16

As Leila strolled through the market square, her mind was tangled like a bowl of spaghetti, trying to link the stolen books and the murdered professor. The square was lively for the amount of snow and the temperature well below the freezing point. Vendors peddled their wares by spreading them on fleece blankets, their goods as ragged and random as the spirit of Christmas. Leila walked between the aisles, surrounded by old copper kettles, once fine German porcelain, toy trains, and oak plant stands trying hard not to look bored. 

One stall caught her eye—a pile of books, mostly battered children’s tales and lonely volumes of the classics not worth much without the rest of the lot. Some books looked interesting, bound in old tooled leather. Then something caught her eye.  She spotted a volume in the middle of all that artful chaos. It was a thick, faded book with a tan leather binding. The title, The History and Artifacts of the Ancient Germanic Tribes, was elegantly crafted in gold letters. Leila’s pulse quickened. She was looking for this volume in the library, only to discover later that the title was mentioned in Linda’s stolen items report.

Behind the pile of books sat an old man dressed in a warm wool coat and a hat decorated with two partridge feathers. He peered up at her with watery blue eyes.

“Good book,” he wheezed with the flu-stricken voice. “You are a student, eh? Take it, it is in good condition. Fair price as well.”

Leila picked up the book, the leather warm under her fingertips. It opened on its own, halfway through, revealing a fine illustration of a grand carved mask that didn’t look that pretty. Grapevine leaves twisted on top of the god’s face, their curves hiding devilish eyes peering through the disheveled hair. Snakes coiled along the neck, their scales rendered with unsettling precision.

The caption beneath the image read: The Mask of River God, 1600 BC. Location: A Private castle in South Saxony.

She looked closer, running her thumb over the corners of the pages. There were no library stamps. Either this wasn’t the stolen copy, or the thief had been smart enough to remove the stamp. The old man cleared his throat, pulling her attention back.

“It’s too bulky,” Leila said, putting the book down. “My dorm is tiny. I have no space for it.”

“Good book! Rare!” he insisted, his sour grin widening. “Pictures alone are worth it, you can frame them and make a small fortune on eBay.”

Leila was horrified by the idea. 

‘Why don’t you frame them and sell them on eBay then?”

The old man produced a sound meant to be a heavy sigh.

“I can’t do it. I can’t tear out a page from the old book. But that’s just me.’

Leila nodded and walked off, though her fingers itched to take the book home. Something about that plate with River God attracted her attention. She hated the idea somebody would buy the book and tear it apart for cute pictures. In a way, she preferred to stumble across a missing volume by Professor Yellen, but her luck was tough as usual. So she finished with the market and drove back to Christina's. 

Wolfie greeted her with a lot of unconditional love, her tail wagging could’ve powered a small generator. Tom was at work, leaving Leila alone with the oversized mutt who thought it was a lapdog.

Leila poured herself a cup of ginger tea and sank into bed. The day had been a marathon, and she deserved a rest. Wolfie whimpered at the door, scratching for an invitation that wasn’t coming.

“Forget it,” Leila muttered, pulling the blankets tighter. “No blackmail tonight. You can howl your head off; I’m not negotiating with terrorists.”

Wolfie padded off with a theatrical sigh, and Leila drifted into a restless sleep.

She dreamed of a cold, shadowy room lit only by the faint glow of a small fireplace. The stone walls loomed dark and heavy, adorned with somber portraits of knights who’d never cracked a smile in their lifetimes. Their wives stared down just as cheerfully, the weight of forgotten centuries etched into their painted eyes.

Between the portraits hung swords and shields, the relics of battles fought long before anyone alive could remember. In the center of the room was a mask. The mask. Its carved grapevines twisted in impossible pattern, the hidden eyes of the River God grinning, teasing her with a secret she’d never uncover. The snakes around God’s neck slithered as if alive, their metal bodies shimmering with threatening movement.

Then Leila climbed on a high wooden chair, the cold of the room wrapping around her like a shroud. She stretched her hands toward the fire, but the flames gave no warmth—only an icy dread that seeped into her bones.

Then the snakes moved towards her. Their heads lifted, their eyes glowing with malice. They hissed, tongues flicking out as they lunged for her face. She screamed and tried to leap from the chair, but something held her back, tightening its grip as the serpents closed in.

