Wölfin

"Yes."

"How was his marriage?" She asked.

"Like the marriage of most of his pedigree. Expedient."

"As it should be. Was it happy nonetheless?"

"Nothing to suggest otherwise."

"Hmm."

She finished her cigarette, flicked the butt into the bushes, and returned her gaze to the corpse. The jagged swastika seemed to smolder like dying coal, a brazen taunting.

Schmidt responded, "Did he say nothing else?"

"His soul was ripped from his body by a malevolent spirit before he had a chance to say anything useful. Perhaps by the same being that killed him in the mortal plane."

Schmidt tensed up. She could tell he was disturbed, both by what she said, and in the nonchalant way she said it, but was trying his very best to hide it. Rachel was always careful not to show how much she was bothered by what she experienced, but she too was disturbed. Never had she ever seen a soul stricken from its corpse the way Schulz's had. And the fear in Schulz's voice when. It was a visceral fear. A prey fear.

Whatever it was that carried Schulz's soul off, Rachel was all but certain it was the same thing that clawed that swastika into his torso. A creature able to traverse between the planes. A creature that understood that her investigation was a threat to its plot. Whatever the creature was, it could potentially be dangerous to her. But then again, she was dangerous to it. It was a soul after all -- a soul that she could reap. The final soul she needed to satisfy the bargain she made with a demon. That was all the encouragement she needed to press forward.

"Can you take me to Rauschenberg?" Rachel asked.

Schmidt nodded. "Of course. But first, we must see the rector."

Rachel slumped her shoulders. Her cigarette slumped in her mouth.

"Must we?"

"I'm afraid it's the only time she has in her busy schedule," Schmidt replied.

The rector's Belle Epoque-style mansion was a beautiful structure. Despite that, she couldn't help but feel disturbed by its looming vastness. Autumn red vines threatened to pull it into the ground. Its windows were dark, like the eye sockets of a skull.

Schmidt led her to the front door and when the butler answered, Schmidt turned to Rachel and said, "I have to leave you here. I have some business to attend to at the police station. Meet me at the coroner's office as soon as you're done."

After Schmidt's departure, the butler led Rachel to a wondrous library. Towering cathedral-like stained-glass windows splashed soft sunlight in red, purple, and green across the thousands of volumes contained within. Rain streamed down the tall windowpanes, obfuscating a misty scene of dark pine trees outside. A fire crackled in the corner, inviting Rachel to pick a book off the shelf and sit there and read for hours.

"She'll be with you soon," said the butler to Rachel, then left her there to continue quietly admiring the rector's vast collection. Long fond of books, such was the stuff of dreams for Rachel.

She went to a shelf and picked out a random book. In gold-leaf text inlaid in patinaed leather read the title, "The necromantic symbols and lexicon of the cults of Ankh."

"Interesting," she murmured as she leafed through the pages. Many of the pages had scribbled notes on the margins. Words and phrases were underlined. The rector seemed to take her reading quite seriously.

It was surprising to see such dedicated fascination in the historiography of occult mythology. But perhaps it should not be, given the rector's background in clinical psychology. Occult magic takes its power from the shadows of the human mind after all. 

She slid the book back into its place and took out another at random. This one was titled, "Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis." This book, she had heard of, though only vaguely, as a grimoire of dark sorcery. This book too contained scribbles and underlines on nearly every page, affirming the rector's fascination with the occult.

She put it back in its place and picked out another that had caught her attention. A book with a strong binding called "The Watchers and the Rise of the Nephilim." Again, a title with which she was vaguely familiar. Again, the pages full of barely decipherable notes and underlined text. A watcher, she recollected, was a sort of high angel referenced in various Abrahamic apocrypha, most notably the Book of Enoch. And she knew that a Nephilim was a hybrid bred from fallen watchers and humans, and, in the apocryphal text, often described as giant savage beasts bent on pillaging the earth and ending humanity. Leafing through the book, she found again pages filled with notes. This time, she tried to read what the note said, trying her best to translate it from German, word by word, but between the shorthand, and the messy script, she could not make out anything significant.

