ANOTHER MEETING AT THE CEMETERY

From the first moment, Nellie knew she didn't like the newcomer. Nellie handed him a jug of beer because her father had ordered her to, but when he reached for it and their fingers touched, she almost withdrew her arm and let the jug fall. The stranger seemed to not only notice her confusion but revel in it - and no one took notice! Not her father, not her brother Cowan, not Karen or the other men of the conspiracy who were now greeting the guest from Dublin: the lady who, in her wild years, had written fiery articles against the English, who had left the Irish people to fend for themselves after the Great Famine and even exploited their suffering to grab more land. So, this was the famous "Speranza"! Nellie couldn't quite imagine the large, hefty lady who seemed to dominate the entire room as a young woman. However, the fact that she feared nothing and boldly mingled with the male rebels was all the better! With her came her son Oscar, a tall young man with a veiled gaze, who spoke too refined for this area and was too elegantly dressed. His friend Bram Stoker, who seemed a few years older, was more to Nellie's liking. He appeared stronger than his friend, held himself very straight, and exuded a slightly dark seriousness that attracted Nellie. Some dramas must have darkened his young life, but they hadn't managed to discourage him. He had fought and won. The scars that remained didn't show on his skin, but they seemed to be felt in his soul. The price for his struggle had been the boyish lightness that his carefree friend Oscar still possessed.

"You're a pretty girl," a voice purred in her ear. "Almost good enough to eat!"

Nellie had been so absorbed in the sight of the serious young man that she had forgotten the presence of the fourth newcomer for a few moments. She could barely suppress a scream and jumped aside a bit to avoid his foul breath. Nellie shot him an angry look, but he just chuckled to himself. He enjoyed every one of her defensive reactions! What a strange man he was. Nellie couldn't have said how old he was. He seemed young and old at the same time. His hair, at least, was streaked with gray. It hung in matted strands down his back. He didn't have a beard, though, and his face, while very gaunt, had smooth grayish skin. He wore dirty clothes, torn in some places. That's how beggars looked as they roamed the land, but none of the fishermen, shepherds, or miners would walk around like this - even if they didn't have a woman at home to take care of their things. And worse than his clothes, he smelled himself. It was a strange emanation that seemed foreign and wild to Nellie. It was as if she could already smell the blood he wanted to shed in the uprising. Because he had expressed no doubt about his opinion that a rebellion was only worthwhile when equipped with the right, deadly weapons - thus hitting exactly the sore point that Fynn and her father always complained about: They didn't have enough weapons. Especially not ones to stand against the rifles and cannons of the English!

"An open field battle is out of the question for us anyway," Lorcan always pointed out. "We're too few for that. We have to work in secret, quietly causing as much damage to the English as possible and then slip away under cover of night. This tactic has always proven effective."

"As painful thorns in their self-esteem, that's true," Myles added. "But that shouldn't be enough for us. We want to liberate our land! And for that, this has to be just the beginning, laying the groundwork for the big uprising. This and the articles for newspapers and pamphlets that Speranza will write for us. That will be the basis to wake up our countrymen. And when the whole country rises, then we need weapons with which we can stand against the English, because don't believe that Queen Victoria is too old and too tired and will let us go without a fight! Even if the fighting spirit has already extinguished within her, she still has her advisors and Parliament, which will decide on a major campaign! Don't take this lightly, otherwise all our blood will be shed in vain."

And then this guy showed up, calling himself Mac Gaoth - what kind of name was that anyway? - and talking about an arsenal that was inadequately guarded. Of course, he had been welcomed with open arms, although Nellie was sure that even her father didn't fully trust him and intended to keep an eye on him. Anyway, Myles didn't like at all that Mac Gaoth had laid out his plan in front of the visitors from Dublin. How reckless! But now it had happened, and they could only hope that the Wildes and Bram Stoker would prove trustworthy. The visitors from Dublin openly showed their discomfort with the plan to plunder an arsenal of the English army, in contrast to Myles' men, who were excited about the plan.

"The uprising will be over before it even begins. Do you think they will just accept it if wagonloads of weapons disappear from one of their armories?" Bram Stoker said, looking serious into the group.

"What do they want to do?" Fynn countered. "Before they even realize it, we'll be gone, along with their weapons. The English don't know their way around the moors and mountains - but we do. There are caves they won't find, if they even dare to come this far!"

