Blood Red (9781101637890) (39 page)

He saw them, and waved. A moment later the sound of his shout reached them. Dominik steadied the horse, as Rosa and Markos waved back. The group urged their horses into a gallop, and dropped behind a hill again.

But now, clearly came the sound of the thunder of hooves.

Rosa put her head against Dominik's back, and closed her eyes.
Now it truly is over, at last. . . .

Dominik was ensconced in the best bed in the inn, with two of the daughters waiting on his every wish. Markos was asleep, after devouring another huge meal and drinking down as much of the potent plum liquor as possible.

Rosa was in Petrescu's house, lying on a featherbed that Petrescu's wife had brought down from the guest bedroom and placed beside the hearth, so that she could tell Petrescu the entire story while lying down.

She was back in “proper” women's clothing again, much to the relief of—well, practically everyone. They couldn't deny she was a heroine, but her outrageous leather clothing had made it very hard for the people of the village to keep their composure around her.

Right now, she wasn't in the mood to make anything more difficult on anyone than it had to be.

Besides, when they had arrived at the village, not only was she in her scandalous leather outfit, she was still covered in blood and other nastiness and wanted a wash, badly. So despite that every movement made her head complain in protest, she had stripped out of the gear, washed herself all over, and changed. The innkeeper's wife had even cleared the kitchen for her so she could do so comfortably, in private, and with warm water. She left her gear and the outfit she had loaned Dominik with the village cobbler to be cleaned and oiled. He took it with a bow that indicated that, now that she was no longer actually wearing it, he was going to treat it with the same reverence as holy vestments.

Petrescu's wife was something of an herbalist, and she had plied Rosa with a tea that was much more pleasant than willow bark, and much more effective. That, and lying down, made it possible for her to recite every detail Petrescu could have wanted. And probably quite a bit he really didn't want to hear, but knew he needed to anyway.

“So it's over, then?” he said when she finished, closed her eyes, and sighed.

“There may be some other lone shifters out there, somewhere,” she said, waving her hand vaguely. The featherbed was heavenly, like lying in a supportive cloud. “But Markos can bring some of his family here to hunt them out. He was mumbling something about that when I left him.”

“I shall let it be known in the other villages that we found—the
bandits
that had been preying on these parts,” Petrescu said, finally. “We will burn the bodies of the shifters, and bring back the bodies and bones and the things you told us about.” He sighed. “I suppose we must bury the bones in a common grave. I cannot imagine how we could ever sort them out. . . .”

“Let people sort them out for themselves. Even if they get the wrong bones, what would it matter?” she asked. “The old women that usually lay out the dead can probably do that for you. Then bury the unclaimed ones in that common grave.”

“You're right, of course,” he replied, and sighed again. “What a thing to come upon me in my old age. . . .”

“Stop complaining, old man,” his wife scolded him, making Rosa smile a little. “Think of the honor that will come to you! Putting all those old griefs to rest at last! People will remember
you
as the mayor that solved the mystery of our vanished children.”

“Would you care to spend the night here, instead of at the inn?” Petrescu asked, when Rosa was silent. “I would be honored to welcome you. And I could use your advice on what I should tell people.”

Now that her head wasn't screaming, Rosa was acutely aware of the fact that her body was one big bruise from head to toe. The inn was a good long walk away.

And Petrescu's wife was a very, very good cook
and
herbalist.

There was something to be said about giving up a little independence and being taken care of for a change. Especially by people who would be eager for her to take it back.

“Thank you,” she said with gratitude. “I would.”

M
ARKOS
watched solemnly as the hotel porters loaded the cart with all of Rosa's luggage. Rosa stood beside him, looking every inch the fine lady, with her signature scarlet cloak over her fine merino gown. No one looking at her now would have any notion that three short weeks ago she had been the leather-clad, scandalous Hunt Master, spattered from head to foot with the blood of werewolves.

Then, again, no one would have any idea that the handsome young fellow beside her was himself a werewolf.

“I won't tell you to travel safely,” Markos said, as the last of the trunks was stowed securely in the cart, and the driver clucked to the horses, sending them on their way to the train station. “I will tell you that I hope any adventures you have end with you triumphant.” Then he blushed. “And that I shall greatly miss your company.”

She smiled. “I shall miss yours, as well. And Dominik's too, I suppose. He won't miss me, though!”

They both laughed. Dominik was still luxuriating in his position as hero and invalid back in the village. There were many lovely maidens, including both of the innkeeper's daughters, who were eager to attend to his every whim. Markos, seemingly, had been perfectly willing to fade into the background as the “rescued,” and as for Rosa, well, she was a rather
uncomfortable
heroine for the villagers, who were not at all sure what to make of her. It was much easier for them to have someone like Dominik to laud.

And she didn't mind that at all, no more than Markos had.

“As for me, if my intentions are carried out, I shall wield a silver knife against
nothing
more formidable than all the fine meals I intend to eat on the trains.” The Graf's generosity had purchased the best accommodations all the way back to his estate, where he intended to grill her as intensively as he had the last time (if not more so) on her Hunt. She was looking forward to it. And, far from feeling homesick for the Schwarzwald, she was beginning to think it might be rather nice to winter over under the Graf's hospitality. And . . . perhaps longer. If she was going to make a habit of being sent off to far places to solve problems, the estate was far better suited to it than the Bruderschaft Lodge. And far more pleasant to return to.

“I hope, then, that is the only knife you wield,” he said, and took her neatly gloved hand, and kissed it. “And here is your cab . . .”

Indeed, the cab, summoned by the hotel concierge, was just turning the corner.

“And so I must go.” She squeezed his hand before taking hers away.

“Would it . . . be dreadfully presumptuous of me—assuming the Count is willing to host me—to take a trip to his estate in the hopes of—” He blushed again, and couldn't finish the sentence.

She laughed aloud, somewhat startling the cabby, who probably wasn't used to hearing a lady laugh so enthusiastically in public. “Of course not, you goose! I'll be there . . . well, I will confess to you, if the Count is willing, I should like to take up residence there instead of going home. I rather like the idea of being spoilt in between moments of having my life and limbs in jeopardy! So send word in a week or two, and I will tell you whether or not the Count agrees with my notion.”

He flushed again, this time with pleasure. “I shall.” But as the cabby was looking rather impatient, he handed her inside, and lifted her traveling luggage up to the rack.

“Goodbye, Rosa!” he said. “I hope to see you again soon!”

“Goodbye Markos!” she called as the cabby pulled away. “And don't be too surprised if on my next Hunt I ask for you!”

She settled back into the cushions of the cab, grinning widely at the shocked—and delighted—look on his face.
One could do worse than having someone with Markos'—hrmm—
talents—
on a Hunt.

One could do much worse, indeed!