“There will one day come a terrible Pestilence—a blight that not even the Mother, in all of Her wisdom and authority, will be able to vanquish. And so it shall fall upon the most devout and stalwart of Her children to cleanse the land of the Plague that will otherwise bring about an end of all days.”

  I - The Plague Doctor

  The sky above the city burned black.

  Dark smoke plumed through the late afternoon air from inside the towering walls of stone. A stygian cloud rose like an omen of death, or perhaps like a warning, one that said to stay far, far away from the suffering that lived within. The man in the beaked mask willed his horse forward with a gentle flick of his reins, and together they made their way over the grassy field toward that fatal pillar of shadow.

  The mare’s hooves clopped along the dirt and grass beneath her grey body as she trotted through the field. The scabbard of Vlad’s longsword slapped gently against the wooden surface of his coach, and the haubergeon beneath his dark cloak lightly jingled at the same rhythm as his horse’s steps. A single mailed hand was loosely wrapped around his mare’s reins, doing little to guide the beast aside from his earlier persuasion; she seemed to understand that their destination was the city that looked to be on fire, and which pulsated with the stench of burning death.

  The familiar scent of cooking flesh grew stronger as he approached Cordermo. The closer he drew to the city’s towering walls of stone, the more he felt himself become enveloped by the odor. He silently wondered how the people of Cordermo, or of any other Plague-infested city, for that matter, managed to go about their lives with the constant fetor of searing death hanging in the air. Could they have simply grown accustomed to it? Was such a thing even possible? If it was, he did not envy them, for he did not want to ever become familiar with such a reality.

  He neared the city’s towering gatehouse, which presently sat closed with a heavy iron portcullis blocking the way forward. Four sentries stood between him and the gate, all equipped with either spears or rifles and clad in muted gambesons. When they saw him, one of the sentries, an unkempt man wearing a rusty sallet helm that looked to be at least a couple of decades past its prime, stepped forward and spoke. “Hold! What business brings you to Cordermo?”

  The man in the beaked mask smiled cordially; he knew the guards could not see the gesture, but he hoped they would hear it in his voice, even if his accent was strange and unfamiliar to them. “Business enough that I should be allowed passage,” he said. “I’ve traveled a long way to come to this city, and would be rather disappointed should my journey come to a premature end.”

  “Then I shall have to be the bearer of ill tidings,” said the unkempt sentry, “for I must inform you that this city is, at current, heavily afflicted with Plague, and as such is limiting who may pass beyond its walls—in either direction. Whatever awaits you in Cordermo, you must ask yourself if it is worth risking your life over.”

  “The Goddess smiles upon you, then,” Vlad said, “for I, in fact, seek a city, one just like yours, that is terribly burdened with pestilence. I myself am a traveling Plague doctor, you see, and I have come to assist your city in its plight.”

  The sentry looked the masked man up and down, taking in his chainmail armor which peeked out from behind his outer clothing, and his longsword and dagger, and the glistening chain whip coiled at his belt. “I’ve seen many who claim to be Plague doctors,” he said, “and none of them have had an aspect quite like yours. For one, I cannot say that I’ve ever seen a man of medicine so heavily armed.”

  “I am of a unique league of Plague doctors, sir,” the masked man said, “and therefore I am not surprised that you’ve not seen any similar to me. We’re something of a rare breed. Still, I am a Plague doctor all the same, and would like to put my talents to use in your fair city, should you allow me entry.”

  There was a long pause during which the sentry only stared at the traveler that stood before him. At length, he spoke. “Very well, then. Suit yourself, so long as you place no blame upon me when you inevitably come down with a terrible cough.” He turned toward the gatehouse. “Open her up, lads. We’ve a man of medicine coming through.”

  The sound of grinding machinery followed his command, and the portcullis slowly rose before them. The Plague doctor nodded at the sentry. “Many thanks. Ere I proceed, could I perhaps interest you and your noble fellows in some of my wares?” He swept a hand toward the roofed coach behind him. “I’ve many a potion and panacea that would bolster your bodies against the Plague, and I’d be more than happy to let a few of them go for a discounted price—consider it a gesture of goodwill toward my new friends.”

