THE GYPSY REVENGE AFFAIR

SEQUEL TO:

The Gypsy Curse Affair

Spring 1969

“You have me to thank for this.”

Hearing nothing in response to his bid for gratitude, Napoleon Solo turned to glance back at his companion. Only a few paces behind, Illya Kuryakin was studying him with wry amusement slightly crinkling his expression. Even at this distance, the blue eyes clearly acknowledged the anticipation of the punch line. They really did know each other too well.

“Your talents know no bounds, Napoleon,” came the dry retort. “Neither does your ego.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he queried, not expecting that repost.

“You are suddenly responsible for the Alps?”

Certain his features displayed his lack of appreciation for the jibe, he replied with a sigh, “The cover, Illya, the cover.”

The Russian nearly smiled. “Oh, as bird watchers. Yes, next time I wish for a completely inappropriate fabricated story, you will be the first person I turn to.”

Curving through the end of the flower-strewn meadow, Solo ignored the mock-insult and stopped at a turn in the trail. Before them was a magnificent vista of mountains, forests, a lake and billowy clouds backdropping a breathtaking blue sky. The air was crisp and clean, the hint of a chill edging each breath. Snow still capped the majestic mountains beyond, with summer an anticipated visitor still weeks away.

“I think it was a great idea,” Solo breathed in, exaggeratingly appreciating nature.

“It is an improvement over furniture movers.”

“That idea worked.”

Kuryakin nudged him in the ribs with his elbow and gestured to the right. “I like the view over here as well.”

Through binocular, he studied a small valley below, edging the lake. Solo did the same, focusing in on their target with UNCLE special-issue micro-binoculars. They closed in on observing a building’s details with instruments more accurately comparative to telescopic sights than usual bird-watching equipment.

“It is quiet,” Illya observed suspiciously. “Too quiet.”

“It’s supposed to be a health spa for the very, very wealthy. They like things quiet. And I think THRUSH’s idea is a brilliant cover.”

“Your jealousy is showing.”

“Well, it helps that we know the spa is a fake. I’d feel pretty bad thinking we might be blowing up Elizabeth Taylor’s favorite retreat tonight.”

“Elizabeth Taylor, hmm? Just when I think I know you . . . .” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Look north, where the woods meet the lake.”

“What --?”

“Gypsies.”

Solo groaned as he focused on the targets. “I don’t like gypsies.”

As soon as the last word passed his lips a chill of frozen dread coursed through his veins. He shivered, dropping the field glasses and glancing at the back of Illya’s head. No reaction from his partner. It was all in his imagination, then. Remembering their horrible and strange experience last year in Germany with the old gypsy crone, he was chilled again. {fanfic- The Gypsy Curse Affair}

No reaction from Kuryakin at all! Well, then, he wouldn’t bring it up. But this twist brought an unexpected element of trepidation suddenly to the breathtaking landscape. To the heretofore thought-simple assignment. With a trickle of anxiety Napoleon stared again at the gypsies. He and his partner would never reveal it to anyone, but they had barely escaped with their lives last year in a strange encounter with a gypsy. A ghost gypsy. Her supernatural power had nearly killed him. This was Austria, however, not Germany. The old gypsy woman was dead.  Again. As dead as a ghost could be, he supposed. They had seen her disperse on the wind. Ghosts didn’t come back again from the dead/re-dead did they? Studying his friend, he wanted to ask if the Russian had any premonitions. He had caught Illya reading books on the supernatural this year, but Kuryakin insisted it was just rounding out his knowledge of a bigger universe, not gleaning tips on ghost hunting.

“I believe they are of a Romany clan.”

Illya’s matter-of-fact delivery was calm and reassuring. It helped center Napoleon on reality. That weird gypsy ghost was gone. He did not believe in hauntings. They were not in Germany where that old crone had claimed as her home base. Everything was copasetic. Then why did he feel suddenly so chilled -- as if from the inside a spectral wind swept along his tingling nerves.