Leila bolted awake, her heart hammering in her chest. She thought she was still in that room, but reality eventually settled into her brain. She was in Christina’s bedroom, tangled in a blanket that felt like the chair’s arms refusing to let her go. Leila peeled herself free, but just as her breathing steadied, a sound shattered the silence. A bang, a clatter, followed by Wolfie’s low, mournful howl. She wished Tom didn’t have to work that late.

“Oh, give me a break,” Leila muttered, grabbing her slippers. She padded out of the bedroom, half-expecting to find Wolfie staging a protest at the door.

Leila found the dog in the far corner of the room, her hackles raised, her howl more eerie than ever. Leila flipped on the light, scanning the room. The window was shut tight, and there was no draft to explain the strange noises. And then came another bang, louder this time. The sound was coming from behind the oil portrait of Christina’s grandfather.

Wolfie made a few steps back, crouching behind Leila’s legs. “Coward,” Leila muttered, grabbing the nearest weapon—a rolling pin was still on the kitchen table. She came closer to the portrait on the wall, her every nerve begging her to stop.

 She took the portrait down and carefully placed it on the oak armchair. Behind it was faded wallpaper in a red and gold pattern that had once been quaint. Now, in the dim light, it looked sinister. Leila tapped the wall. Hollow. Another bang answered her knock, loud enough to rattle her teeth.

“Fantastic,” she muttered. “I’m living in a horror movie.”

She ran her fingers over the seam of the wallpaper and found a small ridge. Pressing it caused the wall to shift with a soft groan, revealing a dark opening.

Before she could react, something large shot out of the darkness, slamming into her face. Leila yelped, stumbling back as Wolfie howled hysterically. The black shape flapped wildly, crashing into furniture and walls.

It was a bird. An owl of a decent size. It flailed around the room with infectious panic, until Leila managed to open the front door. The bird darted out into the night, disappearing into the shadows.

For a long moment, Leila stood in the open doorway, breathing the crisp night air. Wolfie pressed against her side, the dog’s eyes innocent and apologetic.

“It’s OK, we helped the bird to get out,” Leila said, patting the dog’s head. “I was scared, too.”

But the wall’s secret opening gnawed at Leila’s curiosity until she couldn’t resist. Grabbing a flashlight, she ventured into the hidden space. It was just wide enough for her to squeeze through, and dust hung thick in the air, tickling her nose. The walls were lined with old wood, the planks creaking under her weight as she ascended a narrow staircase.

The staircase led to a small sectioned-off room in the attic, its air cold and damp. A broken window explained how the bird had gotten in, its jagged edges glinting in the moonlight. The room was cluttered with old stuff—carved chairs, a walnut cabinet, a mirror dulled by years of neglect.

And in the corner, abandoned through the years, was the Mask of The River God.

It looked not as well-made as on the illustration— the metal discolored, its carvings dulled with age—but there was no mistake, this was the mask of the River God she had seen in the old book on the market. Grapevines twisted over the head, their patterns hiding disheveled hair. The snakes around the neck seemed to writhe in the beam of Leila’s flashlight.

She shivered, not from the cold, but from the eerie coincidence. It was the mask from her dream.

“Coincidence?” she muttered to herself. “Yeah, right.”

Her hand reached out, almost against her will, and traced the carvings. The metal felt alive, as if it remembered every hand that had touched it, every secret it had kept. She pulled her hand back and turned away, heading for the stairs.

Leila descended the narrow staircase from the attic, her flashlight casting long, jittery shadows on the walls. Each creak of the old wood made her pause, holding her breath, waiting for the next twist of that sickly plot to jump out at her. Wolfie whimpered below, her nose pressed to the gap at the base of the hidden door.

“Relax, you big wimp,” Leila muttered, though her voice carried a hollow edge. “It’s just some old furniture and dust. The stuff scary bedtime stories are made of.”

But she wasn’t buying her own tough act. That mask—the one from her nightmare—was too real, too coincidental. Her rational mind wanted to chalk it up to some deep-seated fear bubbling to the surface. The rest of her was whispering that the mask was a piece on a chessboard she didn’t understand yet. And someone else had made the first move.

When Leila reached the bottom of the stairs, she closed the hidden door behind her and pressed the faded wallpaper back into place. It clicked as if it had been designed to keep secrets. She put the portrait back, and Christina’s grandfather looked at her with a disapproving smirk. Wolfie licked Leila’s hand, tail wagging nervously, as though seeking reassurance from her human.