  The sentry shook his head. “I’ll keep my silver where it is, thanks. If every elixir offered by your kind worked how it was claimed to, then this Plague would already be a distant memory.”

  “That it would, my friend,” Vlad said. “Is it not a shame, then, that there are so many who would call themselves Plague doctors, who are actually nothing of the sort?”

  “Aye,” the sentry said. “A shame, that.”

  “One more request, if I may. Could you have the city’s physician come see me? I would very much like to speak with them.”

  The sentry nodded. “I shall send for him posthaste.”

  “Excellent. I shall be waiting for him at the pyre.”

  “Need you a guide to show you the way?”

  The masked man shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I can follow the smoke well enough on my own.”

  With that, the man and his steed passed through the gatehouse and into Cordermo proper. The putrid smell of burning and death grew stronger as they journeyed beyond the massive walls, so much so that Vlad briefly considered turning around and going right back out the way he had come. The sound of the closing portcullis behind him told him that this was no longer an option—he did not want to force the sentries to raise the gate again so soon after he had only just passed through it—and so he continued onward.

  The duo only made it a few meters before the equine stopped for a brief moment and snorted. Vlad looked down at her, silently acknowledging her warning. He knew she could sense the death that surrounded them, although he doubted that she needed her beast’s intuition to notice it. The sound of sickness and dying filled the air all around them, and its visage was worn plainly by the nearly barren city streets. Unseen bodies coughed and sneezed and groaned through open windows, their suffering likely as much from the sickness as from the terrible smoke that wafted inside and filled their weakened lungs. Furtive rats skirted through the shadows at his feet and along nearby alleyways, appearing as little more than grey blurs of wiry fur on the rare occasion that they actually passed into his field of view; he only knew of their great numbers due to their constant, incessant chorus of squeaks and squeals that they sang as they scurried about their busy lives.

  When he neared the site of the pyre, the Plague doctor, not wanting to subject Elpis to the worst of the smoke inhalation, dismounted his coach and tied his mare to a nearby post. He then proceeded the rest of the way on his own two feet, both of which were clad in thick leather boots.

  The acrid smoke thickened, and the Plague doctor found himself in a wide, empty plaza that looked to usually be the site of various city gatherings, but instead of scaffolding or gallows now held a massive burning pyre in its center which sent up the black smog and pungent odor that had persistently assaulted his senses for so long. Vlad brought a hand up to his long, thin beak and adjusted his mask. His Star of the Mother jingled around his neck beneath his cloak as he moved.

  The Plague doctor approached the pyre. Through its smoke and blaze he could see the many twisted forms of the deceased. They were too far gone for him to be able to discern anything about their human visage, but he thought he could feel their agony as what remained of them succumbed to the ever-burning fire. In his mind, he thought he heard each of their individual screams. The horrible stench that they gave off informed him of only a fraction of the suffering that they had endured in their final days of life. He pulled his Star of the Mother from beneath his cloak, allowing it to fall in front of his chest. The Star’s presence brought him strength in the company of so much despair, its four points of silver bright with a dull shimmer in the evening daylight.

  “You must be this Plague doctor that I’ve heard tell of,” came a voice. Vlad turned to watch the approach of a man that looked to be about half a decade his senior, and at least a head taller than him. He wore a cloth over his face to keep out the putrid fumes, for whatever good it did him. His hair was fully grey with an age that, judging by the last vestiges of a younger man that remained in his eyes, may have not yet belonged to him.

  “That I am,” Vlad said. “And you must be the physician, lest my request fell upon deaf ears.”

  “That I am,” said the man. “As well as the coroner, ever since the poor man died last month.”

  “I am Vlad Albescu,” the Plague doctor said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Philip Nash,” said the physician, “and the pleasure is mine. I’d shake your hand, but in this city we’re doing what we can to prevent giving that damned contagion any additional means of spreading. You understand.”

  Vlad nodded. “Of course.”

  “Mr. Brown was correct,” Nash said. “You certainly don’t have the look of any Plague doctor that I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen my fair share. None of them have thought it necessary to dawn mail or blade, that much I can tell you.”

  “The roads aren’t what they once were,” Vlad said. “The Plague has seen to that. And if one has proficiency with blades in these trying times, one should wield them.”