Throat dry, but voice studiously neutral, Napoleon struggled for normalcy -- fought down the cold imaginings and tried to think of an ordinary response. He asked if the clan was important. Would the gypsy appearance influence their assignment?

Kuryakin felt it unlikely the mysterious travelers would have any impact at all upon their task. With or without the gypsies camped nearby, they would blow up the secret weapons factory in the new wing of the health spa estate. Twenty minutes later, they would be back in their rooms at their inn, no one suspecting their involvement in the sabotage.

***

After their reconnoiter, on the way back to their mountain chalet, they stopped in the nearby village to enjoy some ale at a beer garden. Seated at an outside table, they enjoyed the snippet of rural quiet and small hamlet life along with their beer, cheese and bread. Solo went inside for refills.  Illya watched the girl in the gingerbread-type cottage shop across the street placing flowers in a window box.

An icy wind stole through his bones as, in the window, the apparition of a withered old face nearly materialized. Faint and transparent, it was enough of an outline to make him tremble. Rising unsteadily, he changed angles, walking to the edge of the garden.  Now the face was gone. The icy remnants remained, though, and he clasped his arms, trying to return warmth to a body reacting to something beyond the physical world.

“What?” Solo asked when he returned with two more mugs brimming with beer.

“There was a draught over there,” Illya prevaricated, taking a seat at another table where he could observe the window across the way.

“Spring this close to the Alps is not shirtsleeve weather. Do you want to go inside?”

“No. This is fine.”

Kuryakin glared at the window of the florist shop, daring the ghost to reappear, wondering if he had really seen anything at all. Was he reacting to the unexpected, mysterious arrival of gypsies so near their target? No, there was no mistaking that chill through his marrow. It was just as last year -- the same horrible, wretched feeling -- as if the ghost was able to filter under his skin and touch his very essence. And that apparition -- he could never forget that face. The old crone was unmistakable no matter what vague form she took.

Unsettled, he sipped his beer, tried to appear nonchalant, and sought as much sense out of the disturbing vision as he could fabricate. She couldn’t possibly be here. All the research he had done on the paranormal indicated once a vengful apparition dispersed, failing in it’s mission, it might return for unfinished business -- but to the place where it was rooted. To the haunting ground. Angry spirits did not travel around the world chasing their victims!

Admittedly, study of the supernatural was not an exact science. How did he know anything at all, really? Did he have any defense against the vengeful old woman spirit?

“You’re very quiet.”

Kuryakin glanced at his friend and for the first time noticed Napoleon also seemed distracted. Withdrawn. Edgy. The American had been reticent since their recon trek. His attention was distant, his mind not fully here. Creeping dread shadowed Illya’s nerves with even greater impact as he realized Solo was off balance. Knowing his partner even better than he knew himself it seemed, he could sense changes in Napoleon's mood sometimes on a subliminal, perhaps even telepathic level. No words or even gestures needed to be exchanged -- their connection was deeper than anything conveyed on a physical plane.

Illya had noted nothing serious concerning with the mission. Then why the altered manner? It was simple. Was that making his partner uneasy? Was it something else? Kuryakin dared not mention anything about gypsy-visions now.

“Are you worried?”

“No – no,” Solo responded a bit too quickly. Offering a nervous smile, he supplied, “Maybe a little unnerved by all this natural splendor. I must miss the traffic.”

The flat excuse received only a nod from Kuryakin. There were more important things to worry about than ghosts. They were engaged in dangerous work tonight. Routine, but still hazardous. It was not the time to be distracted. What had Napoleon picked up on that he had missed?

“What are you concerned about?”

“Nothing.” Solo drew his attention away from the scenery and gave him a smile. “I have complete confidence in our abilities. Simple job.”

Kuryakin didn‘t want to jinx the operation by suggesting anything mystic. Nor did he want to be the only one going crazy here and seeing ghosts where there were none.

“Are you worried about the gypsies?”

