Nightwinger's Lethal Lullaby by Anca Antoci

Chapter 1

Ella

Most mornings smelled like wood polish and old books. This morning smelled like cinnamon and ambition.

Ella Martin leaned across the inn's dining table, pen in hand, scribbling notes beside a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs. The coffee in her mug had gone lukewarm, but she sipped it anyway—too wired to care. Her notebook was a battlefield of underlines, arrows, and a big, looping title at the top: Dracula Inn Christmas Gala.

Opposite her, Sebi Trifa looked half-awake, hunched over a steaming plate of fried eggs, crispy bacon, sliced tomatoes, and wedges of telemea—the salty white cheese sweating lightly beside a thick slice of bread. He stabbed at the eggs like they'd wronged him in a past life.

"I'm just saying," he muttered, "you might be taking this whole party thing a little too seriously."

Ella didn't look up from her notes. "No such thing."

"You color-coded the candleholders."

She circled something aggressively on the page. "And?"

"And you need a hobby," he said, chewing. "One that doesn't involve table runners or threatening to enchant the playlist."

"I only said I could enchant the playlist. Big difference."

He grinned into his mug. "You were about to bind it to that vintage speaker in the wine cellar."

"It has excellent acoustics."

Ella dropped her pen and sat back, scanning her notes while her coffee went cold beside her. "Camelia put me in charge. I want it to be good."

"It will be good," Sebi said, snagging a piece of her toast. "Even if it turns into a disaster, you'll just wave your magic hands and fix it."

"I shouldn't have to fix it. I want it to go right."

He shifted in his chair and tilted his head. "Everything's been going right. Which, for us, is suspicious."

Ella's smile slipped.

Since Vânatori, life had been peaceful—the kind of peaceful that made her twitchy. No dead livestock. No strigoi. No sky-fairies clawing at the edge of reality. Just tourists, bookings, and an overworked kitchen staff.

She'd stopped scanning crowds for threats. Stopped carrying three protective charms in her coat pocket. For the first time in months, she slept through the night.

And still, something in her gut told her not to get used to it.

"Don't worry about the menu," Sebi said, kicking his boot up on the chair beside him. "I'll talk to Aneta. She's been cooking since Vlad the Impaler was in diapers."

Ella chuckled. "Bless her soul. And stomach." She glanced down at her notes again. "Lighting, table runners, carolers—what am I forgetting?"

Sebi pointed with his spoon. "You're not forgetting. You're spiraling."

"I'm not spiraling."

"You color-coded a punch bowl."

She tapped her pen against the paper. "People notice the details. The holidays are about memory. We want them to leave with something they'll talk about."

"Like when the vampire inn gave them salmonella?"

"Exactly like that."

They both laughed. For a moment, everything felt light.

The dining room was quiet except for the soft clatter of dishes and the muffled hum of the kitchen. Outside, snow dusted the windowsills, and the muted sounds of the resort waking up drifted in—footsteps on old stone, laughter echoing up the narrow street, the distant bark of a dog.

Sebi followed her gaze to the windowsill. Ginger lounged there, a splash of orange against the pale light, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking with lazy precision. He hadn't moved all morning except to steal a piece of Sebi's bacon and judge them silently for it.

Sebi smirked. "You know, it must be pretty cool. Being able to talk to your cat."

Ella's pen stilled.

She adjusted the edge of her notebook, then nudged her mug a fraction of an inch closer. When she spoke, she kept her eyes on the table. "That was… temporary."

"Temporary," Sebi echoed. "Right. Because last I heard, you had a full mental line to the orange fluff ball over there."

Ginger's tail paused mid-flick.

Ella rolled her shoulders, then reached for her pen again, tapping it once against the paper. "It faded. Now he's just a cat."

"Uh-huh." Sebi leaned forward, lowering his voice as if Ginger couldn't hear him anyway. "You're telling me you had the chance to chat telepathically with a cat and you just… opted out?"

She sighed. "I'm grateful. He saved my life. I'll always look after him." Her fingers tightened briefly around the pen. "But having a voice in my head out of nowhere? It was strange. I grew up without a familiar. I'm not used to sharing mental space."

Sebi studied her. "You did a binding ritual, though. Blood, incantation, the whole dramatic thing. You don't just trip into that by accident. You could do that again. Right?"

"Yeah. I know." The edge in her voice slipped out before she could stop it. "And I'm not in danger now. I appreciate having my mind to myself."

He leaned back, unconvinced. "Feels like not appreciating cool gifts," he muttered under his breath.

"I heard that."

She shot him a look, chin lifting. "I don't need a familiar."

The words barely settled before a soft thump sounded beside Sebi's chair.

