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Thomas crashed through the woods behind me, yelling at me to not turn back, to keep running. I ignored the answering howls, though I could now hear other creatures bounding through the snow behind us. I didn’t slow. Didn’t think about how the frosted air burned my lungs as I gulped it down. I didn’t focus on the cold sweat coating my skin or the seemingly endless trail back to the castle. I most especially did not imagine wolves the size of elephants crashing through the forest behind us, ready to tear our limbs off and scatter them about.
I wished that Moldoveanu and Danesti were monitoring the woods again, but we weren’t that lucky. We broke from the forest, running as fast as the elements and our bodies allowed.
Thomas grabbed my hand, a lifeline in the storm of terror. Barks and snarls crashed from the brush, the wolves now mere feet behind. I thought my heart might seize up any moment. We were going to be attacked. There was no way we’d outrun them. We were—
A gunshot exploded from the wood line.
Thomas threw me to the ground, sheltering me with his body. I lifted my head over his shoulder, watching as two large wolves retreated into the woods. Every bit of me was frozen, but all I could concentrate on was the thrashing of my adrenaline. Someone had shot at the wolves. Were we next?
Clumps of snow dotted my hair and my clothing. Thomas pushed himself off me, slowly scanning the area. I noticed the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the way he tensed for any further attack. He took my hand and helped me up. “Hurry. I don’t see anyone, but someone’s definitely out there.”
I searched for a shadow or silhouette of the gunman. There was nothing but lingering smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder. This time when I shivered, it had nothing to do with the ice sliding down my spine. We ran toward the yellow light of the kitchens, not looking back until we were safely inside and Thomas had kicked the door shut. I collapsed against a long wooden table, barely missing a few mounds of rising dough.
“Who do you—”
The door banged open and a rather husky figure stomped snow from his boots, musket slung over his back. Thomas and I both grabbed for knives from the counter. The figure moved forward, oblivious to the cutlery now aimed at him. With a swift movement, his hood was tossed back. Radu blinked at us.
“Mr. Cresswell. Miss Wadsworth.” He removed the musket from his shoulder and leaned it against a trestle table. On it sat a bowl of stew, steam still rising from its center, and a hunk of bread torn into a few pieces. “I warned you about the woods. Hmm?” Radu pulled a stool out and sat, tucking into his late-night meal. “Run along back to your chambers. If Moldoveanu discovers you’ve left the castle, you’ll wish the wolves had gotten to you first. Dangerous. Very dangerous what you did. Pricolici everywhere.”
Thomas and I didn’t so much as exchange a glance as we apologized and ran for the door.
Post-mortem kit, c. 1800s.
PERCY’S SURGICAL THEATER
AMFITEATRUL DE CHIRURGIE AL LUI PERCY
BRAN CASTLE
21 DECEMBER 1888
“I will be leading today’s lesson in place of Professor Percy.” Moldoveanu pointed up at the Bianchi twins. “If you’d still like to perform this task, I suggest you come to the operating table.”
Without further prompting, the twins rushed down to the surgical stage and took their places. Even though our academy was seemingly under attack, there was still the matter of the assessment course and those two, tantalizing seats we were all fighting for.
Giovanni did an exceptional job creating a taut surface for his blade to slide across. His twin handed him a forensic breadknife after he’d opened up the body of the slain maid, Mariana. He carefully removed her liver, noting the same discoloration that had been present in Anastasia’s corpse. Giovanni used the long knife to shear off a sample and placed it on a slide. It seemed an awful thing for a medical tool to be called a breadknife when its purpose was to carve into specimens and not baked goods.
Cian had offered to conduct this postmortem, but the twins insisted on doing it. Since they’d discovered the maid’s body, they’d felt a duty to assist her in death. An uneasy feeling was present in the theater with us; it was difficult to study the bloodless bodies. Having Moldoveanu lead this lesson didn’t help the heavy atmosphere. His expression was harder than usual, an added shield he wore since the discovery of his ward’s remains. I had wanted to offer condolences before class, but the threat in his gaze stayed my tongue.
“Excellent technique.” Moldoveanu adjusted his apron. “Like the other cadavers, this one is also missing its blood, as I’m sure you all can see. Why, if you were to hazard a guess, do you believe the murderer is taking the blood?”
Noah’s hand was the first in the air. “Local papers are saying the Impaler Lord has returned. Villagers are panicking. It’s someone who enjoys the fear, I think. Death and murder aren’t the satisfying part. It’s the hysteria surrounding them.”
“Interesting theory. Where do you suppose they’re disposing of the blood once it’s been taken, then?”
Noah’s brow furrowed. “There’s a river close to the village. Maybe they dump it there.”
“Perhaps.” Moldoveanu lifted a shoulder. “Let’s see who’s read ahead in their anatomy texts. How many quarts of blood are in the human body? Anyone?”
“Five… maybe… a little more… depending on the size of the person,” Erik said.
“Correct. Which is around one gallon.” Moldoveanu walked around the body, attention landing on each of us. “That is quite a decent amount of blood to transport through the village. Though not impossible, yes?”
“Could be too risky, though,” Noah added. “Even if it was carried in a wooden bucket, the possibility of it sloshing over the sides would exist. Plus, if anyone
noticed it, the villagers might sound the alert.”
“Indeed. Though a seemingly excellent depository for the blood, the river poses too great a threat to this particular murderer. He strikes me as the sort of person who does not wish to be stopped. He is careful. He has likely been plotting this for quite some time. I believe he has a history of violent acts, beginning in childhood. Though others will claim this to be of no consequence, I find it a useful tool to consider the history of the perpetrator.”