“No.” It was a bit too quick and he sheepishly grinned, obviously chagrinned at the knowing look he got. “Okay, I have no fond memories of gypsies thanks to our – encounter – last year. But I don’t see them as an omen. And I don’t believe any ghosts are here to haunt us.” He was more confident with each word, slipping back into typical Solo-mode. “We’re a-okay to go for tonight. Piece of cake.”

Illya nodded, bolstered by the poise of his friend. “I agree. Piece of cake.”

***

Although he had secreted himself expertly behind a tree and under cleverly camouflaged leaves, Illya Kuryakin still cursed the cold. Lying on the freezing ground in a still-freezing/snowing European spring was not an easy assignment. He should have thought to bring a mat. There wasn’t time, of course. What else was new? The leafy covering provided nothing but a visual disturbance for the eye, nothing practical in the way of warmth. The tree only partially blocked him from the easterly wind that blew in off the snowy hills.

He should have switched jobs with Napoleon.

Without moving, he released small breaths to avoid any tell-tale condensation giving away his position. Carefully he listened. Without consulting his watch, he knew the guard would be passing along this path at any moment. The last guard. Then Solo would be clear for his escape. Napoleon was going to blow the building and there was little margin for error. That was why Illya had been glad to be the outer guard, protecting his partner’s back. It was a vital job that might mean Napoleon’s life or death.

The crunch of snow alerted him and the finger on the trigger of the Walther relaxed. He saw the tip of a boot come into view. The wind gust flared suddenly, sweeping the leaves into a whirlpool of litter and abruptly exposing his position. His pistol came up as another blast of wind froze him – literally. It was a cold that seeped under his skin and into his marrow like a double-edged sword.

Appalled, he watched the guard bring up his rifle and aim. Then the bluster pushed through him and he fired at nearly the same instant as his foe. The bullet slammed him back, tilting him over in the snow. Involuntarily he groaned, numb from surprise and pain. Dropping the pistol, he clutched at his leg, crying out quietly when bone-against-bone grated, filling him with agony.

Beyond the anguish of the wound, his mind reeled at what just happened. That wind – he had felt it before. A force never to be forgotten. The ghost of the gypsy woman had gripped him just then. As she had last year when she tried to kill him – no – tried to kill Napoleon.

“Napoleon,” he whispered, a new pain, growing inside, overcoming the hurt in his leg.

Hastily wrapping his wound with torn material from his trousers -- struggling -- he slowly edged up, holding onto his thigh to minimize the pain as he moved. Just over the hill was the factory where Solo was setting the explosives. Hardly able to toil along, Illya crawled forward, inching through the snow. At the crest of the rise, he watched, listening, holding his breath for a sign of his friend. Against the backdrop of the dimly lighted factory, he spotted a dark figure emerge from a second story window. Gratefully he sank down onto the cold ground, sighing in relief that his partner was all right.

Napoleon landed on the ground and stumbled, then fell. Kuryakin called to him, urging him to hurry. They had agreed on a short timed-delay for the bomb. Quick explosion required a swift get-away, but also little time for the bomb to be detected and disarmed. He quietly urged his friend to move! The front of the factory exploded in a ball of orange flame. Debris and fire shot from windows, doorways and the roof. Flames licked out, covering the spot where Napoleon fell. As Illya watched in horrified shock, against the background of the bright fire, the outline of a withered old woman slipped away from Solo’s prone form and dispersed on the ashes.

“Napoleon! No!”

Crawling, stumbling, Kuryakin scrambled over to the wreckage. Solo lay still, face down in the cold dirt. His black jacket smoldered from flame and shrapnel that had pelted him in the explosion. Barely conscious himself, fighting the pain and shock to his injured system, Illya dragged Solo away from the destruction. They rolled down a slope of dead grass and snow and tumbled to the bottom of the knoll. Kuryakin blacked out from the jarring pain. When he regained consciousness, senses swimming, he fought out of the blackness and dragged his partner away, edging from the burning structure to the quiet of the woods.