Ginger sat there, ears angled slightly back, eyes fixed on Ella.

"Oh," she said. "Hey."

The cat turned away from her pointedly and hopped onto Sebi's lap instead, curling into a tight, indignant loaf.

Sebi blinked, then laughed. "Wow. That's cold."

He ran a hand down Ginger's back, voice dropping into an exaggerated baby croon. "Did you hear that, huh? Mean witch doesn't know how good she has it. Such a poor, unloved fluffball."

Ginger kneaded Sebi's hoodie with visible commitment.

Ella stared at them, heat creeping up her neck. "Oh, come on."

Sebi grinned. "You hurt his feelings."

"He's a cat," she mouthed.

"He's a sensitive cat."

Ginger flicked his tail, the tip thumping once against Sebi's leg.

Ella looked away, suddenly very interested in her notes again. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Sure you didn't," Sebi said, still petting Ginger. "You could lighten up, though."

She huffed. "Traitor."

Sebi chuckled, then reached for his mug. "Anyway. Speaking of lightening up—I think you need yoga."

"Excuse me?"

He dug into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a folded flyer, dropping it onto her notes like it weighed nothing and everything at once.

"New guy opened a studio in the resort," he said casually. "Cute little place—candles, woven mats, smells like pine and sandalwood. I was dropping off Camelia's dry cleaning and stopped to say hi."

Ella raised an eyebrow.

"I figured," Sebi went on, "since I was already running errands, I'd offer to take a few flyers back to the inn. Guests love that wellness stuff. He tipped me twenty lei just for chatting and taking the flyers to put in the lobby."

She smirked. "You do radiate chaos."

"I have good energy," he said solemnly. "The man said so."

She glanced down at the flyer.

Călin Toma—Breath of the Sky.

Breath. Movement. Balance.

It looked glossy and harmless—the kind of thing printed on recycled paper by someone who charged extra for filtered water.

"Breath of the Sky," she murmured. "That's a weird name."

"They all are," Sebi said. "The weirder the name, the better the reviews."

She dropped the flyer next to her plate. "The Christmas party is my only spiritual journey right now."

As if on cue, the lights above them flickered.

They both looked up.

"Totally normal," Sebi said.

Ella froze. "I didn't do that. I think."

"Old wiring. Eat before your breakfast gets cold."

A waitress approached with a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, her tone polite but stiff. "Ella, can you help with the stockroom labels? We ran out of preprinted ones, and I heard you've got good handwriting."

Ella blinked. That wasn't exactly front-of-house work, but it wasn't the first time the team had to multitask.

"Sure," Ella said, brushing crumbs from her skirt.

As the woman walked away, Sebi watched her go, brow furrowing. "Is she new?"

"Lidia," Ella said, stretching her neck. "She's the only recent hire. We're desperate, and no one's responding to our job ads. Camelia even asked a couple of locals if they knew anyone looking for work."

"Yeah, well." Sebi leaned on the table. "She gives off weird vibes."

Ella raised a brow. "What, you don't like her?"

"She looked at you like you were something stuck to her shoe. Then asked for your help like she was doing you a favor."

Ella snorted.

"Want me to introduce you?"

Sebi made a face. "Hard pass. She's got full-on mean-girl energy. You didn't see the look she gave you when you weren't watching."

Ella waved it off, but the moment stuck like lint. "She's probably just overworked and tired. We all are. I'd better go help her."

"Mhm," Sebi said, stacking up the dishes. "Watch your back with that one."

Ella glanced back at Ginger, still firmly settled in Sebi's lap, eyes half-closed. For a fleeting second, she thought she felt something tug at the edge of her awareness—warm, offended, unmistakably feline.

She shook it off.

"Everyone's tired," she said. "See you later."

Sebi nodded.

Ginger's eyes opened, just a slit, and followed her as she walked away.

Chapter 2

Felix

Rain lashed against the frosted windows of Precinct 4, a steady percussion that blurred the world into shades of gray. Felix Goia sat behind his desk, but he wasn't looking at his files anymore. He was staring at his watch.

He had twenty minutes to get out the door if he wanted to catch the florist before they closed. He wanted something bright for Ella—something to counter the gloom of the shifting seasons. The past few weeks had been a blur of missed dinners and half-promises. He was tired of being the man who only showed up in her life when he needed a favor or a place to bleed.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed his left pinky—the one that had been severed to force Ella into compliance. The residual magic had grown it back, but it felt wrong. Itchy.

A knock at the door shattered the thought.

Felix sighed as the front desk officer poked his head in. "Inspector. Captain Lupu wants you. Now."

