pins set at regular intervals. Each one is adorned with a flag with dates meticulously inscribed in a neat handwriting. As I express my incomprehension, Octave elucidates the small mystery.

“Surely, you have heard of local attacks by wild beasts?” he said.

“Indeed, and they have carved a bloody path through steppes and plains alike!” I answered.

“You will be pleased to learn that we have been tracking their progress and believe that we know where they will strike next. To an extent. We shall solve this problem promptly.”

“How?” I exclaimed, “how can I, a humble salesman, face those creatures whose sharp claws have savaged so much flesh? I am no hunter!”

“We have no need for another hunter, dear Peter, we merely require someone with a good knowledge of the local dialects.”

“And you will protect us from the beasts?” I asked with natural concern.

“Us?” he scoffed. “You misunderstand. Ariane needs no protection. She came in search of an outlet.”

Despite my best efforts, I failed to school myself to hide disbelief of the highest order. Perhaps as a jest, Octave decided to further confuse me. He mistakes my confusion for fear.

“You have nothing to worry about. I will keep her in line. Enough of these boorish topics, dear Peter, why not tell me of your life in exile?”

Despite the appearance of polite interest, I recognized the predatory nature of his gaze, and yet I did not feel fear but a deep sense of loneliness. In truth, I longed to share with him the pain I felt at being pushed away from my ancestral home, and the grief that hounded me even years after the tragedy that led me here. Dark ones might be peculiar, yet they still held an interest for mortal matters that perhaps binded them more tightly to their human appearance, and so I spoke of my dreams. It was as if a great dam had failed under the tremendous pressure of a deep lake. I could no longer hold back my emotions and I spilled them like a gutted deer spills its blood, until tears ran down my cheeks and the fire had become embers. Then, Octave kissed me. He was cold and tasted of anise and fresh mint.

We spent the night together.

I am still unsure what I expected from our intercourse, but it was not the tender care he showed. I knew that any attachment I developed was bound to lead only to suffering, not just because he would not stay. Dark ones only wear the mask of civility. I have seen them kill and the memory of this event still haunts my nightmares. Despite my misgivings, I abandoned myself to our embrace and woke up the next day alone but warm. He had consumed some blood at one point or the other as a strange sensation in my neck reminded me. Somehow, the ordeal had left me feeling lighter as if a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders and I faced the day in a better mood.

When I came back home as the sun was setting, I saw that a letter had been delivered through means unknown. The contents, written by a talented calligrapher, asked me to be ready for an evening out. I thus donned warm traveling clothes under the disapproving glare of my Tatar helper, Saide. The wizened crone grumbled about bad omens and as I waited with some trepidation for the dark ones to arrive, her remarks contributed to my frayed nerves. Although I expected it, the knock on my door jolted me like thunder. I opened it and met the pleasant face of Octave.

“Would you like to come in?” I offered.

“I appreciate the offer but we are on a schedule. Come on out.”

I closed the door behind me and regretted it immediately, as both my companion and the mysterious woman had brought horses with them, although I was not convinced that the term would do these fearsome beasts justice. They were black as the night itself, tall as the mightiest charger, and they had an imperceptible aura of dread that forbade any approach.

“I did not think… Should I fetch my horse?” I asked with a tremulous voice.

“No, you shall ride with me. We cannot afford to bring a prey animal,” he answered.

“A second one, in any case,” the woman added with dark mirth, and Octave frowned but refrained from chastising her. He jumped atop the creature with impossible grace and dragged me up as if I had the weight of a child. Soon, I was sitting in front of him. I would have rued the humiliating display, were it not for two vital elements. First, Octave was riding without a saddle as if it were the most natural thing. Second, his mount gave me a crimson glare and I caught lantern light reflected on sharp ivory. Those were not mortal mounts, but the man-eating mares of Diomedes themselves that we were riding into the darkness beyond the city. To my side and in front, the woman too rode, and likewise her mare had no saddle, but wore a strange light armor with a front spine like a sinister image of a unicorn. The horror I felt then was only compounded when the last of the lantern lights left us and the dark ones… let go.