Behind a copse of trees he finally stopped, caught his breath and placed his hand on his friend’s chest. While in the midst of the chaos he hadn’t had the time nor the courage to check and see if his friend still lived. The whole journey had been focused on escape. Now he would learn if it had been worth the effort. There was a faint rise and fall of the chest, but even through the black tactical clothing he felt a terrible cold coming from his friend. Checking for a pulse on Solo’s neck, he found a faint, weak beat. How badly was Solo injured?

Turning him over, Illya was surprised and confused to find the shrapnel wounds were not bleeding. He shook his friend, trying to wake up the American. Napoleon had to be all right. What he had seen in the fire must have been a trick of the smoke. Ghosts did not come to wreck vengeance on people miles and months away from a first haunting. This was nothing other-worldly. This was simple UNCLE vs THRUSH. No ghosts need apply.

“Napoleon, come on. Wake up!” He flipped Solo over on his back and shook his shoulder. “I need you, partner! You’re our only way out of here! I can’t make it on my own. Napoleon!”

Panting, cold, weak, Kuryakin leaned against Solo, pressing his injured leg on the chilled ground, hoping to numb part of the pain. In the moments after the initial crisis, he paused to take stock of the surroundings, of the situation.  His leg hurt, but was no longer throbbing with agony.  Perhaps the cold was helping, or he was at a point beyond feeling his own injuries.  Holding onto his friend, he recognized a profound fear deep within him for his friend.  A murky terror welling up to overshadow his own condition.  How badly was his friend hurt?  Why wouldn't Solo respond?

Noises from the resort indicated rescue and fire units were arriving. Laboriously, he dragged his partner further into the woods. It was dark here.  Little moonlight shone through the thick trees and soon the lights from the fire, resort and rescue trucks faded. It was still and dank in this old, deep forest. An ancient iron fence blocked his path and Illya saw there was a gate a few meters away. Hoping there might be shelter in a yard or an old house, he dragged his partner along. Inside the gate, there was a pebbly path and he saw the outline of a square structure ahead.

Determination overcame the exhaustion and pain and he fought for every inch of progress as he edged them up to the building. Trees swayed in a gentle wind and occasionally freed lacy patches of moonlight onto the ground. As he dragged them up the stone steps a shaft of light fell on the front of the structure. An old, abandoned church, he saw. With a chill, he looked around spotting crumbling stone crosses and tombstones, now spooked he had brought them to a cemetery. Swallowing the knot of apprehension in his throat, he dragged them up to the nearest shelter -- a crypt. Steeling himself against the old superstitions, against the spidery-whispers brushing against his race-memories, he forced himself to move forward.

The metal, ornamented gate here was old and weak. One push against it broke the latch and he pulled Solo into the shelter of the cold stone enclosure. Resting against the crumbling rock wall, he tried using the communicator to call for help, but some kind of interference blocked anything but static. Taking several moments to catch his breath and regain some strength, he finally focused on his friend. Afraid to examine the injured agent, he worried at the total unconsciousness of the senior operative. Such a blackout could mean a serious concussion or internal injuries that would doom his friend.

Rummaging around for a flashlight in his kit, he methodically, slowly, went through a checklist of first aid, examining the victim for head trauma, chest injury, bleeding. What he found disturbed him more than gushing blood or obvious wounds. While not life threatening or too deep, the shrapnel tears should be bleeding moderately. They were not bleeding at all, though the back of the jacket was ripped and he could see pieces of metal protruding from flesh. There was little more than a tiny line of red around each jagged incision. Okay, he considered, releasing a shaky breath. Billows of freeze-condensed tension clouded before his eyes as he gravely studied his friend.

Napoleon was breathing, but shallowly, as if there was an obstruction in his lungs. There were some scrapes and lacerations along his face and scalp, but no evidence of fractures. And the skin – everywhere Solo was cold, tinted a sickly, pallid grey. Finally he checked the pupils and was startled to see the normally brown eyes were now glassy and opaque, nearly colorless. Fighting down the panic, he shook his friend, again appealing for Solo to wake up, to help with their rescue. To come back from wherever he was at now.

The eyes fluttered open, and Solo blinked, squinting, as if it was hard for him to see.

