To say Stoker was not entirely pleased to see us is a slight understatement. In point of fact, he sulked all the way back to the inn where Tiberius and I had taken rooms. The innkeeper was not enthused about his presence in his establishment, and the maid—who once more flung her apron over her head and fled with a shriek—would only be coerced to serve us supper on the condition that she leave the tray at the door of the little parlour that had been put aside for our use.
Stoker had repaired to Tiberius’ room to wash the worst of the grime from his person, but when he joined us, I could not detect much of a difference. The beautiful, masculine line of his jaw was completely obscured by a set of thick black whiskers that stretched from Adam’s apple to cheekbone, concealing the slender silver scar which usually lent such character to his face. The eye patch he wore when his left eye was overtired was in evidence, grimy and tattered, and his clothing was unspeakable. Even his hands, normally stained with ink and glue and various chemicals, were unusually filthy. His hair, always brushing the bottom of his collar, had been left untrimmed and had taken on a personality of its own, the waves giving way to a tumble of witch-black elflocks that snarled over his shoulders.
I thought him the most glorious being I had ever seen, but Tiberius, refreshed after our long excursion by the better part of a bottle of excellent claret, regarded him with the offended fastidiousness of a very superior cat.
“My god, what are you wearing?” he asked, pointing in horror at the matted atrocity which passed for Stoker’s outer garment. It was a collection of hides and pelts, stitched together in a monstrous patchwork that might have done credit to Mary Shelley’s most fiendish imaginings. The various hairs and furs were tangled with burrs and leaves, and small twigs dropped every time he moved.
“It is a garment of my own design,” he explained. “It is a variation on a traditional ghillie suit. It affords me perfect camouflage in the forest.”
“I think I saw something moving within it,” Tiberius told him.
“It does have a tendency to attract fleas,” Stoker admitted. Tiberius shied like a startled pony, drawing his immaculately tailored legs as far away from his brother as he could. Stoker shrugged off the offending garment, leaving it in a heap in the corner. I could not be entirely certain, but I thought I saw a mouse scurry out from its folds as it fell.
I folded my hands in my lap and adopted an air of perfect composure. I had anticipated this moment for the past six months, but now that the time was upon us, I found myself a trifle unquiet, first adjusting my sleeves, then smoothing my hair.
“Good god, Veronica,” Tiberius said as he came to sit. “You are as twitchy as a Roman street cat. Have some beer and settle your nerves.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean,” I told him with a repressive look.
Stoker took his seat at the table and I smiled calmly at him. “I hope you have been enjoying yourself,” I said as I passed a plate of savoury sausages and buttered black bread. He fell upon the food and consumed several large bites before favouring me with a reply.
“I have,” he said.
“And I presume there is a good reason for your roaming about theforests, frightening the locals?” I asked pleasantly. I was determined to be polite, no matter what the cost. I have already explained that I was in no way at all vexed with the complete and total lack of communication from him for the past half a year. Not in theslightest.
But I was perhaps a bit put out at the almost indifferent greeting he had offered when we found him. His first words were, “What in the name of the oozing wounds of Christ are the two of you doing here?” It was not precisely the romantic reunion of one’s heated imaginings, I reflected as I stalked back to the inn. During the interminable train ride north, I had distracted myself by pondering exactly what form our meeting should take. My imagination provided a number of scenes of infinite variety, none of which included Stoker looking and smelling like something twelve days past death and with all the aloofness of one of the lesser pharaohs.
If he was not thoroughly pleased to see us, then I would kill him with kindness, I decided, as I considered his less-than-enthusiastic welcome. Murdering him seemed a very good plan indeed.
Stoker did not return my smile. He sat back and folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. “I am on the hunt for a wolpertinger.”
In an instant, my good intentions were cast aside. I suppressed a snort of laughter, but Tiberius regarded him with polite curiosity. “What is a wolpertinger?”
“A mythological invention of German fantasy,” I replied.
“We don’t yet know that,” Stoker riposted, clearly annoyed.
“We most certainly do. It is a singularly ludicrous creature,” I explained to Tiberius, “with the body of a hare, the wings of a hawk, and a tiny set of antlers. Like a miniature deer.”
“You forgot the fangs,” Stoker said coldly.
“I do apologise.” I turned to Tiberius and held my forefingers up to my canine teeth in demonstration. “It has fangs. Like a wolf.”
“Where the devil do they come from?” Tiberius asked.
“Allegedly from the union of a deer and a hare,” Stoker explained. “Unlikely, I grant you—”
“Unlikely! Impossible,” I began.
Just then, something hard struck my ankle under the table and I realised Tiberius had kicked me. I stared at him in astonishment, but his face wore its usual impassive expression. He was, as ever, seemingly unruffled. But as I looked at the indolent features, I detected the wariness in the eyes, a new tightness about the lips. If I did not know better, I would say that Tiberius wasnervous.
Then I remembered his heartfelt admission the morning he asked me to help him find Stoker.I need him.However much I had tried, I had not been able to pry further information from Tiberius on our journey to Germany. He would say only that he required Stoker’s assistance and would explain everything when we saw him. Now the moment was to hand, he hesitated. Whatever he wanted from Stoker, he feared being refused.
I drew in a breath and blew it out slowly as I counted silently to ten in Farsi.
“Stoker,” I said at last when I had reached dah, “Tiberius and I were travelling in Italy when he said he had to see you. Urgently. We have come a great distance and gone to inordinate lengths to find you. I know that he may rely upon your stalwartness in his hour of need.”
I thought it a pretty little speech, but Stoker merely snorted. “Hour of need? What is the trouble with him?” He turned to his brother. “Is your newest waistcoat not tailored to your specifications? Your box at the opera given away? One of the servants brew your tea for five minutes instead of four?”