Felix's jaw tightened. He didn't ask why. In Precinct 4, "now" usually meant the peace was already dead.

He found Radu Lupu behind a desk that looked like a museum exhibit—spotless, imposing, and cold. The captain was immaculate in a tailored black suit, the crimson pocket square a sharp puncture of color against the dark wood. The air carried the scent of cedarwood and that underlying musk of the vârcolac that always made the hair on Felix's arms stand up.

"Close the door, Felix. Lock it."

Felix obeyed, the click of the tumbler sounding like a starting pistol. Radu didn't reach for a file; he reached for a bottle of bourbon and two crystal tumblers.

"You don't drink on duty," Felix said.

"I'm not on duty. I'm a friend helping one of my men cover a scandal." Radu slid a glass across the desk. "Sit. Sorin Iacob came to me an hour ago, off the record. His wife is missing."

Felix felt a phantom itch between his shoulder blades. He knew Sorin. They'd worked a few cases together. Sorin was a man of few words and a heavy hand—a veteran patrolman who treated his uniform like a second skin.

Felix stilled. "Alina? Since when?"

"Last night. He claims he got home late from his shift, they had a 'minor disagreement,' and he went to sleep on the sofa. When he woke up, she was gone. Her car is still in the driveway. He already checked with friends and family, and no one knows her whereabouts. That's when he came to me." Radu's eyes darkened. "I have no doubt he's hiding something, and that's why I want you to look into it before it hits the logs. If he snapped and buried her in the woods, I want to find the dirt on his boots before he washes them."

"Sorin is steady, Radu. He's a rock," Felix said.

"Rocks break under enough pressure, Felix. Go see him."

Felix stood, the bourbon untouched. "In that case, I'm not sitting here theorizing. I'm going to his house."

"Felix," Radu warned, "keep it surgical. If the neighbors see an inspector tossing a fellow officer's home, the rumor mill will outrun us."

"If anyone asks, I'll tell them I'm bringing him a bottle of comfort," Felix said, grabbing his coat. "And I'll pull the patrol car logs for Sorin's cruiser from last night. I want to see if he took any 'unscheduled' detours into the forest."

The Iacob residence was a modest cottage on the edge of the old town, the wood darkened by the downpour. Felix didn't knock like a guest. He used the heavy, rhythmic beat of a man with authority.

The man who opened the door wasn't the polished officer Felix remembered. Sorin Iacob looked like a ghost of himself. His hair was a bird's nest, and his eyes were bloodshot—not from drink, but from the kind of jagged exhaustion that comes when you're afraid to close your eyes. He wore a gray undershirt with a faint yellow stain on the collar.

"Felix," he croaked.

He didn't step back to let him in. He just stood there, guarding the threshold of a house that suddenly felt too large.

Felix didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped into the warmth of the hallway, his boots tracking in the mountain rain. "Radu told me, Sorin. I'm here to find her. But you need to start being honest with me."

"Couples argue and then make up. We're no different. She's gone, and I can't find her. I'm worried sick. I already told the captain everything," Sorin snapped, but his hands were shaking.

A quick look around showed no signs of struggle.

Felix moved through the place like a man measuring for a coffin. He ignored the living room and went straight for the master bedroom. It was too quiet. He knelt by the wardrobe, sliding the heavy oak door open.

He didn't look at the hanging dresses. He looked at the floor of the closet and was drawn to the negative space. In the corner, there was a rectangular patch of dust-free wood—a clean silhouette against the faint layer of grit that covered the rest of the floorboards.

"Sorin," Felix called, not looking back. "What usually sits here? In the corner of the wardrobe?"

The officer appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if his legs couldn't quite hold him. "What? I don't… I think her blue duffel bag. The one she used for weekend getaways."

"Okay," Felix murmured. He stood, his eyes scanning the rest of the rack. "And where is it now?"

"I don't know. I assumed she took it. If she left me, she'd need clothes, wouldn't she?"

"With no car?" Felix stepped toward him, invading his personal space. "The rain was a deluge last night, Sorin. You're telling me she packed a heavy duffel bag and walked out into a mountain storm? To go where? There isn't a bus stop for three kilometers."

"Maybe someone picked her up," Sorin snapped, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Maybe." Felix walked past him, heading for the kitchen. He opened the back door, looking at the muddy path that led toward the main road. No clear footprints—the rain would have scrubbed them—but he noticed the way the gravel had been kicked toward the gate. "I have to ask this: has she left you before?"

Sorin shook his head. "She always threatens, but it's just words said in anger."

"But if she was angry enough to leave, where would she go? Her mother?" Felix remembered Alina was from Brașov.