“How are you?” Kuryakin breathed out with profound relief.

“Cold.”

“Where are you hurt, Napoleon?”

“Cold.”

Head trauma. Shock, Illya was mentally screaming, afraid of how bad this could be -- knowing he was powerless to do anything to help his friend.

“Napoleon. We’re in trouble.”

“Are – you –“ Every word seemed a struggle. As if forming them and voicing them were painful beyond understanding. “– hurt?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I can’t get us out of here, my friend. I need your help.”

Napoleon reached out and touched his face. “Dark.”

“Yes, there is very little light. Do you think you can walk?”

“Cold.”

“I know . . . ."  His throat clogged with terror.  His partner was not focusing on his face.  "Napoleon," he hardly whispered, the trembling nearly chattering his teeth.  "Can you see all right?"

"Dark."

Taking that as a yes, Illya blew out a shuddered knot of air.  "Yes, but we must leave.”

Foolishly, they did not have much of a back up plan. It was supposed to be so simple. Nothing was supposed to go wrong. They should be back at the inn right now enjoying warm beer and toasting their toes by the fire. Their only salvation was to get back to the inn.

“Illya . . . .”

“I’m here.” He held onto Solo’s hand. “We’ve got to get to safety.”

“I’ll -- help . . . .”

Kuryakin was doubtful of their chances for survival already, but agreed.  He could use all the help he could get -- even in his partner's injured condition.  Solo’s first attempts at assistance proved him, unfortunately, right. The American could barely reposition -- coming unsteadily to his knees, staggering to his feet, then collapsing back to the ground with jarring pain.  Progress made an agonizing inch at a time. With each labored move Illya feared severe internal injuries. Maybe MORE internal damage.

The medical evidence made no sense -- Solo should be bleeding heavily and in shock. Instead, he did not bleed at all but seemed to be not in shock but in some kind of state beyond that. His skin was turning blue, his lips frosty. Death not-quite warmed over. Every movement was clearly a fight, but Solo fought valiantly.  After every crash to the ground, painstakingly he sat up, then used the wall to lean on as he edged his way to his feet. Reaching out, he grabbed onto Illya and unsteadily helped the Russian stand. At last, they made it away from the crypt. Illya realized he should have searched for a branch to serve as a crutch or cane, but didn’t consider it until now. Too late. He would have to rely on his partner, as he always did, for support.

Shaking, Solo held him tightly, taking most of his weight as Kuryakin hobbled along. The Russian muttered words of encouragement, of meaningless comment, but Solo did not respond. The American’s complete focus was moving one step at a time. His eyes were frighteningly pale and vague. A stab of terror shivered through Kuryakin and he wondered if his friend had been blinded in the explosion. He couldn’t even comprehend that awful possibility. When he asked his friend about his sight, all Napoleon said was that it was dark.  Terror gripped the Russian at what his friend had NOT said.  And Illya still worried about internal injuries, but knew there was nothing else they could do. He could not get out of this himself, nor could Solo. It was a tangible exercise in their symbolic and definitive unity as partners.

They wove through old, cracked, crumbling tombstones, slowly making their way to the fence. Using the iron railing as a support, Solo strained to keep moving. At the back of the cemetery, a gate led to a path stretching deeper into the woods; into a black vapor shrouding the territory beyond the graveyard. Solo hesitated, literally reeling, then walked forward. Pushing open the gate, he swayed, then stiffly fell back to the ground.

Illya managed to stay on his feet by grabbing onto the gate, but the sudden jolt jarred his wounded leg and he sagged from the pain. After catching his breath, he called to Napoleon, growing more and more alarmed at the still silence. Folding down to the ground, he shook his friend. There was no response. Solo seemed to be breathing even less than before, his eyes now grey, his skin turning the off-blue-grey pallor of the dead.

“Napoleon!” he could barely restrain the panic in his system from translating to the voice. “Stay with me!” No answer. He had to use whatever he could to get through, even if it wasn’t fair. “I need you, Napoleon. I can’t get out of here without your help.  You must save me!”