  “I cannot disagree,” Nash said. “Even still, you do not quite have the visage that I was expecting when I heard of the coming of a Plague doctor.” He eyed the Star of the Mother that gleamed in front of Vlad’s chest. “Save for that mask of yours, I suppose.”

  Vlad casually tucked the Star back beneath his cloak. “As I told the fellows at the gate, I belong to something of a unique order of Plague doctors. I shall not waste your time by getting into such details at present.”

  “Nor will I press for them,” Nash said, “because if I’m correct, there is a rather pressing matter that you would like to discuss with me. One does not send for the city physician simply for their company, after all.”

  “You are correct,” Vlad said, “though I’m sure you make pleasant company. That said, I do have some questions that are in dire need of answers.”

  “Ask them, then, at your leisure.”

  “I would talk to you about the victims of the Plague. How many of them, by your count, have you burned in pyres similar to this one?”

  “It becomes harder to say the longer this blight persists,” said Nash, “but as it stands now, it has likely been hundreds—thousands, even. I cannot remember the last time this pyre went unlit.”

  “Truly horrific,” Vlad said. “And of that number, how certain are you that they all died of the same illness?”

  “I am confused by your question, Mr. Albescu,” the physician said.

  “What I mean is,” Vlad said, “has every victim that you’ve burned been given a proper autopsy? As both the physician and the coroner, surely you would be able to tell me as much.”

  Nash crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Certainly not, Mr. Albescu. To do so would consume more time than I could alot—for I would largely be alone in performing them, after all, lest I could steal away one of my assistants from their duties to give me a hand.”

  “Of course,” Vlad said. “But then you cannot be certain that they’re all victims of the same Plague, correct?”

  “I’m about as certain as I can be,” said Nash. “Without examining every single one of them, that is. Every victim burned on that pyre and others like it have all perished while afflicted with the same maladies: fatigue, atrophy, dehydration, nausea, fever—what else could we call it, then, except for what it is?”

  “Never matter,” Vlad said. “I suppose there’s no way to go back and make certain of that now, lest you’re able to gather their ashes and reassemble them like new. No, I’d like to discuss a different kind of victim now—namely, I wish to inquire about any victims that may have survived their battle with the blight.”

  “Survived?” Nash said. “Well I’m certain there may be a lucky few, but I’m not sure what concern you have with their recovery.”

  “I am certain that my methods must seem rather unorthodox.” Vlad offered a warm smile from beneath his mask, one that he hoped the physician, like the earlier sentries, would be able to sense better than he could see. “I just ask that you indulge me in this. Are there any survivors of the Plague that you can think of that may stand out to you? Any that seemed to be on the brink of death ere miraculously recovering from their bout with the disease?”

  Dr. Nash stood still for a while as he pondered this curious question. “I suppose there’s poor Mrs. Baker,” he said. “Her husband and three children recently succumbed to the Plague, and she looked about ready to join them, but then one day she seemed to suddenly take a step back from death’s door. She looks better now than she has in a long while, too. Some folks say that it was her daily prayers to the Mother that kept her alive. A shame they weren’t powerful enough to do the same for her family.”

  “So Mrs. Baker is a pious woman, then?”

  “Oh yes,” said Nash. “Never misses a service. Not until recently, that is. She hasn’t been to one since her recovery, and I must say that I can hardly blame her. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to return to your normal activities after all that she has endured.”

  It was Vlad’s turn to lapse into thought. At length, he spoke. “I would ask that you take me to her residence at once.”

  Vlad could see the physician’s frown take shape behind his mask. “Now hold on just a moment, Mr. Albescu. You seem like a decent enough fellow, that much I cannot deny, but I also cannot abide you prodding the fresh wounds of a deeply bereaved woman. It simply wouldn’t be proper, not even in times as improper as these.”

  “You must understand that I have no intention of salting open wounds,” Vlad said, “but for the sake of your city, it is imperative that I speak with Mrs. Baker at once. It is only with her aid that I may try to rid you of this contagion.”

  “Rid us of this contagion through your less-than-conventional methods, you mean.”

