Dimitrescu's Daughter (Completed)

Chapter One: Never Trust a Lone Nun

I thought a student trip to Romania would be fun. A research project into culture and the birthplace of so many monsters would be interesting. Monsters we can kill that haven't haunted the world over. Good, old fashioned monsters.

The locals directed us to a village. It's a little remote. There's hardly any electricity. All the clothes look hand spun and it's as though I've stepped back in history and become a time traveler among my peers.

People speak in whispers and avoid us. Those who approach us beg and threaten us to leave. But we endure.

Over a span of three weeks we watch people live and die, come and go like flies. What happens to the bodies after they die is a mystery, we're not privy to their burial rituals and they seem to be carried out very shortly after death and long before dark.

Then, Louis goes missing.

No one bothers to help us look and several women pull me aside.

"You have books, you can see sense. Leave here. Do not look for your friend, he is gone," They beg me. They cling to my arm, "Go, save yourself."

"I can't leave without something to show for it. Please, I need something. Just something to write down then I'll leave," I tell them, "What can you tell me about the castles in the area? Who lives in them?"

"I can tell you."

A weathered old nun whose eyes are so milky I'm shocked she can see holds out an arthritis gnarled hand. Her nails are long and stained but I give her my hand. She pulls me in with surprising strength and wraps her feeble arms through the bend in my elbow.

"Walk."

I do.

"The houses are of the four lords. Moreau, Beneviento, Heisenberg, and Dimitrescu," The nun rumbles grimly as we shuffle. I'm half bent over to her height which is odd since I'm already short.

Digging into my satchel I grab a book and a pencil, "How do you spell those?"

As we walk the nun tells me everything I've been hoping for. The unwieldy powers of lord Heisenberg who lives among werewolves. Haunted dolls have killed many a person in house Benevito but never hurt a child. We've moved on to house Moreau when finally I realize we're deep into the forest after dark and it's bitterly cold.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

Her hands slither out of my arm and her chuckle isn't that of the old nun I've been walking with. Slowly I turn, frozen to the spot in dread and unable to move my frostbitten legs.

Instead of the nun there is a woman in a mask draped with many black raven wings. Her robes are magnificent and new and covered in terrifying symbols of what I can only assume is black magic. She must be a witch.

"So hungry for knowledge and so full of pain. I see much of myself in you girl."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I mumble, finally willing my feet to move.

Somehow I know that running would be useless and fighting will only get me turned into a frog, if not something worse. So perhaps confidence is my only remaining weapon. In that case, I'm doomed.

"You didn't tell me about house Dimitrescu. The lady, that's you isn't it?" I say as calmly as I can. My voice still wavers slightly.

She chuckles a dark sound, "No. But you are intuitive, that is where you are going, assuming you don't do something foolish."

Mustering everything I can mistake for courage in my body I take off my satchel and throw it at her feet. Her smile falters.

"I won't tell anyone anything. We found nothing. I'll take my friends and leave. Keep your secrets."

This time she laughs. It echoes through the trees and bombards me from multiple sides. Ravens swoop at my head and I shield my face with my arms, knocked down to my knees in the snow. She has my notebooks in hand now and I scramble back up.

"Your friends are dead. They got too close to house Heisenberg in their search for the missing one. I took you, and only you, so you wouldn't die with them. You may yet be useful to me."

My feet shift under me. Between the snow, ice, and numbness balancing is difficult. Apparently this is misconstrued as a change of heart about an escape attempt.

"I wouldn't suggest running girl, there are monsters in this forest and not all of them possess mercy like I do."

"Who are you?"

"You may call me Mother Miranda."

I've heard the name whispered around the village but only in the most terrified and hushed of tones. Now I can understand why. Despite not witnessing any enormous displays of magic standing near her instills a primal sense of fear and gripping dread.

"I'm-"

"I know your name girl and it doesn't really matter anyway. Come inside, we have work to do," Mother Miranda says, taking one of my notebooks and walking into a little cobblestone cottage with a molding thatched roof. How I missed it before I'm not sure but now isn't the time for questions.

At this point a hero dies. A hero runs into the woods like a courageous fool and fights whatever hideous monster is lurking but dies a tragic death.

But I'm not a hero. I'm a scholar and a storyteller and a bit of a coward. Not to mention the numbness is preceded by a bone deep ache that would make me sob in pain if I wasn't terrified.

"And pick up the books before the snow ruins them."

I gather up what scattered in the snow and hobble into the house after mother Miranda, feeling very much that through my fear I've chosen a fate worse than death.