Chapter 21
Oleg
The old man had milky-blue cataracts over his eyes, yet Oleg remembered when he’d been a young boy, serving the altar on Sunday instead of acting as the church caretaker in his retirement.
He wore a heavy brown coat with bright red trim around the collar that his wife had probably embroidered. The coat was worn and faded, had been patched multiple times, and sat on Dymitri’s shoulders like an old friend.
“Tell me what you remember.” Oleg sat across from the boy who had become an old man under his care. “Father Izaias was praying on Friday afternoon, yes?”
“Yes, as always. I left him at the church a little bit early. I usually wait for him and lock up, but our grandchildren were visiting so…” Dymitri’s voice was reedy and full of sorrow. “I had no idea that anyone—”
“Of course not.” Oleg patted the man’s knee. “Why would you? Why would you, Dima?”
The village on the outskirts of the citadel was a quiet hamlet; it was all that remained of a once-thriving town that had slowly contracted over centuries to be hardly more than a mountain village.
The one building that had remained relatively untouched by time was a beautiful fifteenth-century Orthodox church that was the pride of the community.
“I keep the keys, you know. I keep them safe.” Dymitri patted a small leather purse hanging around his neck.
“Of course you do.”
“But Father Izaias also keeps his own keys, so in the winter when it is cold, he sometimes tells me to go home because of my knees.”
Because of Oleg’s patronage, the church was the communal center of the village and often hosted fairs and activities that the government could not afford.
The Reverend Father Izaias was a priest Oleg had requested on the recommendation from a trusted bishop in Kyiv.
Izaias and his wife had been serving the village for over twenty years and had remained in their position partly because both were fully aware of who and what Oleg was and the role he played in the village, which was unchanging after centuries of patronage.
Oleg squeezed the old man’s hand. “Father Izaias was a younger man, Dima. He was being thoughtful.”
“I know that.” Dymitri blinked his foggy eyes. There were tears in the corner. “But this horrible thing—”
“Likely the evil of a sick mind,” Oleg was quick to reassure him. “If you had been there, Dima, your wife might be alone tonight.”
“As Matushka Katrina is now.” Dymitri’s lower lip trembled, but he firmed his chin and cleared his throat. “Their oldest son is returning to the village tomorrow, Lord Oleg. Their daughter is already home.”
“Good.”
Oleg would make sure the whole of the family was taken care of, but the murder gnawed at his mind. Fire licked under his skin, searching for a target for his anger.
“I can feel you heating up.” Dymitri patted his hand. “Father Izaias would say to forgive. He was the kindest man I have ever known. The best, Lord Oleg, save for yourself.”
“You are too kind, Dymitri. I am nowhere near the man that Father Izaias was.” It was nothing but the truth. Izaias had been a human of tremendous character and charity.
And Oleg was a selfish bastard. He was fine with it, but he didn’t need the adoration of humans. That would be false praise.
Dymitri looked Oleg in the eye. “Father Izaias would not want you to be angry or commit a sin because of his death.”
“Yet there is a righteous anger, Dima.”
The murder of any priest was troubling. The murder of this priest in particular was alarming.
Izaias had far more knowledge of Oleg, the citadel, and his trusted inner circle than nearly anyone else in the village.
It was Izaias who baptized the many children born in the citadel over the years for whom Oleg acted as godfather.
Izaias had buried his most trusted humans in the citadel’s cemetery.
And Izaias had been the priest to marry him and Tatyana in truth.
Oleg did not have time to reminisce. That could come another night when there was not a human roaming the earth with Oleg’s priest’s blood on his hands. “Tell me about the man you remember.”
“I thought he was there for confession. Something about him appeared troubled. But I assumed it was a sickness of the heart, Lord Oleg, not the mind.”
“He was human?” The old man had said it was before dark, but he wanted to be sure.
Dymitri nodded. “Most definitely human. He had a scent about him.” The old man frowned. “Fish. He smelled like fried fish. I thought he had been eating fried fish earlier in the day. I’ve never met one of your kind who eats fried fish, have you?”
“No, that is a good observation.” This was new information. Oleg looked over his shoulder at Mika, who nodded. “Thank you, Dima. That is helpful.” So Ivan had sent a human to interrogate the priest.
But why?
There had been a number of curious things about the crime.
