-Chapter Two-

The Last Stop

The ancient town of Wadim was situated in one of the most sparsely populated regions of Romania. It was surrounded by thick forests, and the lack of electricity made the nights extremely dark. There were few, if any roads, most of them nothing but empty ditches. The town itself was nothing but a handful of crooked, ill-kept houses. The center of the town comprised of a small square with a delapidated water well in the middle, which was still the only source of water for the townspeople. Throughout the town stood ghostly straw puppets, which looked like unearthly creatures stalking the street in the moonlight. The spindly tower of a crumbling church casted it's tall shadow like blade cutting the town in half.

On the northern edge of the town, roughly two miles from the train station, stood a small inn, which was known to many as the Last Stop. How exactly this name had come about, no one is completely sure. The older residents of Wadim had occasionally recounted the stories their ancestors had told them when they were young. They spoke about the inn being the last stop of various hunters who went into the adjacent forest, never to return again. The forest itself, a dense maze of dark trees was the most concrete form of a border that seperated the region of Wadim with the Romanian province of Transsylvania. To go inside the forest, thus spoke the peasants, was much the same as cutting your own throat.

Gilderoy Lockhart wrinkled his nose, and looked around him once more, his eyes gliding past the grimy tables, dirty floors and rarely-washed locals.

"Well." he said. "And I thought the Leaky Cauldron was a bit shabby." He hoisted his lilac robe up a bit, so it wouldn't touch the floor.

Pilibos ignored his remark, and spoke curtly.

"Over there, in the corner. Our contact."

In what probably had to be the most ill-lit corner of the inn stood a single table, lit by a handful of grubby candles stuffed into a former jam jar. Behind sat a figure hidden mostly by the shadows, but a prominent grin full of rotting, yellowish teeth was clearly visible. Pilibos trudged up to the table, and set himself down without greeting. He gestured bluntly to Lockhart to follow his example.

"You're late." Spoke the stranger in a rasping voice. Both Pilibos and Lockhart noted that his accent pointed out he was not from around. Lockhart replied immediately, in a clear, delicate voice.

"Terribly sorry, I'm afraid I am to blame for that. Trains, you know. What is one to do about it?"

"Train?" rasped the stranger, slightly menacing. "You are supposed to be a wizard. Why not just pop in sight?"

Lockhart made a noise starting to reply, but Pilibos interjected swiftly.

"That is a foolish question. You yourself claimed that there were diseased wizards here. If we came here by magical means, they would know about it." Pilibos narrowed his eyes.

"That is, if it is true what you say."

The stranger chuckled, a horrible, wheezy sound, and leaned forward. His features now came into view properly, and Lockhart winced slightly, while Pilibos remained unfazed. The man had a remarkably ugly face, which was decorated with deep scars across his nose. Now that he leaned closer, his foul stench became prominent. Coughing as if to excuse himself, Lockhart started rummaging through his pockets. The stranger's raspy voice cut through the air again.

"You doubt my information? You doubt the word of Gavril?"

Pilibos voice remained calm, yet had a slightly angry hue to it.

"I doubt your word as much as I doubt your name is Gavril."

Gavril's devious grin seemed to falter slightly, but quickly restored itself.

"'tis a place to watch your step. I think it wise to hide myself."

Lockhart stopped rummaging and produced a lace handkerchief, which he held to his mouth and nose.

"Terribly sorry, what did I miss?"

"Nothing essential." Said Pilibos in a voice that displayed his contempt for both men. "Just the fact that our contact appears to be hiding truths fom us."

Lockhart frowned.

"Really? Well, good sir, why in Merlin's name would you do such a thing? I take it you don't recognize me?"

"No." said Gavril, bluntly.

"Gilderoy Lockhart," he said proudly, pointing at his chest. "Member of the Dark Force Defence League and two-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award. Coincidentally, author of bestsellers Travels with Trolls, Year with a Yeti, and most probably the forthcoming Voyages with Vampires. I mean of course," he quickly added, "that it will probably be a bestseller, not that I'm probably the author. I can assure you I am."

Gavril stared at him blankly.

"So you see," Lockhart continued, relentless and oblivious to Pilibos' annoyance, "there really is no point in hiding things from me. Because I'll KNOW."

He punctuated this last sentence with a dramatic stare and a pointing finger.