I knew not how fast we went, only that the meagre rays of the moon blinking through holes in the cloud cover blurred with the speed we reached, and that the wind whipped at my face until tears filled my eyes. They dried before they could fall.

We went faster still. For one instant, we passed a sleepy hamlet of peasant hovels lit by torches, and a group of late guards jumped out of our way with cries of great fright. In that instant, I saw the dark one better. She wore a riding dress that flared behind her and she was pale, so pale. I felt hunted then, dragged forward like a wounded elk by a wild hunt of otherworldly riders. Panic rose in my chest and I only wanted to escape, to stay behind with the earthy, honest people we almost ran down. I wanted it to stop.

The woman felt it, I could have sworn that she did. She turned her fair head to the side and smelt the air like a bloodhound, then the dying light caught in the sapphire of her gaze and we went out, swallowed by the all-encompassing void.

I closed my eyes then, and did not open them until we were stopped. Octave grabbed me by the back of my coat and lifted me once more, depositing my shivering form on the muddy ground. We were in a forest, though I could see very little. The only source of vision came from a trio of candles shining through the gaps of a derelict house’s shutters. I could not see the dark ones in the utter darkness. but I could still feel Octave’s powerful grip on my neck, as threatening as it was protective.

The dark ones spoke in a sibilant language I could not recognize. Their voices were carried by the wind as a soft whisper to an extent that I could not tell when a sentence started and the other ended. I only learned that they had come to a decision when Octave leaned into me, and his cold breath caressed my ear, carrying with it the scent of mint and anise.

“We caught the trail of our quarry, or so I believe. There are only two of them, you see? We expected more. My companion believes that they are not the ones we seek, yet may hold the answer to our questions. I believe that when a rabid pack attacks a herd of sheep, one should not care about the sake of any of its members. I hold precedence, yet I find myself harried by curiosity. You will accompany her and act as a translator.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin at such a preposterous proposal, but Octave’s grip was like iron. No matter, I would express my reserves and make him see reason.

“You would have me stand in a small room with those butchers?” I hissed, yet he merely chuckled.

“The woman will protect you, have no fear.”

“I have fear!”

His breath was close again and I felt something sharp dig through my scarf, drawing two pears of blood.

“You would refuse me?”

I remembered then. A blur. A man dead on the pavement, head twisted at an unnatural angle. Casual disinterest.

“No, I would not dare.”

“Good. I quite like you, Peter dear. Remind yourself that we do not huddle in hovels, nor do we feel the need to cast off the darkness, hmm? Off you go then, amici.”

The woman hissed something and gripped my arm with irresistible strength. She pulled me forward. I would have fallen a hundred times if she had not kept me upright until we reached the door, upon which she banged once. Vile curses came from inside.

“Not a home then.”

She banged a second time. It proved too much for the rickety plank. It fell forward with a groan, spreading rotten splinters on a filthy ground of moldy straw. There were two men inside, dressed in scraps of fur and little else. They were as cavemen, hairy and muscular. The stench of their unwashed bodies permeated the air while the light of the candles reflected in their bloodshot eyes. They had placed their hands on rusted knives when we entered, though the improbable sight of a young blonde woman had frozen them in their tracks.

The woman sniffed the air once more and her placid expression turned into a moue of disgust.

“An suqqam hayatu. Bah. You there, Peter. Translate for me. Ask them who they are waiting for.”

The surreal nature of the situation finally weakened my brain. I could only utter the most ridiculous of platitudes.

“Should we not introduce ourselves first?”

“Oh no, they will handle that part for us. Wolves are such simple creatures.”

Anger took over our hosts at being ignored. The woman became the center of their attention as they, too, sniffed the air with great noise. How they could perceive anything over their ungodly stench, I shall never know.

