In the dimly lit apartment above the man’s store, the clock ticked away the late hour. Viktor nodded to one of the privates under his authority. The grocer was almost finished tying his boots, his wife and son glaring wide eyed in their bathrobes by the door.
“Come on,” The private prodded the man with the barrel of his gun, “Get on your feet.”
The grocer sat up slowly and stared evenly at the young man, “May I say goodbye to my family?”
“No,” Viktor snapped, clipping his head towards the door, “You will see them in the morning.”
The two privates dragged the middle aged man to his feet and hustled him to the stairs leading down into the shop. Viktor was the last to leave. He nodded to the sniffling woman, her blonde braid tinged white with age.
His gaze lingered on the boy. He couldn’t be more than ten with the same shade hair as his mother but his eyes were deep, smoky grey. The same color as Edgar’s, as the Roux girl. Viktor cringed, wondering what it was with that part of the country with their damn grey eyes. He thudded down the stairs after his men and into the damp night.
After they delivered the man to the town hall for questioning, Viktor strode through the empty square. He upturned the collar on his trench coat, his boots clicking against the cobblestones. As he smoked a cigarette, his mind spun with the events of the last twenty four hours.
When he had helped clear the debris at the train tracks, he had found Peter’s body in the woods. There had been no fatal burns on Peter but he had dragged his shattered body through the dirt till he had died alone under an ash tree. Viktor had taken the letter Peter had written Greta and the picture of the man’s beloved wife from the dead man's wallet. The items seethed in his coat pocket.
With an agitated hand, he combed his fingers through his clean hair and shoved away the thought of Georgiana. He lit another cigarette and focused on the look of loss frozen on Maier’s grey face where he lay dead in a pile of leaves. He willed the anger in his heart from a simmer to a boil. So lost in his thoughts, Viktor almost didn’t notice his superior officer calling his name.
“Domnin!” Gruber called, trotting a few steps down from the sidewalk in front of the pub, “Domnin, where are you off to?”
He clapped a hand on Viktor’s shoulder, his gaze bleary and breath stale with beer. A few local girls he had been chatting with tittered to themselves at the door, leaving lipstick stains on their Berchten cigarettes.
“Back to my quarters, sir. We rounded up the men intelligence reported.”
“Good, very good,” Gruber replied, eyeing him with concern, “You look like you need a drink.”
“I’m tired, sir.”
Gruber clenched his jaw and shook his head, “I’m sorry to hear about Sergeant Maier. He was a good man. Come, let’s go drink to his memory.”
It was an activity he had done too many times. Viktor was now the only one left to drink to the dead men with whom he had trained. The thought was almost too much to bear, “I’ll have to another time-“
“You’ll never guess who’s waitressing in there,” Gruber scoffed, shaking his dark head, “That Roux woman. Live under the same roof as her and she doesn’t have the decency to tell me she’ll be working at this hole.”
Viktor’s posture stiffened, his eyes drifting coolly to his feet. As they had stood in the sunlit farmyard, Georgiana washing his hair by the chicken coop, he had almost forgotten it all. Where he was, the war rotting around them, left it all behind to be there only in that moment.
He had almost forgotten his suspicions about her that were growing by the day. The thought that she could have had something to do with Maier’s death disturbed him. It didn’t elicit anger towards her but frantic panic.
“Come! Have a drink. I have an extra girl if you want the company," Gruber grabbed his upper arm and smirked over his shoulder.
Viktor didn’t want company. He just wanted his bed. But something drew him towards the door of the Black Gytrash. Viktor tried not to think it had anything to do with Georgiana Roux but it was becoming more difficult to deny it.
They entered the small establishment, the walls shining black and air swirling with electric light from overhead. There was raucous laughter and clinking pints, the hearth at the far end of the room banishing any chill. At the wide bar, Georgiana was filling three steins with beer. Golden wisps of hair escaped the single braid draped over her shoulder. Her cheeks were pink from the warmth of the room and mouth tight with concentration.
