Verena's Whistle: Varangian Descendants Book I

help you with?” the priest asked in faintly accented English.
“I’m an American teacher; my name is Julian Karas. I’m researching the Montmartre cemetery and if it’s not too difficult for you to discuss, I’d like to hear about the vandalism that occurred there around the time your sister, Simone, was buried.”
“A teacher, how nice. No, it is not too painful to discuss. Simone died many years ago. She was my older sister by a few years, but still, she died young. Car accident.” Père Vianney paused for a moment and appeared to look past Julian, lost in memories. He cleared his throat with a small cough.
“I appreciate any help you can give me.”
The priest settled back in his chair and folded his arms in front of his chest, chin resting on his fists. “Simone wanted to be buried in Montmartre. Of course, she did not expect for it to happen for many years, but she purchased a plot near a poet that she adored. She studied poetry in school and had aspirations, though she never published anything.” He smiled fondly. “I kept a few of my favorites of hers. She had a sweet way of writing.”
He cleared his throat again. “We, my mother and I, buried her in a small ceremony on a Tuesday. Three days later, however, when I went to leave fresh flowers, I saw that her headstone was knocked over and the ground was disturbed. I contacted the city to ask if someone had been digging there, and the city sent an investigator out. She met with me at the grave and we talked about what she observed. She was very old, in fact I remember being surprised she was still a city employee, but she moved like a much younger person and she was quite strong. She was very serious, taking notes and measurements, and then she told me not to come back to the cemetery until she contacted me.
“I think she was warning me away from gang activity, or something like that. I told my mother and we stayed away.
“About a week later, she called on the phone and told me it was safe to return to the cemetery. When I asked her if the police caught the persons responsible, she said only that the threat was gone and wouldn’t return.
“I was very grateful to her. I wanted to thank her in person, but when I asked if I could meet with her, she declined. Still, I persisted and finally, she agreed. We met at a café near the church where I was working at the time, and I could tell she was sick. She looked even older than the first time I saw her. Her hands were trembling and she was very pale. I asked her for details, but she was close-lipped. I thanked her for helping, she thanked me for the coffee, and then her grandson came to take her home.”
“Her grandson?” Julian asked, very interested. Aunt Irene never married, that he knew of. Who was this grandson?
“Yes. I am trying to recall his name. Michael? Thomas?” Père Vianney stopped, lost in thought. “No, I can’t say for sure. It was too long ago. He was very young and handsome and very solicitous of her.”
Julian thanked the priest, shook his hand, and helped him up when he indicated that he wanted to stand. “My goodness, that’s quite a grip,” the priest said to him with a smile. “I will walk you out.”
They walked slowly back down the hallway to the nave and the priest said, “I hope you find everything you need for your research project. Will you be in Paris much longer?”
“A few more days at least,” Julian answered. He was preoccupied. He needed to call Uncle Alex, he decided. He was obviously missing some key information on Irene’s life.
“And where are you staying?”
“I’m in the central business district,” Julian said. “I was thinking about walking back, instead of taking the metro. Do you know how far it is?”
The priest chuckled. “Oh yes, it’s very walkable, especially for a young man like you. And very scenic too. Well, I hope that you enjoy the rest of your stay.”
Julian thanked the priest again and headed into the cold sunshine.
The priest watched him disappear from sight and then walked slowly back inside and down the hall. He stepped into his office, closed the door, and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He found the paper he was looking for and picked up the phone. He dialed a number and then spoke.
“Hello, Matthew? Yes, it’s Père Vianney. Yes, someone has come.”

Chapter 8
We found our first-class cabin on the train with the help of the porter. Inside there were two low bunks with a small table between them and a large window with the curtains drawn for privacy. There were eight other cabins in our sleeper car and two bathrooms at the end of the corridor.
The train left Kursky station right on time and soon we were speeding into the dark Russian countryside. I was excited for the daylight view, but right now all I could see were occasional lights from cars on the parallel highway and the bright glow of distant towns.
We were both too wired to sleep, despite the evening hour. It felt like it should be morning. We were each in our own bunks and I watched Theo pull out his laptop, set it up on the table, and find the train’s Wi-Fi signal.
“Okay,” he said. “Time for a council of war.” I nodded and he started in.
“First of all, what do we know about the kind of besy we might be on our way to find? We’ve heard the stories, but I don’t know about you, a lot of them blur together in my memory. I asked my dad to pin down Uncle Alex and get him to articulate exactly what he remembered: what they look like, what they do, how to kill them, et cetera. He emailed