  Vlad shared in the physician’s frown, and was thankful that the man could not see it. “I fully understand your misgivings, but all I ask is that you indulge me in this one request. I’ve traveled a long way to aid your people, and I would not ask this of you without good reason. All I’d like to do is speak with her. If she turns me away, I will respect her wishes and move on. She’ll never hear from me again, and nor will you, if that is your wish. In this, you have my word.”

  Philip Nash went silent again for a long while. He briefly turned to look at the burning pyre, then returned his attention to Vlad. “Very well. I must say that I’m just about desperate enough to see these methods of yours in action. But I won’t abide any form of harassment, understood? You’ll respect this poor woman or I’ll have you thrown out of this city quicker than you can blink.”

  “Of course, Dr. Nash,” Vlad said. “I would expect no less.”

  The physician nodded, then turned and began walking away from the fire. “We’d best make haste, then. It’s nearly sundown, and I’d hate to disturb Mrs. Baker after dark.”

  Vlad returned the nod, then squared up next to his escort. “We’re in agreement on that, then. I’d much prefer to get this done ere nightfall.”

  “Have you somewhere to be this evening, Mr. Albescu?” Nash asked. He pulled his cloth from his face as they drew away from the stench and smoke of the pyre. Vlad’s beaked mask remained in place.

  “I do not,” Vlad said, “but I much prefer to work by the light of day whenever I can. Alas, this is not always strictly possible, I’m afraid.”

  “Were there enough hours in the day,” Nash said. He allowed a brief pause, then spoke again. “You truly believe that you’ll be able to rid this city of the Plague after having a discussion with Mrs. Baker? Because I must admit, I cannot see how one connects to the other.”

  “I’m confident that I will be able to rid this city of a plague, yes,” Vlad said.

  “A plague,” Nash frowned, “but not the Plague, I take it. I must say that your selective usage of words is only serving to further kindle these doubts of mine, Mr. Albescu.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Worry not, Dr. Nash,” Vlad said. “My specific manner of referring to the Plague comes with my background. I believe that you’ll understand what I mean in due time.”

  “I’m almost starting to think that you’re something out of a fairy tale, Mr. Albescu—a trickster beset upon our poor community intent on sowing discord. I pray that you prove me wrong, and that you do so with all haste.”

  Vlad looked at his companion. The black lenses of his mask obscured any emotion that may have been present in his eyes. “Do you believe in fairy tales, Dr. Nash? The ghastly ones, which tell of terrifying creatures and nightmarish realms?”

  “I cannot say that I do,” the physician said. “Not since my youth, anyhow. Not that I am blind to the fun in them, but I cannot see them as anything more than stories told to us by our parents in order to keep us from behaving foolishly as children. In that, at least, I must admit that they were quite effective. You wouldn’t have caught me out after dark as a child, no sir. Not with the tales that my father used to tell me, about men turning into wolves with the light of the full moon and dragging bad children away, kicking and screaming, into the shadows. Now, in my greying days, I see these stories for what they are.”

  “You might think differently had you walked the path that I have,” Vlad said. “The folk where I am from still have a healthy belief in fairy tales, and for excellent reason. The creatures which are said to prowl the night out those ways greatly differ from what you see behind the safety of these city walls.”

  “I would take imaginary ghosts and ghouls over the very real Plague that haunts this city,” Nash said. “Though I must say I appreciate your sense of humor, Mr. Albescu. It’s been a long while since I’ve had the leisure of thinking about such tales. Oh, to be young again.”

  Vlad nodded. “Yes. How simple those times were. Simple—and painfully brief.”

  Their conversation went dormant until they came to a stop in front of an unassuming residence on some back street of Cordermo, wedged between two similar properties of little consequence. Its rounded wooden door sat between layers of thick stone, and was equipped with a circular iron knocker.

  It was here that Nash turned to Vlad. “We’ve arrived at Mrs. Baker’s home. Again I ask that you do be delicate with her, Mr. Albescu. She has already endured so much.”

  Vlad nodded. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Dr. Nash.”

  “Right,” Nash said, returning the nod. “Well then, I suppose we’d best proceed, yes?”

  He took the iron knocker into his hand and clapped it against the door three times. Each impact sent forth the loud, echoing drum of disturbed metal. It groaned as he released his grip, allowing it to creak back into place. There were a few moments of silence, then from behind the door Vlad heard the protest of wooden floorboards. This sound preceded the opening of the door, which gave way with a groan more stressed and aged than that of the metal knocker.