Solo’s trembling hand touched his face. “Can’t – see – clear . . . .”

“I’m here,” Kuryakin assured fervently, closing his eyes momentarily against the raw panic that burned tears of anguish. Napoleon WAS blind! Illya couldn’t bear the thought, but he could not allow the tragedy to affect him now. They needed to move, needed to escape the dreaded woods and reach safety. While there was no sign of pursuit or discovery, an elemental, soul-deep dread welled up within him at the thought of the darkness -- the woods. They needed to escape! Stepping back from the primal fear, there was the practical reality of the injuries. Both of them desperately required medical attention and it would take both their energies and efforts to find help. “You’ve got to walk for both of us. I’ll steer you,” his tone was as solid as his grip on his friend’s arms. He couldn’t think beyond this crisis to a future where Napoleon might not recover – might not live. “Don’t give up,” he pleaded.

Again, from some inner core Solo seemed to draw on an invisible fortitude and leaned up on his hands and knees. Groping out, his palm connected to the gate and he pulled himself up, Illya helping as he levered up to lean on the fence. Two steps and they were at the gate again, ready to head out into the woods. When they reached the trees, Illya would find a sturdy branch to use as a cane and take some of the burden off his partner. For now, Solo had to be the physical strength for both of them.

Trembling, Napoleon released the gate as he walked them out of the cemetery. Again, he swayed and Illya braced for another fall. This time, Solo pitched forward. Unable to stop the plunge, the best Illya could do was release his friend and fall on his left side, protecting his injured right leg. Impacting with the ground sent shock waves through his body and he momentarily blacked out. Groggily waking, shaking his head, Kuryakin looked up, and what he thought he saw -- what he saw -- took his breath away.

A misty white cloud hovered above Napoleon. It was part of him and around him like a fog. Did he imagine it, or was that an ancient face amid the mist? Slowly the vapor descended and smothered the recumbent agent, then disappeared, as if dissipating inside Solo.

“Napoleon!”

Scooting over, Illya checked for a pulse. Almost gone. The eyes were wide open, but now completely white. The skin was freezing to the touch. The most insane idea struck him. When Napoleon was in the cemetery he was better. Out here, both times, he collapsed and his conditioned worsened.

Beyond logic, operating now on complete panic and gypsy instinct, Illya ignored his agonizing pain and dragged Solo back inside the graveyard. As they entered, a ghostly freezing wind seemed to blow right through him. Napoleon was as still as the dead. He pushed on Solo’s chest to promote breathing. It seemed to help. Skin temperature fractionally rose and the eyes warmed to a tinted-pale brown.

“Napoleon, can you hear me?”

A curt nod acknowledged his cry. Beyond the gate, a pale vapor hovered, then slowly took on a familiar, if vague, form. It was the ghost of the old gypsy crone. Waiting outside. For Napoleon. How could that be? How could he ask for reason from the supernatural? Despite Illya’s research and his natural pragmatism, he knew this could not be happening, but was. The old gypsy wanted his friend to die.

He could not even believe this -- and would not if he had not lived through their horrific experience last year. Now the gypsy was back. Why did not matter. How did not concern him anymore. What he needed to know was how to destroy her and save his friend. There was no whisper of her voice inside his head this time railing threats against his American partner. There were no distinct features, but he knew it was their old nemesis. She waited there for them like a banshee, summoning death. It made no sense. As if any of this did. He didn’t understand how she could be back. They had banished her, hadn’t they? Why would she be lurking outside a cemetery in Austria?

Leaning against a tombstone, he was sure he was going insane. Weak and dizzy from blood loss, trauma and too many jarring falls, he fought to think coherently. It was madness to suspect they were being stalked by a ghost! That the ghost wanted revenge on his friend still. But it was the only explanation beyond the idea that he was insane and experiencing visions.

Too weak and disturbed to think it through clearly, he flopped over to lay against his friend, taking comfort in the shallow, but steady heartbeat; the regular rise and fall of Napoleon’s chest. He closed his eyes, hoping when he woke up the nightmare would be over.

