Volume 2 - CH 3.2

The village chief led them toward the square in the middle of the village. There were ramparts only at the entrance, near the bluff. On the other side of the village, along the small, dark forest, stood precipitous cliffs in place of walls.

It was a small, round village. Kazuya was surprised to find that life in this place had remained exactly the same for hundreds of years.

Sergius glanced at the forest. Tree branches swayed in the wind.

The old man snatched the hunting rifle from his young assistant, lifted it, and pointed the muzzle toward the woods.

Alan and Derek, chatting merrily, did not notice.

The young assistant gulped.

A gunshot rang out.

Alan and his friends jumped and shared looks.

“Wh-What was that for?”

“Wolves,” Sergius said flatly. “There are wild wolves living in the mountains around here. They’re big and quite tough. If we see one, we scare it away like this.”

The young men exchanged glances.

“Inconspicuous cliffs and wild wolves prevent anyone from entering from the forest,” the assistant added. “The only way to safely enter the village is to cross the drawbridge.” He pursed his lips in fear and never spoke another word.

“But Gramps,” Alan said, stroking his beard. “The people in Horovitz call you guys Gray Wolves. They say you’re an enigma. Right?” He glanced at Raoul.

His silent friend nodded, his large body shrinking as he glanced at the hunting rifle. The young assistant gulped—how could the man call the village chief gramps? His eyes darted between Alan and Sergius, wondering if he should get angry for the disrespect.

Sergius gave a dry chuckle. “Nonsense! We are normal humans. When you live an outdated lifestyle deep in the mountains, people tend to assume a lot of things.”

“I see.” Alan nodded.

Derek laughed, and Raoul grinned.

“We’re of a different race is all,” the old man added. “Perhaps the people down there can feel it in their skin—they sense that we are different. We have not done anything to them.” He continued walking.

Strolling along the cobblestrone street, the group passed through the square and by the church, studying the ancient structure on the way. Behind the cathedral was a cemetery veiled thinly by the mist. Kazuya found it eerie, so he looked away. A dark forest, its trees blanketed by a thick fog, loomed beyond the cemetery.

Suddenly the path became wider. Before they could enter the woods, Sergius stopped.

The cobblestone path continued upward at a gentle slope, shrouded by layers of fog like thin organdie curtains. The mist shifted in the wind, and rose. Up ahead, on a blackened hill, was something large, curled up.

Something gray, with an unimaginably huge body. Mildred let out a shriek.

A large, gray creature.

It lay on the dark hill, now, but it looked like it would rise at any moment, turn its head, and pounce at them.

A gigantic, gray wolf.

The eerie rumors from Horovitz flashed through Kazuya’s mind. The innkeeper, his face dark with fear.

Gray wolves live there.

You must not anger them.

You must not incur even their slightest wrath.

Terrifying werewolves.

A gust of wind blew.

Huh? Kazuya rubbed his eyes.

He noticed that the huge figure was made of stone. Nothing but a cold, inanimate object. An illusion, he realized.

It was a large, darkish gray manor, made of flat stones.

The tall tower on the left resembled an animal’s head. The pillars by the entrance bore elaborate rosette carvings, and the roof was beautifully decorated. But the stone walls, which might have looked dazzling on a fine day, was an ominous gray.

It was a mysterious manor, lavish but lacking in color, as if drawn with a brush using only black ink.

Red unfamiliar flowers bobbing in the breeze were the only thing that provided color in the otherwise bleak surroundings. The narrow flowerbeds were blood vessels twisting around the building, forming curious patterns.

“This is my home,” Sergius said in his raspy voice.

The group exchanged glances.

“You will stay here during the festivities.”

The manor was huge and dark and luxurious, with polished mahogany furniture and velvet curtains in every room, vastly different from the crude stone-built village.

Past the wide foyer was a red-carpeted grand staircase, and beyond that was a hall with a glittering chandelier. Up the staircase, a long corridor with heavy curtains ran the length of the manor. The wall lamps near the ceiling shimmered orange.

Portraits of their ancestors hung in the dim corridor, handsome and dignified faces, their long golden hair tied back. The face on the portrait closest to them was the youngest, seemingly in their forties.

While studying the portraits, an innocent, childlike voice came from somewhere.

“That’s Elder Theodore. The murdered village chief.”

Victorique’s shoulders jerked. They all turned to the direction of the voice.

A woman was standing there with a lamp in her hand. She was about twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Her hair was a deep golden, tied in complex braids, each length curled up. Her handsome face, however, was devoid of emotion, giving the impression of a broken doll. Her head, cocked to the side, looked like it would fall to the floor at any moment.

Her glassy green eyes, reminiscent of jade, gleamed in the dark.

Her attire, old-fashioned like the village chief, marked her as a maid. Her skirt was long and puffy at the back. Her waist was cinched with a corset, and a white collar covered her neck so that no skin was visible.

Sergius turned around. “Her name is Harminia. She’s a maid in this manor.”

Harminia gave a small curtsy. Her cold eyes regarded Victorique.

“You’re the spitting image of Cordelia.”

Kazuya swallowed.

Her voice sounded different this time, low and deep, like a man’s.

“I was only a child, but I remember well when Cordelia was banished,” she continued. Her voice changed from high to low, from male to female, adult to child. “Yes, it was ten years ago. In this manor…”

“Harminia.”

“She scattered gold coins in Elder Theodore’s study, and—”

“Harminia.”

“With a dagger…”

“Harminia!”

She closed her mouth and lifted her left hand. With everyone watching her, she brought her forefinger to her face, pulled her lower eyelid and rubbed her eye, over and over.

The group gulped. She was rubbing her eye with considerable force. Capillaries ran like fine, red cracks on the whites of her left eye.

Rub, rub.

The white of her eye was exposed.

Rub, rub.

Suddenly Harminia pulled her hand away.

The light from the lamp seemed to dim a little.

They were gathered around the dining room table for a light lunch prepared by Harminia.

“The incident happened in the study,” Sergius began. “It’s an old room at the back on the first floor. No one uses it anymore, though.”

A marble mantelpiece sat above the fireplace. Glass lamps hung on black-panelled walls adorned with paintings. The room was opulent, yet somehow stifling. Kazuya realized that it was probably due to the low ceiling, both in the room and in the corridor. He felt like he could get crushed at any moment. He thought that perhaps it was because the people of the villager were shorter.

Sandwiches, tea, and baked goods were all served in old, but well-polished silverware sets.

“That day, Elder Theodore was holed up in his study since evening,” Sergius continued. “When the clock struck twelve midnight, Cordelia—she was fifteen that time—would go to change the water in the jug.”

Fifteen years old, Kazuya mused. The same age as me and Victorique right now.

“Back then I served as Elder Theodore’s assistant, so I was in the manor the night of the incident. As I passed through the hallway with the other men, I saw Cordelia just as she was about to enter the study. She was carrying a crude iron candlestick like she always did. She knocked, then reached for the doorknob. The door didn’t open. It was locked. The door was usually kept unlocked, but sometimes Elder Theodore would lock it when he didn’t want to be disturbed. We passed by Cordelia right when she used her key to open the door. I believe it was exactly twelve o’clock. I looked at my pocket watch, you see. Cordelia was always right on time. But for some reason, the men’s testimonies about the time were mixed, and now I’m not even certain what time it was. In any case…”

The three men munched on their food, constantly grumbling about the old ingredients. Whenever Alan said something, Derek would reply in his high-pitched voice. Raoul remained silent, but kept studying and tapping the silverware curiously. All three didn’t seem interested in Sergius’ story, so they barely listened.

Mildred was quiet, still not feeling well from her hungover. She had barely touched her food.