  Standing in the threshold was a small, frail woman, her petite form masked by the shadows that surrounded her. She was several heads shorter than Philip Nash, but only a head or two below the smaller Vlad. Her blonde hair lay in a sprawl over her shoulders, looking vibrant with youth and vitality in spite of her many recent hardships. Her eyes were a cool blue, and seemed to almost glow in the darkness.

  “Yes?” she said, and then, upon seeing the physician, her azure gaze shifted. “Dr. Nash. What brings you here this afternoon?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Baker,” Philip Nash said, “but I have a gentleman here who would like to have a brief word with you. Surely it won’t take up more than a few minutes of your time.”

  “A conversation?” she said. “With me? Whatever about?”

  “He’s… well, he’s a traveling Plague doctor, and he has a few questions about your recent… ailment.”

  Vlad stepped forward, nodding. “You may call me Vlad Albescu,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Baker.”

  “My… ailment?” Mrs. Baker said. “You mean my bout with the Plague? What words could we possibly exchange about such a wretched occurrence?”

  “Few enough, I would hope,” Vlad said. “Believe me, I would not ask this of you if I did not find it necessary, but I’m hoping what I can glean from your experience can help me eradicate the Plague in this city.”

  “Well,” she said after a brief pause, “ if it’s for as noble a cause as that, how could I possibly turn you away? Please, step inside, gentlemen.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Baker,” Vlad said.

  “Yes,” Nash said. “Many thanks. And apologies again for the disturbance.”

  She stepped aside, disappearing into the darkness. Vlad followed her into her home with Nash close on his heels, and together the three of them made their way through a gloomy, tight passage, its candle sconces empty of flame. Vlad noticed a small table at the far end of the hall that had an object on top which was obscured by an old, white cloth. He thought he recognized some familiarities in its vague outline, but he was unable to discern any real shape through the shadows. Before he could inspect it further, Mrs. Baker turned the corner and led them into a small kitchen, where they each took a seat at a round, wooden table with an unlit candle resting in its center. Nearby was a stone oven that held cold, exhausted timbers, long sapped of their vigor. Much like the hall, the room was lacking in light, and was draped in a musty gloom.

  “Did we catch you while you were sleeping, Mrs. Baker?” Vlad asked, looking around the kitchen through the darkness as his eyes began to adjust. “If so, I apologize for disturbing your rest.”

  “Oh, I get very little of that, these days,” she said. “No, I haven’t seen it fit to light any candles since overcoming the Plague. The disease makes one very sensitive to light, you see, so we kept it dark in our home for the duration of the spell. Even though I’ve recovered, I’ve allowed the darkness to remain. I’ve grown quite comfortable with it.”

  “A terrible affront to the senses, that Plague is,” the physician said.

  Mrs. Baker nodded. “Indeed it is.”

  “Unfortunately,” Vlad said, “I am not acclimated to such conditions, and my aging eyes make seeing in any amount of darkness rather difficult.” He gestured to the unlit candle resting in the center of the table. “If it does not cause you any trouble, would you permit me to light that candle for just a short while?”

  She looked at the candle, then back at him. “Of course. Now that my illness has passed, there’s no reason not to light it, I suppose.”

  “Many thanks,” the Plague doctor said. He reached into his cloak and produced a small pouch, from which he pulled pieces of flint and steel. He struck the two materials together overtop the wick, bringing the candle to life with a soft glow that gently illuminated the kitchen. He then placed the materials back into his pouch, which he returned to its spot at his belt.

  Mrs. Baker looked to be discomforted by the sudden light, but then revealed a smile that matched the softness of the candle’s glow. “That’s better, I hope,” she said. “But I presume that you didn’t come here to discuss the lighting in my home at length.”

  “That I did not,” Vlad said. “First, please allow me to extend my sincerest condolences for your loss. I can only imagine the turmoil that you have endured. Fate has done you a disservice that I would not wish upon anybody, least of all a lovely woman such as yourself.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I can only hope that soon others will not have to face the same struggles that I have.”

  “I intend to see that hope become a reality, Mrs. Baker,” Vlad said. “With that, I would ask you to speak of your illness and recovery—in as much detail as you can possibly provide.”

