Whatever sort of crime Alexander Tremont had committed as a Guardian, Christopher Turner, whatever he was like, wasn’t the same person. Hadn’t they realized that yet? It was no different than what Anwar had done to him, and that was only because he was related to Celeste. Had Anwar known that Catalin was Celeste’s successor, he probably would have killed Catalin on the spot. All because of a pendant.
He stewed over it, gradually getting more and more annoyed, until finally, at 8:00 in the morning, the train pulled into the village of Little Valeria.
As Victor said, the weather was comfortably cool, and the village itself was the kind one might see in those pretty but boring paintings. Catalin had read a little about it, but it was too long ago for him to remember much. Only that the villagers ignored most of the technological developments in the capital: they not only made a selling point out of their organically-grown produce, but capitalized on the tourism their rustic appearance brought them.
From the train station, they trekked to the other end of the village, far past the foot traffic of the main streets. As the houses grew further and further apart, Victor intoned, “All right, we’re here.”
At the very least, it wasn’t the secluded shack that Catalin had pictured throughout the train ride. But the upkeep of the house looked quite ignored; shingles hung loose from the roof, and the paint seemed to be eroding from the walls.
Victor knocked twice. After waiting a few beats, he knocked again. Nothing. At length, he opened the door.
“It’s not locked?” Catalin asked.
“No one locks up around here,” Victor explained with a shrug. “Let’s go on in. They won’t mind us waiting in here… they know me.”
“They’re probably at church,” Saphie conjectured. “It’s about that time of the morning.”
“His family, maybe.” Damian looked around the house with obvious distaste as they stepped in. “He doesn’t go to church. He should be home.”
“Maybe he went out,” Victor guessed.
“He doesn’t ‘go out,’” Damian protested.
“I can look around for him.” Catalin almost didn’t realize that it was him who had spoken.
“… you sure, Cat?” Victor gave him a searching look. “You don’t have to.”
“No, I want to,” Catalin said. It was better that he find Christopher Turner before they did, anyway. Better? How is it better? There’s nothing I can do, and more importantly, it’s not my problem.
“If you want to, go ahead,” Victor answered slowly, gesturing around the house. Catalin nodded and stepped into the backyard.
He regarded the shed that stood at the end of the property warily, every rational bone in his body telling him that he shouldn’t be going in. But it seemed like the only place left where anyone would be; the house itself was small, and lacked hiding places. And apparently, Catalin wasn’t listening to reason anymore. Sighing, he made his way towards the shed.
“Don’t move.” The harsh voice behind him stopped him, and a sharp point pressed against his back. “Turn around. Slowly.”
Catalin straightened sharply. “I-I was just…” he began, not sure what excuse to give.
“If you’re going to complain, don’t come into other people’s houses uninvited,” the voice snapped. “Turn around.”
Not sure of what else to do, Catalin complied. Holding up his hands, he slowly turned back towards the house, locking eyes with a boy his age, maybe older. The boy’s hair was so pale it seemed to lack color all together, and his bright green eyes jumped out in contrast. As he got a look at Catalin’s face, the long, double-ended spear clutched in his hands wavered, lowered a little.
“You…” Fear crept into the boy’s narrowed eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“… I’m… sorry… um…” Catalin managed, suddenly forgetting why he’d come in the first place. “I’m-”
“I know who you are,” the boy said, almost automatically. “Why are you here?”
Catalin steadied himself, trying to look as if he wouldn’t run if given the chance. “Are you Christopher Turner?”
“And if I was?” The forcefulness returned to the boy’s voice. “What would an important person like Lord Kasshen want with a traitor?”