One of the men was taller and larger with rugged traits and long dark hair. The other appeared young and less assertive. It only took me a moment to realize, from the similarity of their features, that they were siblings. Silence and our intrusion had pushed the older one to his limit and he marched to the dark one with fury on his brow. He spouted a few words, which I hastily relayed.

“He asks what you are and if you are mad. He is being quite rude.”

“Tell him that I ask the questions here.”

I gaped, helpless.

“Tell him.”

I did not have the time to finish. The man swiped at the dark one with frightening speed. I heard the ghastly crack of shattered bone and he howled, clutching the crushed remains of his right hand. An instant later, he was on his back with the woman’s leather boot on his chest. She leaned forward with the amused, yet intimidating smile of a teacher who caught a student lying.

“I ask the questions, and I asked them who they were expecting.”

I realized that the second man had moved when her foot painfully dug into the downed brother’s chest, eliciting a squeal of pain. Her eyes were now fixed on the offender. I knew with certainty that I did not want to be on the receiving end of such a brutal treatment, and endeavoured to translate her words with all haste. The older sibling proved his foolishness once more when he barked an obvious question.

“That does not sound like an answer,” the dark one commented.

I could only babble a few syllables. I finally screamed shortly after.

The woman extended her hand with exquisite slowness. One moment, there was nothing. The next, she held in her arm a jagged horror of a sword that merged the grace of the masterpiece and the painful horror of the razor in one terrifying amalgam. Its tip bit into the throat of her victim, just below the Adam’s apple. A single droplet pearled on his filthy skin.

The woman licked her lips and I saw it then. Fangs descended from her crimson lips in delicate ivory stilettos. The others saw it too, or perhaps the reality of their situation had finally pierced through their primitive skulls.

“Once more. I ask the questions. Who are they expecting?”

I relayed the terms again, and it was the youngest who answered, as the older dared not even swallow his saliva. Their accents were thick and their Russian approximative, and I gave the dark one my best opinion.

“They say that they are expecting the white shore… group? They were part of it but left.”

“Ask them how long they have been in this pigsty.”

“Only one night, miss. He says that they are on the run.”

“Ask them why they are on the run.”

“He says that his companions turned… sour? Acid? I apologize miss…”

“No need, I understand quite well.”

“Ah, miss, the young one asks if you could let them go, as the others are hot on their trails and they were about to leave. They are afraid that their foes might catch up to them.”

“Out of the question. It would truly be in their best interest if the others came.”

I had no difficulty imagining that whatever the dark one had in store for the siblings would be unpleasant, and neither did they show much surprise when I relayed her refusal. The dark one walked to a corner and opened a shutter wide. It appeared that her interest in my companions’ misfortune did not extend beyond the most basic information gathering. Left alone, and eager to break the heavy silence weighing on us, I asked the strange, primitive men their stories. To my surprise, they answered without reservation. Their horrible Russian proved only to be a minor effort in front of my determination, and I soon had a full story.

The two men were called Fedor and Kolya. The elder, Fedor, declined to share the rest of their names. I would have complained at the breach of etiquette if the rest of his tale had not captured my attention.

They were part of a tribe, though the term he used was ‘pack’, that worshipped the wolf goddess Ashina. They somehow ‘claimed her form’ which I assumed meant sharing the hygiene, scent, and living accommodations of wolves and explained quite a bit. Their tribesmates had gone too far as they took in the darker aspects of the savage beast. They had started to make a sport of travelers and their excesses had only grown as the seasons passed. Fedor and Kolya had disapproved of such practice. They had managed to flee before the leader decided that their protests had to be silenced and moved west and south. Unfortunately for them, the pack was filled with vicious and vengeful members who could not tolerate any perceived slight no matter how trivial. The enraged ex-companions had pursued the pair with dogged determination.