  “What would you know, sir?”

  “Anything that you can tell me that might be of note,” Vlad said. “Particularly anything that may have led to your survival. Did you behave differently from your family in any ways that you can think of?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “We all lived as one, in the same way, until the very end—until the light left their eyes. I do not know why, but I am the only one of us who was cursed with the task of continuing on after our affliction.”

  “I’m saddened that you see it in such a way,” he said. “Surely the Mother has a reason for keeping you with us. Your service to Her is evidently not yet complete.” Vlad saw that Mrs. Baker looked strangely uncomfortable at the sudden mention of the Goddess. After a slight pause, he went on. “What of your symptoms? Can you recall any ways in which your body reacted strangely to this blight? Did your family carry symptoms that you did not possess?”

  “Again, I am at a loss,” she said. “We all fell ill with the same maladies.”

  “And what maladies were those?”

  Nash leaned forward and pressed his hands against the table, eliciting a brief groan from the wood. “Is this wholly necessary, Mr. Albescu? We are all well aware of the Plague’s symptoms. You need not remind poor Mrs. Baker of what she and her family endured.”

  “This question harkens back to my concerns from earlier at the pyre, Dr. Nash,” Vlad said. “I simply want to be certain that what we’re discussing is the same Plague that currently ravages this city.”

  “And to that I say, what else could it possibly be? People are falling ill and dying at a near cataclysmic rate. There is nothing else that could be at cause save for the disease that has our entire Dominion circling the very depths of ruin.”

  “Even so,” Vlad said, “I would hear of her symptoms from the woman herself, so long as she does not protest.”

  He looked at Mrs. Baker, whose face remained calm and collected, despite the agitation that he could feel growing in the room.

  “Very Well, Mr. Albescu,” she said. “I will recount that horrible experience, if only to satisfy your ghoulish curiosity. My entire family, myself included, suffered many days of weakness and agony brought on by this Plague. We could not eat, we could not stand, we could barely breathe without feeling that our lungs were preparing to tear themselves from our bodies—and in the end, it took all of them from me, leaving me alone to remember the torture of those many dark days.”

  “I do not doubt your words. But the fact that you survived what perished them all is an anomaly to me. I am perplexed by your fortune in the face of near certain death. The Mother’s plan baffles me yet again, as it so often seems to.”

  Mrs. Baker frowned. “As I’ve said, I do not feel that what I have endured is in any way fortunate, Mr. Albescu.”

  “Of course not,” Vlad said, “and I apologize for even implying as much, as unintentional as it was.” He paused. “Let us move on. Dr. Nash tells me that you’re a very devout woman, Mrs. Baker.”

  She nodded. “I am, indeed. There is scarcely a service that I do not attend.”

  “Until recently, I am told.”

  “You are correct, sir. It has been difficult for me to practice my faith in the Mother when She has taken so much from me. Surely you must understand.”

  “I do,” Vlad said. “Were I in your position, I’m not sure I could even look upon any visage of the Mother, lest I feel it fit to renounce my faith entirely. I would have to hide every religious article that I own, or otherwise discard them despite my reservations. That said, do you not at all suppose that it was your piousness which brought you back from the brink of that nasty affliction?”

  “You certainly seem to think so, based on all that you have said.” She paused. “Sometimes I would like to believe as much, but when my mind wanders to such places, I cannot help but resent myself for not having enough piousness to save the lives of my family as well.”

  “Again, I never meant to imply such a thing,” the Plague doctor said. “My words continue to make a fool of me. I am certain that you are in no way at fault for this tragedy. Your faith should never come into question, and in fact, I should think that bolstering it in these trying times could only serve to benefit you. Regardless of what you may feel now, the Mother will always be there to protect you with Her warm embrace.”

  “Thank you for that, Mr. Albescu. Your words are kind.” She whimpered softly, her face growing dour in the soft candlelight. “I apologize. This is all becoming a bit too much for me.”

  “I completely understand,” Vlad said, “and thankfully I am just about finished here. But before I go, I would ask that you allow me to lead you in prayer, so that it may bring you some comfort in this difficult chapter of your life.”

