The train slowed considerably. My balance shifted, and a china cup on the foldout table near the berths clinked madly. Brakes squealed as we rolled up to a small, rural train platform. I couldn’t read the Cyrillic script on the Bulgarian sign, but a few English words appeared:
RUSE BORDER CHECKPOINT
That was our cue to disappear. It was now or never.
High on adrenaline, I slung the strap of my camera case around my neck as Huck slipped into his long charcoal-colored coat. He hoisted his rucksack’s straps over his shoulders to carry it on his back as a whistle blew, alerting the staff to open the doors. “We need to go, banshee. Try not to look guilty or conspicuous.”
Holy night, we were actually abandoning the train!
How terrifying. And exciting.
With my satchel in hand and my coat on my arm, I stepped into the corridor with Huck. We headed left, down the windowed corridor, past open compartments and passengers gathering their passports, skirting around attendants hauling luggage.
I took one last look behind us while the conductor unlatched the outer door. No sign of Mr. Sarkany or his white dog.
Yet as we descended the steps to the platform, I couldn’t help but think about the extraordinary effort this man had taken to follow Huck all the way across Turkey—and now into continental Europe. Surely not for a ring with mere historical value. Why not just contact my father and offer a larger sum of money or try to strike some sort of bargain? Father was well known in Europe. The medieval collector’s market was small and elite. Auction houses, estate agents, collectors, art appraisers... most of them knew my father’s name and reputation. So why the goons, threats, and stalking?
This convinced me that the ring was more than a piece of history—that myBatterman’s Field Guidewas right and Vlad’s war ring was truly bewitched or cursed. An actual, real-live magic ring! Could that be possible? I believed it could, and a little thrill went through me just thinking about it.
A little worry too...
Father was in more danger than I’d originally assumed.
We needed to catch up to him, and fast.
7
NO ONE WAS ATTENDING THEcustoms window on the sleepy train platform. Two Bulgarian guards were smoking cigarettes and the customs worker was chatting with our engineer. Beyond the platform, a docked steamboat was visible through a break in the trees, waiting to ferry passengers across the Danube. We headed in the opposite direction.
It was simple enough to slip around a small outbuilding, which provided temporary cover while we picked our way over two additional sets of train tracks. However, to stay out of sight we were forced to skirt a small ravine. This seemed doable at first, considering that I was in a delirious state fueled by exhilaration, fear, and adrenaline. Half an hour later I realized several disappointing things: (a) the “small” ravine was several miles long; (b) the small Bulgarian town of Ruse was in the other direction; (c) there was nothing but damp woodland beyond the tracks; (d) the Danube was nowhere to be seen.
Oh, and to add insult to injury, my Mary Janes were positively ruined. I briefly considered digging a pair of boots out of my satchel, but there was no sense in muddying them, too.
“Um, Huck?”
A grunt was his reply.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked.
“Away from the train.”
Right. Excellent. “And do you happen to know where we are now?”
“I do not.”
“All right, yes. I see.”
“We should keep walking,” he said. “We’ll find something soon.”
From one to ten, I’d rate my confidence in that happening a weak four. Possibly a three.
All I could tell about our current location was that we were most definitely in the Bulgarian countryside, which was all flat fields and jagged telephone lines. I wondered if this was some of the land that everyone’s favorite impaler, Vlad, ruined during his Burn It All Down defensive military march. Certainlyseemedlike a good place for a haunting, which temporarily lifted my spirits and gave me something to focus on while we trekked.
Alas, I saw nothing that even hinted of the paranormal. There was, however, quite a bit of mud and more than a little dying, overgrown grass. It would be a laughable stretch to label this area picturesque—more like woeful—and it became downright depressing when we finally reached a road of sorts, a lane for horses. It wasn’t long before we spotted two mares pulling a farmer’s cart.
Huck suggested we wave the farmer down to ask for a ride.
“In the back of a wooden cart hauling manure?” I said, covering my mouth and nose.