It had happened at dusk, which would indicate vampire attack, but the body of Father Izaias showed clear evidence of torture.
A vampire would have no need to torture a human—they could manipulate their mind, even a mind as strong as Father Izaias’s.
There was blood in the priest’s office at the church, but none had been taken from the body, another indication that the killer was human.
The priest’s body had been found in the snowy woods by hunters. Perhaps the murderer thought it would take days for anyone to find the dead man, but he clearly didn’t understand the people of Oleg’s village.
The residents of this remote town in the Carpathian Mountains were old-fashioned, protective, and suspicious of outsiders.
The moment those hunters saw fresh footprints and drag marks in snow that should have been undisturbed, they had tracked them and found Father Izaias’s body before it was frozen.
Then they had tracked the footprints back to a mountain road where they had disappeared into some vehicle that had left tire tracks.
The hunters even had pictures of the tire tracks for Mika to examine.
The murder might be reported to the human authorities, but Mika and the men of the village would find the perpetrator.
And Oleg would kill him. Personally.
“I already told Mika the description as well as I could see,” Dymitri said.
“And to Petr and Yonas too. He kept his face hidden, but I thought confession, so I did not look too closely, and now I see why he was acting that way.” Dymitri’s shoulders slumped.
“I should not have left the dear father alone.”
“Dima.” Oleg put a hand on his shoulder. “You must not think that way.”
The old man only let out a heavy sigh and looked at the ground.
His sadness angered Oleg on a fundamental level. These were his people, and while he had guards around the village at night to keep watch from immortals, he had not expected this, and he was angry with himself for overlooking the simple human threat.
“Dima, you know how they treated him.”
Dymitri nodded.
“So you know that I will make sure he is punished for this.” Oleg kept his voice soft. “Do you believe me?”
“Of course, Lord Oleg.” Dymitri lifted his chin. “But I don’t think the dear father would have given this man any information.”
Oleg would not be surprised if Father Izaias had indeed withstood torture. The man was one of the most steadfast humans he’d ever encountered. He had become a priest after being a soldier for many years, and there were few humans with more inner resolve.
In fact, if Izaias had been a decade younger and not suffering from arthritis in his knees, there might have been a different victim of this attack. Then again, Oleg did not know if the priest would have attacked another man, even one who was trying to kill him.
As much respect as Oleg had for the human, Father Izaias was not his spiritual shepherd. Oleg had not offered a prayer to any deity since the night he became knyaz of the Kievan Rus.
“Is your wife well?” Oleg asked. “Your family?” He must not forget the living while he avenged the dead. Father Izaias was dead. His soul was at peace. But the peace of the village had been broken, and that was as much a crime in Oleg’s eyes as the priest’s murder.
“She is well, Lord Oleg. All of them are doing very well.”
“I am glad to hear that.”
“Does the lady know?” Dymitri looked up. “My wife was asking about her health, Lord Oleg.”
“Your lady is well and looks forward to visiting the village soon.” Oleg patted Dima’s knee again, then patted his wrinkled cheek. “It may be some time before we have another priest here in the village. Make sure the people are praying, yes? The church is the people, not the building.”
“Yes, Lord Oleg. And we will take care of Matushka Katrina.”
“Thank you, Dima.” Oleg had no doubt that the priest’s wife was crushed by this violent murder, but he also knew that she had as much backbone as her husband. “Make sure she does not feel that she must leave her home. You must let her know that our people are her family as much as her blood.”
“Yes, Lord Oleg.” The task clearly gave Dymitri some purpose in his grief. He lifted his head. “I will make sure I take care of Matushka as if she were my own daughter.”
“Thank you.” Oleg stood. “Mika and I will talk now. When I have news about this crime, I will tell you.”
“He’s striking at the heart of your territory.”
“You speak as if you are sure of who did this. Are we?”
Oleg and Mika were sitting in Oleg’s library at the citadel, a lavish, wood-paneled room that smelled of lemon oil and beeswax.
There were tall gothic windows washed in black and silver by the clear, starry night.
A fire burned on both ends of the room from twin fireplaces.
Over one was a mosaic representing the summer and the winter, deep reds and icy, cold blues dominating an extreme landscape lush with wheat fields and snowy forests.
Over the other mantel was a gentler mosaic representing the spring and the fall, verdant green-budded trees melting into vibrant orange, yellow, and rust.