"That's right!" Mac Gaoth exclaimed with his deep, somewhat raspy voice, which made Nellie flinch with every word. "Claim what's rightfully yours! Be brave, and you will be rewarded. Your blood for the freedom of Ireland!"

With the last words, he raised his fist in the air, and the men followed suit, repeating his cry. Even Nellie's brother Cowan joined in the rallying cry. Mac Gaoth crossed Nellie's gaze. His lips twisted into a smile. It wasn't friendly. It seemed malicious, even more, deeply evil. Didn't the men feel it? Nellie felt like a gateway to hell was opening at her feet, and the men and women she had known and loved since childhood were marching straight into it, still hoping for a victory that would never come.

Mac Gaoth leaned towards her. His predator scent enveloped her and made her gag. "Such dangerous thoughts for a little girl. Spare yourself the trouble; they wouldn't even listen to you. Go home and play with your dolls. You have no place here." His grin became even more menacing. "I promise you, I'll visit you when this is over and chase away your loneliness."

Nellie felt like she was going to be sick. She pushed past Cowan and her father and hurried to the other side of the hut. Far, far away from that eerie man. Bram Stoker seemed to be the only one who noticed how distressed she was. He approached her.

"Are you alright, my girl? Sit down. You're as white as a sheet." His concerned expression comforted her.

"They shouldn't do this," she squeaked. "Attack that arsenal. It will be their undoing."

Bram Stoker nodded. "I completely agree. They shouldn't do it!"

Restlessly, Bram Stoker wandered through the night. It was well past midnight. He left Oughterard and followed the cart path south to the next village, which was much smaller and consisted only of a few houses and barns. A path branched off to the east, presumably leading down to the lake. Bram decided to follow it, then return along the shore to the inn in Oughterard. He thought about the meeting in the hut and the subsequent argument between Lady Wilde and her son. Oscar had implored her to return home immediately and distance herself from this affair.

"Just look at this sorry lot! Do you really think they can accomplish anything? Create a better Ireland? You can't seriously believe that! The only thing that will happen is that they'll bash each other's heads in and give Parliament another reason to enact some reprisals."

"If you don't take risks, you can't change anything," the Lady had retorted, but Bram felt like she was taking the conspirators' side out of sheer spite.

"The men and women we saw are just the envoys of the groups, and they have assured us that they are in close contact with other cells to strike together. They need a voice in Dublin. My voice, to wake up the people, to support the insurgents."

Oscar had now made the mistake of reminding his mother that she was no longer the young rebel but a respectable lady of advanced age. A brief look at Lady Wilde's expression had prompted Bram's cowardly escape from the inn. Now he wondered if he would still find them arguing when he returned, or if their tempers had cooled. He readily admitted that he hoped they would have retired to their rooms by the time he returned and that he would only have to face them again in the morning.

Bram was still lost in thought about the meeting in the hut, the strangely gaunt man with matted hair, and the young girl who had so deeply alarmed him. His eyes scanned the nighttime landscape until they suddenly became fixated on a mighty tower whose battlements rose above the treetops on the opposite bank of the river. A somewhat wobbly bridge led to the other side, where there seemed to be a moat and a drawbridge. Bram Stoker forgot about the conspirators and the arguing Wildes. With one foot already on the bridge, he stopped and tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes. The hoarse cry of an owl made him start. An aura of the uncanny enveloped him, drawing him in but also stirring up a fear in him that urged him to get away as fast as he could. His curiosity was piqued, his senses alert. It took him effort to drag his second foot onto the bridge. It felt like he was being watched from all sides. Yes, even from the tower above. He looked around frantically but couldn't see anyone.

Run, as fast as you can! This is not a place for you if you value your life.

Bram let out a scream and began to run. Blindly, he ran down the path, stumbling, picking himself up, and running again until the panic subsided. Almost a little embarrassed, he stopped to catch his breath. Had he really heard those words? No, that couldn't be. His imagination must have played a trick on him. A little further ahead, he spotted a small cemetery. As if to reassure himself that his fears were unfounded, he briskly walked towards it. He opened the gate and entered. Unlike the large cemetery of Oughterard, no one had been buried here for a long time. The perimeter wall had collapsed in places, and the graves were overgrown with herbs. Only the Celtic crosses with their ornamented stone rings seemed strangely fresh, as if the years hadn't affected them. Bram ran his hand over the rough granite, from which most of the tombstones and crosses were made.

