Father Michel's smile was the most terrifying thing I'd seen since we arrived in this cursed village. It was worse than the Crow's empty eyes, worse than the boar's fury. This was a smile that enjoyed its own calculated evil.
"Don't be afraid, children," he said, his voice still oily with false piety. "Thomas and the others are... simple. Guided more by their gut than their head. But now that they're gone, we can talk as reasonable people."
He sat on the cell's only bench, forcing us to remain standing before him like schoolchildren before a stern teacher. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bastien retreat even further into the darkest corner, trying to meld with the shadows, his face a mask of terror. Margot and I were wounded, filthy, but his presence forced us to straighten our backs. Weakness, we both knew, was an invitation to violence.
"Who sent you?" he asked, his tone shifting from compassion to the cold interest of a physician. "I know you've been asking questions. At the inn. To poor Nicolas's sister. Strange questions that don't belong to simple lost travelers."
He leaned slightly forward, his cold eyes searching for a crack in our facade.
"Did you come for the Crow? Or are you yourselves part of this... infection? Did someone promise you something? Power? Knowledge?"
"We don't know what you're talking about," Margot snarled, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth.
Michel's smile didn't waver. "Of course not. You're just two lost strangers who happened into my village, just as ancient curses awaken." His sarcasm was sharp. "A coincidence. But I don't believe much in coincidences. I believe in Providence. And I believe the Devil sends his agents to tempt the righteous."
"We're not anyone's agents!" I burst out, anger winning over fear. "And the only Devil I see here is the one using God's name to terrorize an entire village!"
For the first time, his smile vanished. His eyes became two shards of ice. He rose slowly. "Careful how you speak, boy. Blasphemy is a grave sin. And in this village, we take it very seriously." He approached, his shadow swallowing us.
"I'll give you one last chance," he said, his voice becoming an icy hiss. "I saw you clearly in the square. You were soaked, covered in river mud."
He moved closer, his shadow engulfing us. His eyes seemed capable of dissecting our every lie.
"So tell me: where did you spend the night? Who hid you? And tell me what you know about the Crow Man, and why his name seems to follow you like a shadow." He paused, and his tone became almost a false confidence. "Cooperate. Tell me what I want to know. And perhaps your confession at tomorrow's trial will grant you a quick and merciful death. Instead of a very painful... public purification."
I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. Beside me, I felt Margot stiffen, but she remained silent. We agreed on one thing: we wouldn't talk. We wouldn't betray Anje. We wouldn't give him anything. Our silence was the only desperate answer we could give him.
Father Michel read our determination on our faces. His smile of false understanding vanished, replaced by a mask of cold, disappointed irritation.
"A pity," he said, his voice now devoid of all warmth. He turned without dignifying us with another glance. "It seems you've chosen the more painful path."
The threat was naked, stripped of all false kindness. Bastien, in the corner, remained motionless and silent as a statue, trying to make himself invisible.
He was the one who spoke, after Father Michel had left, leaving us alone with the promise of a dawn we didn't want to see.
"That priest is more venomous than an asp," the old poacher croaked. "But you're making the mistake everyone in this village makes."
"And what would that be?" Margot asked, holding a hand to her aching side.
"Thinking there's only one wolf in this henhouse." Bastien came forward, his thin figure emerging from the shadows. "I heard you. You were talking about Mathis. But before him, there were others. The old magistrate, found with his throat cut in his study. And before that, Henri, the best hunter in the valley, struck by a crossbow bolt in his own forest."
"The Crow Man..." I whispered.
Bastien shook his head vehemently. "No, boy. That's where you're wrong. The Crow Man abducts. He takes people. And leaves those damned feathers. These..." his voice lowered, "...these are murders. Brutal. And silent."
He paused, his shrewd eyes scrutinizing us. "I was in the woods the night Henri died. I didn't see the killer. But I saw one thing: Henri wasn't alone. He was waiting for someone. Arguing with a hooded figure near the old bridge."
"Who was it?" Margot asked.
"Too far away to see well," Bastien admitted. "But he moved like a city man. And then I heard the innkeeper, Thomas, boasting at the inn a few days later, saying that 'certain busybodies got what they deserved.'"
We exchanged a glance. The innkeeper. This connected to his strange satisfaction when they arrested us.
"So you think it was the innkeeper?" I asked.
"Or the curate, who incited him," Bastien replied with a shrug. "Or both. Or neither. What I know is this: in this village there are two nightmares. One that takes away your soul, and another that plants a knife in your back. And sometimes, boy, the second is much more dangerous."
He stopped abruptly, cocking his ear. "Listen."
From outside, we heard a commotion. New voices. Disciplined. Sharp orders given in clean French, not the village's harsh dialect.
We rushed to the cell's small grate overlooking the street. In the night, we saw figures moving with silent speed. They carried shielded lanterns that cast pools of cold light on the cobblestones. They were dressed in black. And they moved like hunters.
Bastien paled, a genuine and ancient terror in his eyes. "No..." he murmured. "Not them."
The sound of heavy boots on the stairs made us jump. They were disciplined, rhythmic. Not like the clumsy steps of the villagers.
"Quick, in the corner!" Bastien hissed, pushing us into the deepest darkness. "Don't make a sound!"
We flattened ourselves against the damp wall, our hearts hammering in unison. We heard the voices approaching. They were cold, precise, speaking clean French, not the local dialect.
"The energy trace was weak, but it came from this direction," said a flat voice. "The manor anomaly is... fluctuating. It's interfering with the readings."
"Is the local informant reliable?" asked a second voice.
"The curate? He's a useful fanatic, but he knows nothing. He thinks it's a nobleman's spirit. Let him play with his peasants. Our objective is the source. If there's a Bearer here, we'll find them."
The footsteps passed beyond our cell without stopping and continued down, perhaps toward another exit or a lower level of the gendarmerie. They didn't know we were there. They were hunting something else—the Homme-Corbeau—and we'd just ended up in their path by chance.
I remained motionless, breath caught in my throat. Silent Veil. They were here. They were in the village.
Bastien looked at us, his shrewd eyes now wide with a terror I hadn't yet seen on him. Even the threat of Father Michel and the mob seemed to fade before this new danger.
"Those..." he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "Those aren't men. They're wolves dressed as priests."
The world seemed to shrink around us. We were trapped in a cell, accused of murder, with an enraged mob wanting to lynch us outside. And now, to make things worse, a team of professional witch hunters—our sworn enemies—were combing the village, unaware of our presence.
For now.