I understood then that the ravaged communities had been attacked to gather both information and supply, as well as allowing those merciless killers to indulge in their basest instinct. It led me to wonder what the dark ones’ interest was. So far, I had always considered their motives as too hermetic and mercurial for me to waste efforts on, but now that I was involved, curiosity needled me. It was then that Fedor made the decision to attract the dark one’s attention, to my befuddlement.

“Miss, that man, whose name is Fedor, thinks he knows what you are.”

“Fascinating,” was the reply I received, but I decided to persist if only out of belief that it was the tribesman pestering her, and that I was merely an intermediary.

“He thinks that you are what they call a Kalinin.”

She reacted then, if air pushed out of one’s nose can be called such.

“Kalinin is the name of a bloodline, dear Peter. I am not one of theirs.”

“But they are dark ones like you?”

“Dark ones?” she asked, finally turning.

I realized my blunder then. I called them dark ones in my mind, but only by default. Indeed, those of their kind I had met had never taken the time to explain their nature.

“Dark ones will do, I suppose. The Kalinins are not too different from me, though their fascination with the divine is something I will never understand. They do maintain order around here, however, and that is how those mutts heard of them.”

“So that is why you came? To enforce order?” I asked.

“No, Peter. I am here for sport. Speaking of which, our guests have arrived. Have the two idiots follow me out.”

I translated her orders and, to my surprise, they obeyed. I was about to leave the hovel as well when a hand placed on my chest stopped me.

“You should stay inside,” the dark one said.

“But…”

“Not to worry, I promise you a good show.”

With those words, she stepped outside with the two brothers slightly behind her. Octave and the horses had disappeared somewhere in the gloomy woods, and it was enough for the pair of tribesmen to look at each other and consider fleeing. No sooner had they taken a step back that the woman hissed.

I believe that I had witnessed inhumanity when she had shown her unnatural strength, yet it was that dreadful sound that truly reminded me that we were mice before a viper. There was a difference there that even the two rugged strongmen would never bridge, not even if they practiced pugilism rigorously. A new development enfolded before they could consider their next move. I heard noises like howls made by human throats, and torches soon appeared in a half-circle before me. They surrounded the hovel on all sides, trapping us before we could even notice. The dark one showed not a trace of concern at the seemingly desperate situation. Indeed, if I had a gun, I would have considered using it on myself to escape the dreadful treatment those poor villagers had suffered, instead of as a means of defense. As it was, my fate rested in the cold hands of my benefactors.

It was not long before the torchbearers closed the distance, forcing the two siblings to huddle closer to the hovel. If I earlier believed that they were uncivilized, the dreadful appearance of the newcomers made them positively gentlemanly by comparison. Their beastial traits, mangy furs and blood-coated faces revolted me on a fundamental level. No human should ever devolve to such a dreadful state. I concluded that they must have lost their souls, if they had any.

My horror only mounted after that.

The leader of the butchers, a tall man rippling with cord-like muscles, addressed the siblings in a guttural growl that only passed as language by the laxest of definitions. His manic eyes landed on the woman and he approached her with the rest of the tribe close on his heels. He smelt the air without shame and spat a few words. His attempt to grab her was thwarted when she simply slapped his hand away. He roared, and was pushed back.

The woman spoke in that strange language of hers as if making quiet observations around a dissection table. The contrast between her graceful pose and clean clothes on one hand, and the tribesmen's feral appearance on the other, gave the scene an improbable air of mankind against nature, of inner city sophistication against the inbred degeneration of parochial hamlets. This false air, this outrageous deception lasted for a few more moments as to my inexpressible shock, the men’s bodies cracked and groaned.

They were transforming! Their flesh bubbled and expanded in a grotesque display of sorcery that left me utterly speechless. Soon, the horrendous group had taken the appearance of bastardized hybrids, chimerae of man and wolf with sharp talons and fangs that glittered in the dying light of their torches, now discarded on the ground.

They launched themselves at the woman, still as immobile as a statue.