Suddenly, he paused, his hand still raised to touch the relief of a triskelion, the Celtic symbol of the sun. Once again, he had the intense feeling that someone was watching him. Someone who wasn't human. His neck tingled, and the fine hairs stood on end. Slowly, very slowly, he turned around. Fear and joyful anticipation wrestled within him as he lifted his gaze. Bram Stoker blinked. His senses must be deceiving him. Now the apparition even smiled and took a step closer.

It was a girl of fourteen or fifteen years, although it seemed as if her turquoise eyes had seen eternity. Her long hair, cascading in curls over her back, was silvery like the moonlight, which today only occasionally showed itself in a narrow crescent between the clouds.

"What are you? A night fairy?" he asked incredulously. His voice sounded hoarse, and he had to swallow.

The girl laughed brightly. But when she replied, her voice sounded velvety full and slightly deep for her delicate figure.

"A night fairy?"

"I've heard stories about them, but never seen one - except for you. You must be one!"

The girl shrugged. "I am a creature of the night, yes, that's correct. A fairy of darkness, one could say."

"A child of the moon!" Bram enthused, although a part of his consciousness still warned him of impending danger.

"But one to whom the moon cannot cast a shadow!" Bram's eyes widened as she continued. "If I may give you some advice. Return to the safety of your life far away from nocturnal cemeteries, which you seem to love so much."

Bram was confused. "How did you come up with that idea?"

"I saw you in Rome at the Cemetery of the Foreigners, with two friends and your wife. I'm sure of it! I never forget the smell of a person once I've taken it in. And then you were at the cemetery in Oughterard a few nights ago, weren't you? You were hiding in the church - a wise decision, as most creatures of the night shy away from the harmful aura it emits."

Bram opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. His gaze darted over the cemetery, but there was no church here where he could have taken refuge.

"No, there is no sanctuary for you here," the girl confirmed. "Although a church wouldn't protect you from me either," she continued in a conversational tone. She seemed to enjoy their conversation. "How did you get here now?" he blurted out. "You didn't follow me, did you?"

The girl with silver hair laughed again. "Oh no. Why would I follow a human? I don't know why fate brings us back together here. I can only guess that it still has something in store for us, so don't be surprised if we meet again. But for now, make your way home. This is a dangerous place for a human."

"When will I see you again?" Bram pressed, not wanting to let her go.

"How should I know that? I cannot read fate's cards."

"You know, I have been interested in creatures of the night for a long time. I collect stories from different countries. It's fascinating, and I will eventually write a book about it. You will be in it, even though no one will believe me about this encounter. I know it's true. That I have seen you with my own eyes!"

The girl's expression became thoughtful. She was about to say something when Bram noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. It happened so quickly that he only saw the creature when it stood menacingly in front of the girl. It was a huge white wolf!

Bram wanted to run away, but his feet were rooted to the spot. He stared at the girl and the white beast, which stared back at him with yellow eyes.

"It's time to go," she said softly.

Finally, Bram found his voice again. "It will chase me and attack me if I take even one step, won't it?"

The girl shook her head. "No, Seymour will let you go when you leave the cemetery and head straight back to your quarters."

"May I ask one last question?"

"But of course."

"What is your name?"

The girl laughed softly, and the wolf growled. "Ivy-Máire of the Lycana family."

Bram Stoker bowed. "I thank you, Ivy-Máire, for my life, for it was in your hands, and for an experience I will never forget. You said fate brought us both here and will reunite us. I hope you are right."

Then he left the cemetery. He made a wide detour around the vampire and the wolf, who didn't budge from their spot. Only after he had left the gate behind did he turn around for one last glimpse of this fairy-like creature, but both she and the wolf had disappeared.

The morning was already dawning, and there was still no sign of the Lycana and their companions. Ivy and a few others waited impatiently at the gate, although Mabbina had already twice urged them to return to the tower and find their coffins.

"We need to know what they found out!" Ivy kept insisting, pacing back and forth.

"And if they don't come? That could mean many things," Luciano interjected. "Either they haven't found anything yet and will hide somewhere during the day to continue at night... or they have tracked down the werewolves and surrounded them," Alisa continued.

Ivy nodded, a muscle twitching at her temple. "Perhaps they are fighting right now, while the sun menacingly approaches the horizon. The werewolves just need to buy time and hold them off, then the sun will decide the fight for them."

Luciano put his arm around her shoulder, but only after making sure Franz Leopold wasn't nearby. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't seen him for quite a while, but he didn't dwell on it. He really didn't miss him now.

