Verena's Whistle: Varangian Descendants Book I

before answering. When he did, he sounded sad. “Well, I’m not entirely surprised. We lost touch with her for long periods of time here and there. She was in Europe during the first and second world wars, chasing rumors of besy back and forth across borders, avoiding troop movements. She was paranoid that our secrets would be discovered and then exploited. Our papers were forged, you know. The rest of us hunkered down, bought land, kept our noses clean... She couldn’t bear the idleness.
“Then, after the wars, that paranoia only grew, I’m afraid. She wouldn’t let us meet her anywhere. She sent occasional letters, but she didn’t like us to all gather in the same place.
“When news came of her death, I remember being shocked. I don’t think I’d heard from her for five years or so at that point. She was 99 when she died, but still soldiering, still tracking and fighting monsters.”
Alex stopped with a sigh. “If there is a family, I hope you find them. I wish I had known. Perhaps I should have pushed harder…” his voice faded.
Julian talked to Uncle Alex for a few more minutes and then let him go eat his breakfast. It sounded like Very and Theo were uncovering some troubling information and Julian knew he needed to get to them soon. He ended the call by telling Alex he would go and visit Aunt Irene’s memorial and see if he could discover any information on her family. When she died, Irene had been a respected city employee. Per her last request, she’d been cremated, but there was a memorial at the Montparnasse cemetery.
AN hour later, Julian read the inscription on the memorial at Montparnasse. “Irene Belisarius. 1861-1960. Beloved Mother and Grandmother. Returned to the stars from whence she came.”
Julian read the epitaph again. It was obvious that whoever had commissioned it knew of Irene’s origins. The stars reference was too on point otherwise. He turned and headed back to the cemetery entrance. There, he called the phone number listed on the maintenance sign and after a few disjointed inquiries, was connected to the caretaker.
After he introduced himself, Julian asked about finding records and was directed to the city offices. When he spoke to the person who answered that line, he was told that, unfortunately, the records of cemetery memorials from 1960 to 1965 had been lost in a fire in the 1980s.
When he ended the call, Julian let out a groan. It felt like the universe was trying to prevent him from uncovering any information on Irene’s family.
Stymied, he returned to his hotel and resolved to hit the gym and think. The weight machines in public gyms were never up to his strength level, so he decided to use the treadmill and then do push-ups later in his room. As the miles ticked by, he tried to determine what to do next. It seemed like his only lead was still Père Vianney. He would head back to the church this afternoon and talk to the priest some more.
An hour later, push-ups complete, Julian stepped out of the shower and dressed for another cold jaunt through the city. His long hair was still wet so he knotted it up and out of the way. Despite his students’ teasing, he would never call it a man bun. He moved to the door and then stopped abruptly, hesitating. Someone knocked. He peered through the peephole and saw a man with dark hair. The man held up a bound book. It looked like a journal. Julian opened the door.
The stranger stood in the hall, a duffel bag over his shoulder, and waited for Julian to invite him in. He was tall, just a little shorter than Julian, and had warm tan skin and a thick mass of dark brown, almost black, hair that curled in all directions. His eyes were dark brown as well, and he looked suspiciously at Julian.
Julian returned the look and then invited the man into the room with a gesture. He stepped in confidently, dressed similarly to Julian in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, with his coat unzipped. He held out the journal to Julian and asked quietly, “Is this what you’re here for?”
Julian flipped open the journal and recognized the handwriting as Aunt Irene’s. He closed the book and said, “Yes.”
“Great,” the stranger responded. His face relaxed into a smile and he held out his hand, “Which one of them do you belong to? Alex, Roman, Agatha, or Joanna?”
“Roman,” Julian answered automatically and then flinched. “I mean, who are you?”
“My name is Owen Belisarius. Irene was my adoptive great grandmother.” He gestured to the couch. “May I sit?”
At Julian’s wave Owen sat and then continued his story. “My father, Matthew, met Père Vianney in 1960 and made an impression. The good father has been watching for 50 years on Matthew’s behalf, waiting for someone to come and ask about that strange grave desecration at Montmartre, or the strong, mysterious city employee. He called my father yesterday, after you visited him.”
Julian exhaled. He sat down on the bed, leaned forward, and listened.
Owen continued. “Great Grandmother Irene adopted my grandfather, Leon, in 1921. She was 60. The war had ended a few years earlier and Irene was in French Algeria tracking rumors of a cannibalistic nun. The rumors ended up being rumors only, no demon involved, but in Algiers she met my grandfather. Leon was only two years old but he was, apparently, both adorable and precocious. When Irene left the convent, she took Leon with her.
“She taught him to fight like a Varangian soldier, though of course, the other skills she had could not be taught. They traveled all throughout western Europe in that short period of time between the wars. She would stop in a town for a year or two and Leon would go to school, then she would hear a rumor of a bes and they would leave to track it down.
“Then, the Second World War started, and