The deception ended then when the dark one revealed her true nature. Horror at the monster’s appearance gave way to monstrous acts committed with the appearance of a human. Of the struggle that followed, I saw little as it took all of my courage not to whimper and go prone. Only flashes of memories remain of this dreadful spectacle. I saw the woman tear out a throat with her fingers and dance gracefully under a geyser of arterial blood, painting the packed snow red while her dress stayed pristine. I saw her shatter legs and jump on the back of one of the collapsing abominations. I saw her latch on its neck. At some point of the struggle, the two brothers crashed into the hovel and hid by my side. I understood perfectly.

After what felt like an eternity, but could not have been much more than half a minute, one of the hybrids with its arm missing tried to enter our haven. It was bodily dragged out. Its last whimper was silenced as my eyes were still fixed on the furrows its claws had left on the ground.

The bout of unspeakable violence finished as abruptly as it had begun. Wafts of blood and offal turned my stomach. I threw up then, quietly and on the side. When I was done spitting, I turned to see the dark one standing above me. I was too terrified to move.

She was unharmed.

She was not even dirty.

Only a fringe of blood remained over her mouth like poorly applied rouge.

“Octave will pursue the survivor and I shall let him have his fun. Come on then, translate for me. I have an offer for those two lost souls.”

“An offer?” I stammered.

“Indeed. We could use them for… training purposes. They will not be harmed permanently, and they will be fed and clothed. And washed. They should feel lucky. Few of us would tolerate their stench long enough to consider sparing their worthless existence. Now, talk.”

I did. Words came at a snail pace first, then faster as I felt an irrepressible need to let them know. The offers of the dark ones were not as they seemed. They would bind you until death in ever-tighter chains.

I tried to express this truth, even though I suspected that they, like their deceased fellows outside, were probably cursed. It was somehow important to be candid. My small speech was interrupted by two talons around my neck.

“You are suddenly quite talkative, Peter. Are you taking some liberties with your role, perhaps?”

I expected anger, but it appeared that no transgression could draw from her anything more than a chuckle. It occured to me that I did not have the means to be more than a mild nuisance. That was why she had not punished me.

“Miss… I…”

“Warning them, perhaps?”

I closed my mouth with a painful click. Once again, my reaction elicited nothing more than slight amusement.

“Oh, Peter, you are so deliciously naive. I see now why Octave finds your presence so delightful. For one as world-weary as you are, you have kept a core of innocence that only children should have. Ask them for their answer.”

I did, and was surprised at how eager they were at forfeiting their freedom. It was as if my warnings had not been understood, but simply ignored. I did not have to wait to understand the cause of their prompt decision.

“They agree.”

“Do you know why?” she immediately replied, and I found myself hesitating.

“You have considered the dangers of the offer. Now consider the alternative.”

Death.

Of course.

The two had immediately understood the nature of their world while I still held in my thoughts the Habeas Corpus and Universal rights. I was a fool. It was no longer my world.

“Two words of advice, dear Peter, then we will leave this pigsty. First, do not provoke Octave the way you provoked me. Your lover used the metaphor of the sheep and wolf earlier, did he not?”

“Yes?”

“You should remember that the shepherd cares little more for the sheep than for the wolf. Both end up skinned. As for the other advice, tell me, do you feel pity for those poor sods? Is that why you wanted to warn them against eternal servitude?”

I had no answers for that question. Perhaps I still wanted to accomplish something of note during this confusing night. Perhaps... I merely wanted to believe that I mattered.

“Before you go pitying them, ask yourself why so many villages were destroyed.”

She must have seen my confusion then, and did not wait for my answer to elaborate.

“They led the beasts there. They left clear scent trails for the others to follow.”

“What? Why?” I replied, scandalized.

“The ensuing slaughter would delay the ferals for hours. It gave the two of them the time they needed to stay ahead since a pack is naturally faster than individuals. It would have happened again until they gained enough ground or got trapped, but do not let those considerations get to your head, dear one. Even at night, there are only shades of grey.”

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