Ivy let him. Whether it truly comforted her or she didn't even notice, Luciano couldn't say.

"The sun is their enemy, yes, that's true, but otherwise, the Lycana are superior to the werewolves. They can only show themselves in their human or wolf form. But the Lycana can transform into other animals or even slip through any net as mist. How could the werewolves pose a serious threat to them?"

Ivy tried to smile. "You're right, Alisa, I'm overthinking it." She leaned down to stroke Seymour, but he turned away.

"What's wrong with him? Oh, he's injured!" Alisa exclaimed, dropping to her knees. "I hadn't noticed that." She examined the spot on his front paw where the fur was matted with blood. "It looks like bite marks. Do you know what bit him?"

"It's not so bad," Ivy dismissed.

"Don't you think you should answer the question?" Franz Leopold's voice sounded so unexpectedly next to them that Luciano flinched. How could he always manage to sneak up unnoticed!

"Although the question isn't quite accurate," the Dracas continued. No smile lit up his grim expression. "It shouldn't be 'what bit him,' but rather who - and since we're on this detail, we might as well ask, who exactly is the one bitten? After all, one likes to know who one is dealing with."

Luciano looked confusedly from Franz Leopold to Ivy. For once, he wasn't the only one who didn't understand what was going on. Alisa's expression spoke volumes!

"Can someone tell us what's going on here?"

Neither Ivy nor Franz Leopold paid attention to her, which was also unusual. Ivy raised her head and gave Franz Leopold a look that would have intimidated him if he weren't a Dracas whose confidence was equal to that of three men.

"It's a shame to lie and deceive one's friends, isn't it? Or do you think we're so foolish that you can get away with it? We're not so simple-minded, believe me - well, at least some of us," he corrected with a sidelong glance at Luciano. This annoyed him greatly, but he was far too curious to find out what was going on to interrupt Franz Leopold.

"Don't you want to be more explicit, Leo? How dare you make such accusations against Ivy?" Alisa wanted to know.

"I cannot give all the answers. Only one of them." Franz Leopold pointed to the bloodied fur. "Ivy bit Seymour!"

These words elicited a groan from Ivy, a gasp of astonishment from Alisa, and a threatening growl from Seymour. Luciano, on the other hand, only opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. This had to be a joke! But judging by Ivy's expression, he had to speak the truth.

"You bit the wolf in the leg?" Luciano blurted out, then laughed. "What on earth got into you? An uncontrollable fit of bloodlust?" He wagged a reproving finger. "It's not good form to suck your friends dry."

"I can assure you that it was not her intention to drink from a friend, and she did not bite a wolf either," Franz Leopold interjected, confusing Luciano even more. To his surprise, a look of understanding crossed Alisa's face, and she nodded slowly.

"You saw him in his true form. I suspected it for a long time."

Luciano looked from one to the other. "Wait a minute, Seymour isn't even a wolf? Then what is he?"

But no one answered him, because at that moment, a swarm of bats flew up from the river toward the bridge. Instead of landing in the trees, the bats settled on the planks. Mists began to gather over the bridge.

"At last!" Ivy exclaimed, rushing toward Donnchadh and Catriona as soon as she could make out their shapes. "Did you find them?"

"No, neither the clan itself nor their tracks. But we've only searched a small part of the shore so far. Lough Corrib is vast! We'll continue searching once night falls."

"The trail is getting weaker with each passing day and will soon be gone," Ivy called out. "Let us come with you. If all heirs help and we divide into small groups, we can search a much larger area."

But like the night before, Donnchadh and Catriona wouldn't be persuaded. "It's too dangerous," was their unshakable argument. "We don't know if the pursuers are still lurking out there somewhere, waiting for an opportunity to strike."

"We haven't spotted a trace of them since we left Aillwee," Ivy protested, but they wouldn't accept that either. Instead, they herded everyone into the courtyard. Alisa anxiously looked out for Hindrik and the other servants who couldn't transform.

"They'll be coming with Tara shortly," Catriona reassured her. "We've assigned them areas on this side of the lake so they don't have such a long way back."

And indeed, the two wolves of the Druidess soon came into view. They hadn't reached the gate yet when the dapple-gray mare appeared among the trees on the other side of the bank, accompanied by a dozen shadowy figures. Soon, the heirs gathered around their servants, pressing them to report what they had experienced. Except, of course, for the Dracas, who didn't usually converse with the Impure. Anna Christina only snapped at her servant to finally fix her hair, while Matthias silently returned to his master's side.