***

Instincts alerted him to something foreign and threatening and Illya’s eyes popped open an instant before he was aware of his surroundings. He still lay against his friend, on the ground, in the cemetery. A light snow drifted over them, dusting their black clothes with specks of white. Napoleon’s eyes were still open and he stared up at the sky with lifeless vacancy. Shaking, entreating, there was no response form the American.

Illya’s first desire was to take care of his friend, but survival, as usual, took precedence. Listening carefully, he heard faint, muted sounds that must have been what woke him. Peering around, he saw feeble lights glowing through the thick forest. Someone was coming? He studied them for a moment. No. Not advancing. They were flickering. Lights – torches – campfires?

A search party from the resort, if anyone was left alive to hunt them down, would have been equipped with trucks and search lights and weapons. This looked more like a party of campers. The gypsies? His heart skipped with hope. His long-distance cousins of the road.

Considering they were in no immediate danger, he patted his friend’s chest. “Napoleon. Can you hear me?”

The American nodded. “Cold.”

There was a shift in the misty at the gate. As if it reacted to Napoleon’s voice. Illya watched it warily.

“I know. Napoleon, we have to leave. Do you think you can stand?”

“No. Cold.”

Yes, the mist changed shape when Solo spoke. Chills of dread coursed around him, but Illya knew there was no other recourse; they had to leave here. He was not going to bleed to death in a forsaken cemetery! He was not going to allow his friend to waste away in some kind of zombie-state, either.

“Cold – all cold . . . .”

The wraith nearly formed, a hint of the old woman’s face.

“Go away!” Illya hissed, angry and desperate. Confused and frightened, he knew he was insane to be talking to an apparition. “Leave him alone!”

There was no reply, but he could feel an evil presence. It was stabbing him with malevolent hate. It “felt” the same as the gypsy woman’s apparition last year, but there were no words, no thoughts. Just the hatred. Just the dire feeling that she wanted Napoleon dead.

‘He is so close now,’ he despaired, looking at his pale, still friend. ‘I won’t let you have him,’ he silently vowed. ‘If you come for him you will have to go through me.’ Considering that was probably a literal possibility, he grimaced at the ironic pun.

“I will not let you take him from me,” he hissed aloud, angry that anything -- even a ghostly presence -- would dare try to take away what was most valuable to him.

The mist shifted but did not dissipate.

Assessing his own injury, it was a relief that his leg was rather numb and not sharply painful anymore. Probably from the cold. He did feel light-headed still from blood loss and shock – all too familiar companions. Solo worried him most. Still freezing to the touch and insulated, as if he was separated from the pain and from this world. That kind of chilling thought was non-productive and he shoved it away.

“Napoleon, there are gypsies –“

Solo shivered and gasped. “No –“

“I think they can help us, my friend. We have no other aid –“

“Gypsies – kill – us – don’t – kill us –“

“Napoleon! We have no choice. You must help me get to them.”

“No . . . “

Cajoling, pleading, demanding slowly brought the incoherent agent around. Illya convinced him they had to try once more to leave the cemetery. Again they struggled up, holding onto tombstones or trees, or the rail – whatever it took to shuffle over to the gate. The transparent wraith shifted, loosely forming into a human-like shape. Solo trembled, shaking uncontrollably as they approached. Illya whispered words of encouragement – anything he could think of to keep up his courage and Napoleon’s.

At the gate, he felt Solo inhale a deep breath. They stepped out onto the dirt path and were both smashed with a cloud of freezing mist. Loosing his balance, Illya fell back, catching himself on the gate and saving his leg from another agonizing fall. Solo teetered on his feet for several seconds, then fell into the white vapor. Momentarily, he seemed suspended as his body floated above the ground. Then the mist closed around him. His body jerked violently. Illya instinctively grabbed his arm and yanked him back, using the gate as an anchor.