As she placed the tome back into its place, something caught her attention from the very edge of her vision. She turned and found a young woman wrapped in a thick blanket lying in a Lincoln-green chaise facing the windows. Lying as still as a marble statue. She was beautiful. Ageless. Her hair the color of sunlight filtered through the leaves of autumn birch. Her lips the ruby of apples. Her eyes, blue, were wide in frozen torpor.

Alarmed by the presence of the intently still woman, Rachel stood for a few seconds, holding her breath, unsure of what to make of the woman's stillness. Finally, she cleared her throat and politely greeted, "Hello, there."

The woman responded only changing the slow pattern of her breathing and tilting her head slightly. Intrigued, Rachel moved cautiously closer.

She was soft-skinned. She wore a nice blue dress a young German woman might wear on a Sunday stroll when the weather was nice.

As she leaned over the still woman, a voice from behind made her jump.

"Her name is Isolde."

Rachel spun around to find standing before her, a woman she never met, but who she immediately recognized as the rector of Heidelberg University. Her paying client.

"She is my daughter and I am Doctor Sabine Fischer. You are Doctor Rachel Blake, I presume."

Rachel nodded. "I am."

A thin smile came to the rector's face. "It is nice to finally meet you, Frau Doktor. If the basis of our meeting were more sociable, I would love nothing more than to pick your brain about your methodologies. Yet it is not. We are pressed instead by the rather morbid matter of finding a killer."

She motioned with her hand for Rachel to follow her into her office. Rachel glanced once more at Isolde as the office door went shut, her rather lifeless state a point of bother.

The rector found her seat at her desk, behind a mountain of books and papers scattered across its expansive surface. She was a thin, attractive lady. Her silver hair, tied back in a tight chignon, gleamed richly in the dim office light. In her blue eyes, the same blue as her daughter's, was the depth of wisdom certainly befitting the woman's esteemed position at such a venerable university. Normally indifferent at best towards her clients, Rachel could not help but feel admiration for this woman, the first female rector of Heidelberg University, and perhaps of any university in Germany.

Rachel sat, putting her tool case in her lap, her hands atop the case, and her cane through the handles.

"The Bundeskriminalamt was very resistant to your involvement in the case," said the rector.

"Oh?"

"Very much so. They were obviously, perhaps rightly - if you don't mind me saying - skeptical of your unorthodox methods. Do you know why I insisted on you?"

"I have my suspicions, but no."

"You have an extraordinary curriculum vitae."

"I suppose that's true."

"Your first time working with the police -- the case of the infamous Holcroft vampire."

"Yes."

"It wasn't a vampire, was it? As it turns out the man they accused of vampirism, was caught merely sucking the venom out of Holcroft's neck."

"He wasn't a vampire. He was a lover. The wife had set a viper loose in their bed after discovering their tryst."

"Seems obvious now, doesn't it?"

"Superstition can certainly enliven the imagination of otherwise capable police detectives. Such was the case of the well-meaning men of the NYPD."

"In this case, it took an occult mind to sniff out a crime that was most certainly not occult."

"As it appears."

"And in the case of the Satan worshippers of Zaragoza?"

"Pig blood. A lot of pig blood. How they got the blood in the woman's body was certainly a feat, to say the least."

"Yes. I've read the report thoroughly. How very fascinating. Then, of course, there is the case that brought you tremendous fame.

"Or notoriety, depending on your point of view."

The rector smirked.

"It took quite a creative liberty to solve it. And courage. A woman's courage, I might add. A string of rapes in Dublin by a veritable 'Jack the Ripper'. His victims skinned alive. The Dublin police were stuck on the case for years, and each year another woman lost her skin, left in such conditions that the good people of Dublin could not comprehend that the murders could be committed by anyone except the devil himself. You and you alone solved the crimes. And in record time."

Rachel nodded. "The Chief Constable showed an atypical obsession for his hobby," she replied.

"Which was?"

"Taxidermy."

"No one believed you. No one wanted to believe you. He was a man of the people and a good catholic.  They even tried to run you out of town.  They'd much rather believe that the raped and murdered women had somehow inflamed the wrath of Satan than entertain even the slightest possibility that their saintly Chief Constable of Dublin could have committed such grotesque acts. You alone, despite all who went against you, were able to produce evidence far beyond reasonable doubt that the dear Chief Constable of Dublin was the perpetrator."

"I did what I had to do."

"If only you were around during Jack the Ripper's time."