The man nodded, then added, "She's not there, man. I checked. Her mother is worried too. That's how I know something happened. If Alina was that angry, she would at least tell her mother."

Felix pulled out his phone and dialed Dinu, their IT guy.

"Dinu, it's Felix. I need a favor," he said, lowering his voice. "Off the record."

"Does this favor involve me losing my job?" Dinu asked teasingly.

"It involves you being thorough. If it makes you feel any better, the order comes from Radu." Mentioning the captain's name usually made hard decisions easier. "Sorin's wife went missing." He paused, giving Dinu time to process it.

The man snapped to attention. "Tell me what you need, Felix."

"I need a filter on the ALPRs for the north and south exits. Focus on the 02:00 to 04:00 window."

"Her car is in the driveway, Felix. I can see it from my window," Sorin said, pulling the curtain away.

"I'm not looking for her car," Felix said, his gaze fixing on Sorin, who was now staring blankly at the empty spot in the wardrobe. "I'm looking for a car she might have been in. Check every vehicle that left town—private cars, taxis, delivery vans. If that blue bag left this house, it didn't walk away on its own. Dinu, cross-reference any plates that aren't registered to the resort. Check her mother's license plate and check that against the logs. And run Sorin's personal plate and his cruiser's ID. I want to know if he crossed the resort line at any point after his shift ended."

He hung up, the unease in his gut turning into a cold weight.

"You think I did something to her." Sorin's despair leaked into anger.

Felix massaged his temples. "What I think is irrelevant. If you have nothing to hide, then you should be glad we can rule you out." He didn't truly believe Sorin was involved in Alina's disappearance, but he would leave no stone unturned. And he really hoped he wouldn't have to fight a friend to do his job well.

"I know." Sorin's tone was defeated.

Felix didn't sit. He stayed on his feet, moving through the cottage with a restless energy that forced Sorin to keep turning to face him. He pulled a small, battered notebook from his coat pocket—not the official digital tablet, but the one where he kept the notes that didn't always make it into evidence lockers.

"Give me her circle, Sorin. You know the drill. I want names, her maiden name, and current addresses for her mother, her sister in Brașov, and that cousin she lunches with on Fridays. Whoever you can think of."

"Yeah, I know the drill, and I told the captain I called them!" Sorin's voice cracked with frustration, a jagged sound in the quiet room. "They haven't seen her. They think she's at home with a migraine."

"You know how it is. People lie to husbands, Sorin. They don't usually lie to inspectors with a warrant," Felix countered, his pen scratching rhythmically against the paper. It was a white lie—he didn't actually have a warrant, and he really hoped he wouldn't need one.

He wasn't just recording names. He was trying to build a map of her sanctuary. In his experience, a woman who packs a bag after a fight isn't looking for a grave; she's looking for a couch. He'd seen it a dozen times—the "conspiracy of sisters," where a wife is tucked away in a spare bedroom while the family plays dumb to give her a head start and some peace and quiet.

"Think," Felix commanded, his gaze unreadable. "Does she have a secondary bank account? A credit card you don't share? What about her routine—did she have a gym locker? A post office box?"

"No. I don't know. We… we share everything."

Felix didn't believe that for a second. Nobody shares everything.

"What was the 'disagreement' about, exactly?" Felix asked, his tone dropping into a deceptive, low-frequency calm. "Money? A third party? Or was it the shift work?"

Felix was looking for triggers. He watched Sorin's hands. If the officer reached for his wedding ring or rubbed his neck, he was stressed. If he looked toward the kitchen, he was looking for an exit.

"It was nothing," Sorin whispered. "Just… the usual. I'm never home. And when I am, I'm not in a good mood. Something I said, or didn't. Or the way I said it. She's lonely. I stopped listening after a while."

Felix noted the word lonely.

"When she leaves, where does she go to clear her head? Does she have a 'spot'? A trailhead? A café where the waiters know her name?"

If she hadn't left town, she was in her safe space.

"She likes the old ruins," Sorin said after a long silence. "Up past the inn and up the mountain. She says the air is different there."

Felix paused, his pen hovering. The ruins. That was dangerously close to Ella's territory—and even closer to the places where the shadows of the resort didn't behave like shadows should. But not in this weather.

The questions continued, and Sorin tried to help, but they soon realized he didn't know his wife that well.

"I'm going to need her passwords," Felix said, snapping the notebook shut. "Email, social media, and the cloud. If she's hiding, she's leaving a digital trail. And Sorin? Give me your phone. I want to see the last texts you sent her."

The request hung in the air—a cold demand. It was the ultimate test. In the world of the police, handing over your phone was an act of surrender.