He watched her, holding his cap in his hands as she delivered the drinks to a table of Berchten officers. The resentful twitch at the corner of her mouth registered as a smile. It was the same one she used to give him. She straightened her posture, wiping her palms on her apron then met his eyes. Her face blanched, lips loosening as she blinked at him.
“Domnin!” Gruber crowed from a table by the single window in the corner.
Georgiana jumped as though she had been pinched. Snatching a glare in Gruber’s direction, she bustled over to the bar. Viktor pursed his lips, relaxing his stance before striding to Gruber’s table.
Viktor nodded to the Regenian girl sitting next to him. Gruber had his arm around the shoulders of the buxom one at his side. He finished off his mug and lifted it towards Viktor.
"You want one?” Before he could reply, Gruber motioned towards the bartender, “Four more!”
The bartender shrugged before filling up the mugs. Viktor turned to the table. He sensed in his peripheral that Georgiana was piling the cups on her tray. Even as he had his arm around the village girl, Gruber was studying Georgiana. Viktor kept his eyes ahead as she wordlessly slapped the mugs on the table.
“Now is that any way to greet a friend?” Gruber winked at her, picking up his pint, “Don’t you want a tip? I can’t imagine your pay is very substantial at an establishment like this.”
“We aren’t friends, Lieutenant,” she replied curtly, skirting away without another word.
Gruber scoffed, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. He whispered something into the girl’s ear that caused her to giggle. Viktor numbly reached out for his mug and lifted it, silently acknowledging his friend Peter. Tipping back his head, he steadily finished it off in two long draws. The fizz tickled the back of his throat as the alcohol warmed his limbs. The girl next to him reached out and laid a hand on his arm but Viktor pushed her away.
“I need another,” he grumbled, rising and navigating the growing crowd.
He sidled up to the bar, the graying man behind it eyeing him as he wiped out a stein, “What’ll it be?”
“Another pint,” Viktor managed past a quiet belch, putting down a couple coins.
The bartender did his job. Viktor sat on one of the stools and gripped the handle of the mug. Digging into his trench coat, he retrieved the worn envelope and photo. He flipped the picture face down so he didn’t have to look into Greta Maier’s smiling face.
Taking a swig from the cup, he tapped the corner of the letter on the bar. It was the last one he would have to send. Viktor chuckled ruefully to himself, running a hand over his face. Other than Gruber but he doubted the man would exhibit anything but self preservation in combat.
“What is so funny?”
He glanced up to see Georgiana behind the bar. She wasn’t looking at him as she set down the empty cups from her tray. He lifted the letter, catching her attention, “I have a chore for you.”
Her brow furrowed, “A chore?”
He set down the letter and pushed it towards her, “Please deliver this to the post office for me.”
She didn’t reach for it. Her stormy gaze slammed into him like a shot of liquor. Viktor broke eye contact
A school friend of his in the Air Force had once told him about when their plane had taken a hit, a hole punched into the hull that sucked out the gunner. The pull was so strong, the man was certain he was going to be dragged out into the empty sky.
When Viktor looked at Georgiana, he felt like he was being pulled into nothingness. Everything he was, all he had done- everything muted.
“You know,” he began, his shell opening with his blood humming with alcohol, “My father didn’t fight in the first war. Weak heart. I was ashamed of that when I was a boy. Imagine that. Being ashamed of an honest clockmaker who had never spilled blood in his life. I would have joined up whether war started or not. What was your father?”
She bit her lower lip, the corner of her mouth drawing up, “Not honest. He wasted most of my inheritance on gambling and drink. We have only the house left to us now.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Viktor finished his pint, “I wanted to hear you speak for yourself,” he pushed the letter and photo towards her, “Remember these.”
Rising from his seat, he left Georgiana standing behind the bar of the Black Gytrash. As he walked out into the courtyard, he swore for a moment in his hazy sight that he spied the form of a massive dog trot down an alley.
He blinked away his thoughts, trying to quell the fear in his heart that what he saw was a wolf. A Gytrash bringing omens of ill will to him and his people. He couldn’t blame it.
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