"A case I certainly would have thoroughly enjoyed taking on."

The rector's face knitted with amusement. A slanted smile curled on her face.

"Is that why you do it, Doctor Blake? Do you enjoy it?"

"I'm good at it, and I enjoy getting paid."

The rector nodded. She smirked. "So it seems. Yet there is one case that still eludes you to this day, isn't there? Perhaps the most important case in your life."

Rachel kept a straight face, but her hands tightened unconsciously into balls. A sudden uncomfortable heat flushed her face.

"Your sister, Emily Blake, enfeebled by polio her entire young life, was murdered at the age of twelve at a park in Boston. That is the real source of your drive is it not?"

"I beg your pardon, Frau Doktor, I'm not sure why that has any bearing on the case at hand," Rachel replied curtly.

"Forgive me, Doctor Blake, you have my condolences for what must be a dreadful tragedy, but I am also a psychologist. As such, I am quite intrigued by the motivations that drive us all. While tragedy can be life debilitating ailment for many, for a few it is a totem of talent. I always wondered what the difference was."

Rachel trembled. Anger began to overtake her, and confusion as to why this was a necessary conversation at all. Yet the rector persisted.

"You were with her at the park, were you not?"

Rachel did not answer. She merely glared and clenched her jaws.

"You left her for but a moment. A moment that would forever change your life." The rector's eyes glanced down at Rachel's cane. "That was the cane she used to help her walk, was it not? Her polio cane?"

Her eyes returned to meet Rachel's glare, composed, and filled with satisfaction at the response she received.

"It is," Rachel said, swallowing the knot in her throat.

"Peculiar that you would want to keep it. That you cling to it so, after so many years. But perhaps it is precisely the same fixation that drives you to succeed. I find that intriguing."

Rachel narrowed her eyes. She kept her voice as tepid as possible as she replied, "I'm glad I can be a point of intrigue, Frau Doktor."

The rector returned a thin smile.

"Well. There we have it. You are talented. You are driven. That, more than anything else, is why I insisted on you for this case. The men from the Criminal Agency don't have that spark that you do. They don't have the insatiable desire to get the job done. They are civil servants in it for the paycheck. You are in it because of what you've gone through."

"I will do whatever it takes to bring in the killer."

"Thank you, Doctor Blake. I trust you will take this case on with the same level of... panache, let's say, as you have always shown. The two gentlemen that were murdered were very dear friends."

She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out an envelope.

"That is a check for one thousand US dollars to cover your board during your investigation. The rest of it will be provided to you upon successful completion of your assignment. As agreed in our correspondence."

She slid the envelope across the table. Rachel palmed it and put it in her pocket.

"Thank you, Doctor Fischer."

"You're very welcome. Now, I do apologize again, but I have a schedule to keep, regrettably."

The rector stood. Rachel stood with her.

"I have just one question," Rachel said.

"Quickly."

"What afflicts your daughter?"

The rector gave a thinned smile. "Nothing. She is perfectly healthy."

"She did not give me that impression."

A shade drew across the rector's face. "Are you a medical professional, Doctor Blake?"

Rachel shook her head.

"Well, I am. I assure you; she is perfectly fine."

"She was alarmingly still."

"She had undergone a lobotomy of the prefrontal cortex."

Of course. It made sense. The lifelessness. The marbled eyes. The marbled face. Trademarks of a lobotomy. Rachel wasn't necessarily surprised by the revelation, only in the matter-of-factly way in which it was delivered. The practice was objectionable to her, not the least because of what it does to the mind but what it does to the soul. She has seen how a lobotomy breaks the soul.

Rachel did not betray her disgust with any emotive response. She kept a cool demeanor and replied, "I see."

At least Rachel could cross Isolde off the list of possible suspects.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Doctor Blake, I have other business to attend to. Good luck. Give Investigator Schmidt my due regards."

"Good evening, Frau Doktor," Rachel replied.

Passing Isolde on her departure, Rachel paused momentarily to look at the woman. A pit developed in her stomach. Isolde was beautiful. Angelic. A soft face. Soft, apple-red lips, once capable of carrying a beautiful smile, now forever bent in winsome indolence. Whatever ailed you before, I hope this is a less painful existence, Rachel thought, saying it in her mind like a prayer. 

