Where the Old Blood Whispers #7
Armaje, part 1
Chapter Seven: Armaje, part 1
After a lengthy recounting of his overnight vigil in the library—from the subtle flutter of movement at the edge of the table, the folio closing on its own after he had sealed it, then it striking him as if in warning, to his defensive lunge and subsequent redirection to the floor in a soft landing, and the distinct scent of Rosa canina—Leto, Gerhardt, and Eszter, having listened intently, immediately began to pepper him with questions.
“A Study in Scarlet? Brother, it had to be a dream,” Leto began, her tone laced with a skeptical exasperation that clearly suggested Conall's choice of late-night reading material had simply prompted a vivid, unsettling nightmare.
“That wouldn’t explain Alta’s words,” Gerhardt interjected, his voice low but firm, cutting through Leto’s attempt at rationalization. He recalled his sister's chilling whisper from earlier: “‘The Wolf in the Shed’ she called her. And what about ‘she carries the weight of cursed things’?” he added, his gaze turning grave. “I’ll need to rededicate the rune signs and galdrs around the estate immediately.”
They all looked to Eszter, their gazes settling on her, seeking the precise, practical, and grounded insight of their delta wolf who oversaw their daily sustenance. Her head chef’s meticulous eye, trained to notice every missing ingredient and every shifted portion, had been silently at work.
Returning their expectant gaze, Eszter said, her voice steady, "I've noticed food missing in the kitchen. Not just a little, but significant amounts. But here's the thing... it's always replaced. Every single time. At first…," she admitted, a faint line forming between her brows, "I started thinking I was imagining it, or simply misplacing things myself."
After further discussion, and with a mind too weary to continue grappling with the 'hows' and 'whys' of the inexplicable events, Conall excused himself to retreat to his cottage in sheer exhaustion. He slept soundly through the night, a temporary respite from the bibliographic poltergeist.
However, the fragile peace of morning shattered with a renewed wave of bewilderment: the precious books, with a stubborn will of their own, had once again refused to stay put. The next morning brought a fresh, almost mocking iteration of this literary game of hide-and-seek. The mystical Rosarium Philosophorum, the enigmatic Atalanta Fugiens with its intricate alchemical engravings, and the radiant Splendor Solis vanished from their designated shelves, leaving behind only the ghostly outlines of their absence. As if guided by some strange form of literary alchemy, they were discovered, not in the shed this time, but nestled in a seldom-frequented reading area within the library itself. This time, however, they were accompanied by the cryptic Leptogenesis, the profound Bahir, and the celestial secrets of the Hekalot Rabbati, the selection growing increasingly esoteric and unsettling, hinting at a deliberate, if obscure, intelligence behind the movements.
In a direct, if somewhat futile, response to this bizarre phenomenon, a vigil was immediately instituted. Either Leto, her jaw tight with mounting frustration, or Conall, his nerves stretched taut as violin strings, sat as silent sentries in both the hushed grandeur of the library and the atrium that led to the work shed, determined to finally pierce the veil of this bewildering mystery.
Yet, the next three mornings brought the same frustrating and inexplicable reports: they were either overcome by an irresistible, leaden drowsiness, their eyelids heavy despite copious amounts of coffee, and unable to maintain consciousness. Or, more disturbingly, they possessed absolutely no memory whatsoever of how or who might have been silently, surreptitiously moving the precious, irreplaceable books. A creeping sense of violation began to permeate the household, a feeling that their very minds were being tampered with, their most secure sanctuary utterly compromised.
Leto, whose patience seemed to materialize only when technology or a clear solution was involved, immediately suggested contacting the Polizei, envisioning a logical, if intrusive, investigation. But Conall, clinging to a fragile sense of containment, remained convinced that their unseen "enemies"—whatever or whoever they might be—would then gain a decisive and irreversible advantage.
“‘Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall,’” Leto quoted dryly, her skepticism evident. Yet, even she quietly conceded that—'thank Proverbs and providence,’ as she inwardly mused—as long as the irreplaceable items were not actually stolen or damaged, this deeply unsettling situation remained a private, albeit profoundly perplexing, family matter. It was a bizarre secret best kept within their familial walls, a silent agreement born of their shared sense of the uncanny.
Nor was this a matter that could be easily resolved by simply changing the intricate locks or the complex alarm codes. The Wolff-Familienbibliothek was not some dusty archive; it was a state-of-the-art facility, boasting a comprehensive and multi-layered security system that included strategically placed, high-definition surveillance cameras with night vision capabilities and sophisticated motion-activated alarms. It had strictly restricted access with controlled biometric entry points, meticulously maintained chambers ensuring optimal temperature and humidity levels for the delicate materials, detailed archival records, thorough provenance information, and intricate tracking methods for every single item. Leto herself oversaw the advanced digital monitoring and preservation systems and proudly highlighted its esteemed Archive Service Accreditation site designation, a testament to their rigorous standards.
To publicly reveal that rare and priceless books were inexplicably being moved from highly secure areas to a simple, unlocked work shed, with no discernible audio or video evidence to explain the phenomenon, would undoubtedly create widespread chaos, ridicule, and utter disbelief within the rarefied world of libraries, antiquarian scholarship, and the black market for rare books. More gravely, such a discovery would instantly draw the intrusive attention of covert organizations that monitor, track, and catalogue anomalies worldwide. The only external measure they had cautiously and reluctantly agreed upon thus far was to discreetly contract private surveillance—a shadow force to combat their unseen adversary.
“I called Cerberus Security,” Leto announced one tense afternoon, her tone suggesting a pragmatic, if somewhat elegant, solution. “Anorah is in charge, the brains and muscle of the operation. Her brother, Lasho, provides additional brawn, but it's his uncanny sensory detection that truly sets him apart. They lead the pack—distant… distant cousins. They’ll be here the night after tomorrow.” Conall, a weary sigh escaping his lips, readily agreed with his sister’s unconventional wisdom, adding, “Better Romani Werewolf cousins than the prying eyes of human Polizei.”