“You’re not getting any comfort from me,” Leila said, scratching the dog behind the ear. “I don’t even have comfort for myself. I wish Tom was here.”

She returned to the kitchen and made a strong cup of tea, pretending she wasn’t rattled. But her thoughts raced, darting from the mask to the book she’d seen on the market square. The illustration. The caption. Private castle in South Saxony.

What private castle it was supposed to be, she wondered. She leaned back in her chair, letting the faint creak of the wood match the rhythm of her spinning thoughts. Her mind took her back to that market stall, the old man with the flu-stricken voice, and the book that might’ve been stolen from the library.

“I should’ve bought it,” she muttered to herself. “But no, I had to be cheap.”

Wolfie snorted softly and put her head on Leila’s knee, both were soon fast asleep.

Morning came far too quickly. The weak sunlight scratched through the haze of Leila’s sleepless night. She stepped outside. The air was fresh and crisp, and her nerves were frayed.

She decided to head back to the market square. She wanted that book—or at least another look at it. But when she reached the square, the vendors and junk peddlers were packing up their wares. The old man and his battered stack of books were nowhere to be seen.

“Of course,” Leila muttered, scanning the crowd. Her gut told her she wasn’t the only one chasing this thread. The old man had probably sold the book or stashed it somewhere safe.

She approached a vendor hawking mismatched porcelain and rusted tin toys. “The guy with the books—leather-bound, big ones. Where is he from?”

The vendor gave her a toothy grin, clearly uninterested. “Who knows? He comes and goes when he feels like it. Not much of a scheduler, that one.”

“Did he sell that large leather book?” Leila asked casually.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” The vendor shrugged and rattled a tin soldier in his hand. “Are you looking for something or just killing time?”

Leila walked away, frustration building in her chest. She jumped on her snowmobile and whizzed off.

Back at the chalet, Leila wasn’t surprised to find Wolfie lounging by the door, tail thumping lazily when she walked in. What did surprise her was the envelope on the floor, lying at an angle that suggested it had been slipped underneath.

She picked it up, her fingers brushing the cheap, rough paper. The handwriting on the front was angular and precise: Leila Weinrich. No address, no stamp.

“Someone’s got good intel,” she muttered, tearing the envelope open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. The words were typed, not written, and they carried an almost clinical precision:

The mask is the key. The castle is the lock. Find your castle before it’s too late.

Leila frowned as she read the note, her mind snapping to the old mask in the attic and the illustration in the old book. Someone else knew about the mask. But what a bizarre way to be annoying.

Her instincts screamed that this wasn’t a friendly nudge. Someone wanted her to leave the house, but whether it was to help or to set her up, she couldn’t be sure.

Wolfie barked sharply, breaking Leila’s thoughts. She turned to see the dog standing at the window, her ears pricked and her body tense. Outside, a figure in a brown wool coat and wide-brimmed hat stood by the fence, barely visible through the shadows of the trees.

Leila froze, her mind racing. She felt the weight of the hidden attic behind her, the pressure of the note in her hand, and the watchful eyes of whoever—or whatever—was standing just outside.

“Okay, buddy,” she muttered under her breath, moving to the kitchen where she placed a pepper spray for emergencies. “If you want to dance, let’s see your moves.”

When she returned to the window, the figure was gone. Only the faintest rustle of leaves betrayed that someone had been there.

 Leila sat at the kitchen table, the note in front of her. The mask was the key, the note had said. And the castle was the lock. She hid the note in the small pocket inside her satchel.  Leila Weinrich felt sleepy, exhausted, and frightened.  Whatever that mysterious castle in Saxony was, and however it was tied to Christina, and the swirling storm of dangerous incidents she’d stumbled into, Leila was in no mood to think about it. She just wanted to see Tom. He came back in the morning, looking excited and slightly nervous.  His clothes smelt of sweat and cigarette smoke. Leila fried two eggs and bacon and arranged an apple strudel on the blue and white plate. 

“How was your work?” she asked.

“Fine. Actually, I am not sure. We need to talk. Not now, later,’ he said while squeezing a bottle of ketchup. 

“Maybe you and Wolfie should move to my quarters, what do you say?” he asked gently stroking her hand.