The butler awaited Rachel in the entranceway. He opened the door for her.

"Auf Wiedersehen, Doctor Blake. And good luck," the butler said. His voice followed her like a shout in a cave.

When he shut the door, Rachel took out a cigarette and lit it. Gravel crunched under her feet as she walked through the driveway. A chill snapped against her skin. When she reached the gate, she looked back at the estate. Its sallow eyes glared hungrily.

The walk to the morgue gave her time and space to think. And in that time and space, in the pockets of the fog of her insomnia, her mind went to her sister Emily. She tightened her grip on her cane. She swung it more vigorously as she walked. The cane was a point of pride for her as much as it was a point of intrigue not just to the rector, but to all that knew of her. It was a part of her identity, not just in her private thoughts, but in the public sphere as well. She was the witch detective who spoke softly and carried a big stick. But the stick meant more to her than what the newspapers exclaimed. It reminded her of what she was, and what she did. Not a day goes by that she does not think about Emily's murder. They were feeding ducks at the park near their home in Medford, Massachusetts. Emily's bout with polio had become particularly bad, so she had been put into an institute in Boston. It was a rare Sunday that Emily got to come home, and Rachel got to spend time with her. Rachel had gone off to purchase cotton candy -- one blue and one pink -- and when she returned, she found Emily face down, half sunk in the pond, the muddied skirt of her Sunday dress pulled over her head, and her blood clouding the water around her. The cane was still leaning on the bench where Rachel left her. The killer was never found.

The rector's hunch was right. That murder singularly drove her. Her lust for vengeance was her lifeblood. But the rector didn't know even half of it. No one could have known that on a bitter cold full moon night at the foot of Emily's grave, Rachel prayed for vengeance and that it was not God who had answered her prayer, but an ancient demon named Sammael. She had made a pact with Sammael -- to find and mark ten murderous souls for him. He would give her the name of her sister's killer in return. No one could have known how unhesitant she was to take the deal.

Rachel found Schmidt standing outside the morgue. He had a blank look on his face as he smoked a cigarette, his eyes unblinking. The look of a man drowning inside. Despite that, he was handsome, and contained not an ounce of the swagger Rachel was accustomed to by his ilk. More and more, she found him to be a source of brightness in the never-ending gloom.

He greeted her in his typical aloof fashion when he saw her, then dropped his cigarette and stamped it out with a twist of his shoe before taking her into the morgue to see the coroner.

"Doctor Blake, this is Doctor Paul Bauer. Head coroner of the university morgue.

A short man with a round, gold wire-frame pair of glasses greeted them presenting a gloominess not unlike that of the people Rachel had met so far, but perhaps most apt for a man whose day-to-day job was to work with the dead.

Once they had all donned smocks, masks, and sterile gloves, Bauer guided Rachel and Schmidt to the morgue. He opened two square metal doors on a wall full of square metal doors and slid the body out on its metal tray.

"Doctor Otto Rauschenberg," Bauer announced as if to present Doctor Rauschenberg for a keynote lecture at a conference rather than his corpse.

Rachel looked down at the deceased man. He had the tell-tale look of a corpse vacant its soul, confirming her suspicion that she would not garner anything by using her henbane powder. Fortunately, corpses can be still useful without the soul, perhaps even more useful, considering how her experience with Schulz went. Even without a soul, the person's faded memory still lingers long in the brain. Even as decay sets in and the memory begins to fade, they may still provide information that a soul cannot. Thus, her vervain powder, which allows her to read memories, both of the living and of the dead, may prove useful now. She brought the coroner's attention to her tool case by lifting it for him to see.

"Do you mind if I conduct a... special procedure on the body?" She asked.

His face gathered in uncertainty. He glanced at Schmidt who said to him,

"Her procedure is completely non-invasive."  He glanced at Rachel for confirmation. "Right?"

Rachel nodded with an assuring smile.

Bauer straightened up. He bristled. "Well, Sabine certainly warned me about you. I was hoping it was nothing more than another one of her terrible pranks. It appears not, I'm afraid."

"I can neither affirm your hope nor allay your fears, Doctor Bauer. The procedure will only take a few minutes," Rachel responded.

"Fine," Bauer responded curtly with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Perform whatever nonsense you must."