  There was a brief pause before she next spoke. “Very well, sir. I appreciate your continued kindness.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Vlad said. He pulled off his mail gloves, placed them onto his lap, and lifted both bare hands, reaching one to Philip Nash and one to Mrs. Baker. The woman hesitantly accepted his offered touch. Her skin was cold and clammy in his palm. “O Holy Mother, please bless this home, and bless Mrs. Baker herein, so that she may quickly return to your embrace, where she will continue to serve you as a stalwart champion of your Kingdom. Bring peace to her departed family, and welcome their souls into your bosom where they may—”

  Mrs. Baker’s grip loosened. She pulled away from Vlad’s hand and pressed her palm against her forehead. Her face grew gaunt and weary.

  Nash released his own grip and looked at the ailing woman. “Are you alright, Mrs. Baker?”

  “Yes, Dr. Nash,” she said. “Yes, I am alright. This is just very difficult for me. I now wonder if meeting with you was in my best interest, after all.”

  “Of course,” Nash said. He stood up from his chair, pushing its wooden legs along the stone floor with a harsh scrape. “We apologize for any distress brought upon you by this meeting, Mrs. Baker.” He looked at Vlad. “Come, Mr. Albescu. Let us leave the lady ere we cause her even greater hardship.”

  “My sincerest apologies,” Vlad said. He also rose to his feet as he pulled his gloves back onto his hands. “I can assure you that I shall not be pestering you further, Mrs. Baker.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, “and think not of it.”

  Vlad bowed his head slightly, then turned to go. He paused for only a brief moment before turning to face his hostess once again. “Apologies, but I actually have one further question, if I may. I promise that it is brief.”

  Mrs. Baker’s face looked like it struggled to hold back an icy glare. “Ask it, Mr. Albescu, and then kindly leave my home.”

  “As you wish, Mrs. Baker,” he said. There was another short pause before he spoke again. “I am simply curious, is all. Was it you who fed upon your husband and children until their dying breaths, or was it the hellspawn that turned you who did the deed?”

  Philip Nash’s face contorted. His skin flushed red and hot. “Mr. Albescu! I implore you to guard your—”

  A deep, inhuman chuckle bellowed from Mrs. Baker now; its sinister vibrations appeared to make the candle between them flicker with cold fear. When she spoke next, her voice rang with bells wrought in the deepest pits of hell. “It was only proper that I send them to their graves myself. ’Twas my duty as the woman of the house, after all.”

  The room seemed to suddenly fill with deep, overwhelming shadow, in spite of the candle that still struggled for dear life on the table. Its light appeared to be many leagues away, or possibly on the bottom of a deep, black, inescapable ocean. The blaze was then suddenly snuffed out, its glow lost forever. And there, bathed in that sinister darkness, is where Mrs. Baker changed.

  The creature that was once Mrs. Baker lunged from its chair and crawled along the top of the table with horrible speed. It shook the table’s surface as it moved, causing the platform to screech along the stone floor and nearly knocking the extinguished candle asunder. Vlad barely had time to draw his dagger from his hilt, which screeched with a metallic hiss as it came free. Smoke from the dead candle wafted through the air between him and his foe, its steady plume momentarily broken when he slashed with his silver blade just as his attacker swiped at him with its clawed hand.

  His dagger sliced along the creature’s open palm, eliciting a foul hiss from its terrible lips. The wound bubbled and burned as the creature recoiled. Vlad seized the opportunity to lunge at his foe, but it dodged his attack with a swiftness that no mortal could have possessed. He could not stop his own forward momentum, and his body wound up slamming into the table with a dull thud. He lost his balance and staggered in such a way that caused him to partially turn his back to his foe, giving it a chance to strike.

  The monster leapt upon him and latched onto his mailed back with its terrible claws. It drew open its inhumanly wide mouth, briefly revealing a pair of deadly, slender fangs before sinking them into his collar bone. Its teeth, long and sharp as they were, failed to puncture the stiff leather of his mask, and instead slid downwards and entangled themselves in the exposed rings of his chainmail. The monster's mouth and claws burned where they touched the linked silver; it hissed as it tried to pull itself free.

