One. Two. Three.
Twelve. A dozen offerings laid at our feet.
The morning sun climbs higher, indifferent. Elena’s hand tightens around mine, and I realize I am trembling. I press my lips together and taste iron.
The men rise now, faces flushed, hands shaking. They are no longer looking at the sheep. They are looking at each other.
"Someone let it in," a woman mutters.
"Someone called it."
Eyes begin to shift. From carcass to neighbor. From neighbor to stranger.
That frightens me more than the bodies do.
Chapter Ten
We kneel until my knees no longer feel like part of me.
The cold floor has long since stolen their warmth. At first it bit through wool and skin, hard enough to keep me alert. Now it is only a dull presence, a steady pressure that spreads upward into my thighs, into my spine. My head feels light, hollowed out by repetition.
"Doamne, paze?te-ne casa… Paze?te-ne de rau… ?ine-ne în lumina…"[24]
The words rise and fall in waves, mechanical and endless. I try to keep pace, but my throat burns. It is faint now, but I feel it still. A pulse beneath the skin. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and keep my hands folded in my lap. I will not touch it here. Not beneath the painted eyes of saints and martyrs. Not where every movement is noticed.
The heavy doors at the back of the church creak open. Every head lifts, like birds startled from a field. The prayer falters mid-word, hope flashing across tired faces before it fades instantly.
Another man returning empty-handed. Another shake of the head. Another murmur spreading through the crowd like wind disturbing tall grass.
"They saw tracks near the eastern ridge."
"Too large for a wolf."
"It is no animal."
The word moves quickly, slipping beneath Popa Vasile’s voice as he calls us back to prayer.
"Faith," he insists, his tone firm but strained. "Faith will fortify this village. Fear is the devil’s doorway."
We bow our heads again.
But the words have changed now. They slip between the prayers like thorns.
"Strigoi," someone whispers behind me.
"Curse," another breath answers.
"Punishment."
Mama’s fingers are locked so tightly together that the colour has drained from her hand. Her lips move constantly. She does not pause between prayers anymore; she folds one into the next, as though silence itself might invite something inside.
Elena kneels on my other side, spine straight despite the hours. She looks almost luminous in the candlelight, her eyes fixed forward, unwavering. When the doors open again, she glances up with the rest of us, hope flaring and dying in the same breath as the doors close once more.
No wolf.
Children begin to fidget. A baby starts to cry and is quickly hushed, pressed tight against its mother’s chest as though even the sound of it might draw something nearer.
Popa Vasile steps forward from the altar. His robes brush the floor with a soft hiss.