"And in the unlikely case that I won't, mister Fliskythrow will."

"PILIBOS."

The man calling himself Gavril sniggered.

"Mister Fliskythrow needs no introduction, of course. The feared hunter of dark wizards and witches, and deserter of the New Order to boot."

Pilibos snarled, and things went quiet for a moment. Lockhart busied himself with his handkerchief, having obviously not heard Gavril's remark. A few bar patrons looked up. Now Armavis leaned closer to face Gavril.

"You will hold your tongue now, and tell me what you know, and refrain from alarming these Epemenoi."

Gavril frowned slightly.

"Epe-what?"

"Yet another indication, apart from your accent and poorly-chosen alias, that you are not Romanian. You Westerners..." he paused to look at both Lockhart and Gavril.

"You Westerners' spells and incantations are predominantly of Latin origin, because the Romans have had a sizeable influence on your lands. We, in the east, have learned far more from the ancient Greek, who were the mothers of our tongues. As such, our spells and terms different."

"As I suspected." said Lockhart proudly.

"Epemenoi are what you call Muggles."

"Right you are." Lockhart interrupted again. Pilibos shot him an angry glare, and then turned back to Gavril.

"What have you to tell us?"

Gavril eased back into his rickety chair, and started to whisper, for he had noticed several of the bar patrons were now casting glances in their direction.

"Three months ago, someone died here. Old lumberjack, torn to shreds. At first, people blamed reg'lar wolves."

Lockhart nodded wisely. Gavril continued in his low rasp.

"The following month, eight people died the same way, on the same evening. By then, people started talking about beasts from the woods. Same thing 'appened last month, only more victims, now people started putting up these guardian straw puppets, meant to protect them."

Gavril paused to chuckle hoarsely. Pilibos stroked his beared, and spoke softly.

"Multiplying victims, once a month. It leaves little room for other possibilities, does it not?"

Lockhart nodded sagely. "Definitely vampires." He cast a grave look out of the grimy windows. "Thank the heavens I know how to handle them". Pilibos did not even bother to correct him, but looked out of the window too, to notice, to his relief, that the Moon was not completely full tonight. It did look like it would take very few nights for it to regain it's monthly completion. He cleared his throat, and spoke.

"So what we are essentially facing here is one Werewolf?"

Gavril grinned unpleasantly and said "Probably not. The villagers claim all the murders took place at about the same time. I reckon at least three Werewolves."

An elated grin was still spread across his ugly facial features, and it almost seemed as though he relished the idea. Pilibos' insides contorted when he realized what this meant.

"He's spreading the disease."

"Like wildfire." Replied Gavril, the worrying grin still present on his face. "And no way of curing them."

"Not for a while, at least." mused Pilibos.

"What did you say?" replied Gavril sharply.

Armavis gave him a long, cold stare after this sudden outburst, and the slightest twinge of nervousness was noticeable in the strange man. Then, he continued.

"Since a few months, I have been in regular correspondence with Damocles Belby, reknowned British potioneer. He has been working on a potion that lessens the symptoms of Lycanthropy, and so far, the results have been...encouraging."

"That's right!" interjected Lockhart in an enthusiastic tone. "In fact, I suggested the key ingredients of the potion, he couldn't possibly have managed without me!" He obviously anticipated testing questions, as he quickly added "Those ingredients are, naturally, top secret."

"Naturally." Sighed Pilibos. "Then forgive me for spilling the proverbial beans. The key ingredient is Wolfsbane."

Pilibos noticed that Gavril was no longer grinning, and was now listening to every word he spoke.

"As is common knowledge, Wolfsbane has a naturally repelling effect on a transformed Werewolf. That is the reason that I chose to participate in this mission is because of the single fact that area around Wadim is abundant with Wolfsbane. It is therefore highly peculiar that a Werewolf should operate here on such a regular basis."

"That's just what I thought." agreed Lockhart.

"Mister Lockhart here wrote to me asking about my previous assignments. When I mentioned this case he expressed a desire to participate. And that leaves you, mister Gavril."

Pilibos eyed him suspiciously. "Are you a hunter, Gavril?" he asked, suddendly.

For a split second, the ugly man seemed to hesitate, but regained his devious grin in a fraction of a moment. "Yes, I'd reckon I am."