  Vlad grabbed the clawed arm that was latched onto his freshly torn clothing and threw the creature over his shoulder. It slammed onto the surface of the table, sending up a cloud of dust and wood fiber into the already musty air. Vlad followed the beast with his dagger, but it quickly recovered and dodged once more, swiftly rolling off of the table and out of harm’s way. The force of his blow embedded his dagger into the wooden surface of the table, lodging it there against his efforts to pull it free.

  The terrible thing threw the back of its hand at Vlad, which took him in the side of his face and sent him sprawling with such force that he slammed into the nearby oven and immediately slumped to the floor. It leapt at him once more, its deadly claws eager to find any bit of exposed flesh into which they could sink themselves.

  Vlad reached beneath his cloak and pulled out his Star of the Mother, which glistened in the darkness despite the lack of light in the room. At the sight of the holy relic, the monster in front of him dropped immediately to the ground and recoiled with a hiss, backing away slowly until it reached the opposite wall.

  Vlad rose to his feet and looked at the physician, who stood cowering in the corner by the entryway. “Quickly, Dr. Nash! I believe there is an Effigy of the Goddess hidden beneath a cloth in the hall. Retrieve it now, and use it to help me keep this terrible monster at bay!”

  Nash’s face went pale at the Plague doctor’s words. “But, Mr. Albescu—”

  “Now!”

  The physician wasted no more time. He quickly scrambled out into the darkness of the passage. Vlad heard the sound of shifting fabric before Nask returned with an Effigy now in his hand. He hesitated for only a moment, then, emulating his companion, thrust the holy object in the direction of the flinching beast. It let out an angry hiss, but could do little more than press its body ever closer to the stone wall.

  Vlad freed his dagger from the table with a powerful yank and returned it to its sheath. He approached Philip Nash, and, after pulling the Star from his neck, presented it to the physician. “Keep both of these relics held in our direction, Dr. Nash. I’ll need them to keep this creature’s strength properly hindered while I subdue it.”

  “What is it, Mr. Albescu?”

  “Now is not the time,” Vlad said. “Answers will come later, but first you must do as I say.”

  Nash looked at him for only a moment, then took the Star into his free hand and held it in the direction of the wight, matching his effigy. Vlad then approached the creature pressed against the wall, retrieving the silver chain whip from his belt as he did so.

  “Curse ye, stinking sparrow of the Goddess,” the creature said as he approached. Its breaths were heavy and labored, and it wheezed with each tortured draw of air. “May She one day forsake you as She has me! May you find everlasting suffering in the cold, lonely depths of hell!”

  “Silence, strigoi!” Vlad said. “I will have no further words from you until I demand them. Cooperate, and you may be shown a greater mercy than you deserve.”

  The monster laughed through its struggling breaths. “You fool only yourself if you believe I shall accept your mercy. I’d sooner bide my time until given the opportunity to rip your insolent throat from your putrid neck. Oh how sweet your blood shall taste.”

  “A sweetness that neither you nor any creature of your ilk will ever know.” The Plague doctor knelt over the struggling fiend and touched the chain to its body, which elicited another pained screech. He then proceeded to wrap the chain around the beast’s entire form, not stopping until the links of blessed silver touched nearly every part of its unholy body, leaving only its head and collar free. Light streams of smoke escaped from its body as the monster cursed and spat in some long forgotten language that Vlad did not understand, but which was not unfamiliar to him.

  With his work complete, Vlad glanced back at the physician. “This chain of silver should keep it subdued, but do not lower the talismans, if you please. It will not do to underestimate the power of this cursed creature, especially as nightfall approaches and its hell-given vigor grows.”

  “Nightfall?” Dr. Nash said. “You plan to keep this creature alive, Mr. Albescu?”

  Vlad knelt next to the writhing, cursing strigoi. He pulled its shirt away from its collar, revealing a set of three distinct puncture marks just below its neck. Two of the marks were closer together than they were to the third, looking to nearly overlap.

  Vlad lowered his hood and pulled the beaked mask from his head, revealing his tired, dark eyes and matching scalp of black, greying hair. Sweat ran along his face and pooled in his thick, unkempt beard.

  The Plague doctor turned to look at the physician again. “Aye, Dr. Nash. This spawn of sin does not get to return to its creator—at least not yet. Not until I’ve been given what it owes me.”