The Oboe Player Must Die!
an excerpt

“You know him don't you?” Vjeko said sometime later. He was sitting on the edge of the seat in the railway carriage compartment which he shared with Lazar for the journey from Bucharest to Vienna. The journey would take about seven hours, and Lazar was now sitting with a newspaper opened to the classified section. He was using a pencil and writing arcane and mysterious phrases in the thin margins. Biting the top of the pencil, so that he could hear the wood crunch between his teeth, Lazar looked over at Vjeko, who had closed his eyes, and seemed to be sniffing the air, for what, Lazar could only guess. “What do you mean?” he replied as he poked through the thin paper, and tore a hole in it. Perhaps he should have used note paper instead. “You are at least somewhat acquainted with....... Number Six.” The train clattered through the darkness of the forest, passing small villages, their windows shuttered with here and there a field of cabbages, or a wood cutter slowly making his way back up the hill. Lazar turned his face to the window. Number Six. Dimitrijević. It then dawned on him that he also had a number. “Because I was....... Number Eight.” he said. At this, Vjeko silently but quickly removed the revolver from his brown canvas satchel where he had placed it. He stood and slammed the business end up against Lazar's forehead, pinning his head against the wood paneling that came down to meet the top of the red leather seats on the railway car. “You are..... Number Eight?” Vjeko's eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and disgust. “Was. Was Number Eight...” said Lazar carefully. For some reason, he didn't find the gun pointed at his face to be particularly disturbing. “What is the difference?” whispered Vjeko, not expecting an answer, his eyes boring into Lazar's skull, where he was about to put hole in. “Perhaps you're now... Number Seven?” “What do you mean?” said Lazar trying desperately to remember what it meant to be Number Eight, or Six or Seven for that matter. He wondered whether there were other Numbers too. “You know better than I do.... Eight!” Vjeko hissed. The whistle of the train blew a harsh shreik, signaling that they were pulling into one of the stations along the way. Vjeko blinked, lowered the gun, sat down, and stared at him again with those penetrating eyes which seemed to search his face to try to see his soul. Lazar assumed this was because he must be thinking. “If you are Eight why do you then hate Dimitrijević? Why do you hate Number Six?” Vjeko said cautiously. “I don't know..... but I will get my revenge on him some day. After I take my revenge on the Archduke.” said Lazar, not realizing where the words came from. Vjeko looked out the window at the scenery flying past the window of the carriage. “Revenge” he said quietly. One question still troubled Lazar though, and it wasn't his past. Whoever he was, he knew his past was darkness, perhaps he had forgotten everything for a reason. He couldn't forget his hate though. It seemed to be one of the few things which had carried on from his old self, but then he wasn't even sure of that. “Why does Dimitrijević want the Archduke..... killed?” Lazar said that last word killed with a bizarre sense of blandness. It somehow fit him, like he was used to saying it. Whoever he was, he would then take his revenge on the Archduke, and then on Dragutin Dimitrijević. With a half chuckle Vjeko smiled at the ignorance of this would be killer “Killed?..... you can't kill the Archduke Rudolf. No. He's already..... Dead.” the expression on Lazars' face went through it's whole repertoire, finally fixing on a blank astonishment with a tinge of rage. “The black hand only.... terminates anyone they believe to be a Derikoža. A Vampir.” finished Vjeko. He handed his gun to Lazar. “hostis lamia generis ex machina. It means Enemy of the Race of Vampir from a Machine.”