They fell to the ground, their shoulders crashing into a grave marker and Illya smashed down atop his friend. It took more time to gather his waning strength this time. He could not survive much more of these senseless and strange attacks. Laying against Solo, he noted there was little breath left in the American; the heartbeat so light he could hardly hear it when pressed against the near-silent chest.

A breath choked on a moan of despair. “Napoleon,” he whispered. “Hang on, please.”

His blue lips moved, but no sound was uttered.

“I promise I will get you out of this. Don’t give up.”

“Illya.” He gave a slow nod. "Illya."

"I'm here. I'll always be here."

Loud crashing sounded in the underbrush and he drew his Walther and waited. Men with torches came through the trees. He easily identified them as gypsies. Rescue was at hand. Still, he placed the gun next to Solo, within easy reach. They called out in rustic German, addressing a spirit. Illya rose to one knee and replied, giving a sign with his hands – a universal gypsy signal that he was a friend. The three men were astonished and asked his business in a cemetery.

He told them he and his friend were lost and hurt and needed help. The tallest and broadest of the men, a middle-aged gentleman with a burley coat and fur hat covering his head and most of his face, warily approached. His beard and mustache were dark and heavy. He asked why they were in the cemetery and warned they must leave before the witching hour.

“I had no idea of the time,” Illya responded truthfully, ironically, wishing to be away from here before the superstitious hour of midnight. “Please help with my friend.”

The other men approached, but none would come closer than a few meters from the gate. Illya noted the misty apparition was gone. Perhaps she did not like real, live gypsies. Struggling to his feet by levering up by the gravemarker, he begged their help. The spokesman relented and nervously entered the graveyard. When he looked down at Solo he stumbled back, hitting tombstones on the way as he raced back outside the rails.

“The mark of the possessed!” he cried in his guttural German. “He is taken by the angry spirits of the other world. Flee! Save your life!”

“He’s not possessed!” Illya insisted fervently, although he doubted his own conviction. Possession would explain the physical and emotional barriers surrounding his friend. The thought chilled him anew, but was a minor consideration. He was more focused on saving Napoleon’s life. Spectral details could wait until later. “Just help me, please!”

The man came to an impulsive decision and dashed in, grabbing Illya and carrying him out of the cemetery. The slight Russian fought to free himself, but the might of the big gypsy overpowered his feeble attempts. Twisting away, he slipped out of the man’s grip and fell hard on the frozen ground, blacking out almost instantly, before he could call his friend’s name – before he could warn them against the wraith that was back at the entrance to the cemetery.

***

Senses were overpowering before he opened his eyes or even came to full consciousness. The feeling of warmth and softness – the strong smell of rich coffee, smoke, animals and – stew? The strange, visceral scent/images confused him momentarily, sending his mind back to childhood memories and more confusion. Then the last, violent and sickening recollections returned – being taken away from his partner – and his eyes snapped open.

Inside a gypsy caravan, he recognized familiar trappings and clothing, blankets and jewelry that hung from curved walls. Talismans adorned with fur and crystal configurations were suspended over his head. From the window, he saw a roaring fire burned in a clearing and gypsies in thick coats were circled around the pit. Desiring to be on his way, he threw off the animal-skin coverings and examined his leg. It was covered in a stinking poultice, but felt warm, the pain numbed around his thigh. He also noted his clothing had been removed. First order of business, borrow some clothes. Next, he had to get back for Napoleon.

To his dismay, there were no men’s clothes in the cupboards within easy reach, only women’s thick, warm dresses. Wrapping up in the fur blanket, he sat up, moving the talismans out of his way, and scooted over to another drawer. Searching that, he was again disappointed. No appropriate clothes. This would amuse his partner in other circumstances. Perhaps someday, with the detachment of time and pain, he would relate it and they would both laugh over it. That seemed a far distant time now.

The door opened and a sturdy, weather-worn middle-aged woman entered. “You are still sick. Do not move too much.” She picked up the leather string with gems and animal fur and draped it around his neck. “For guard against the evil spirit. You have been too close to the other world.”

Her low German was inexact, and he didn’t bother trying to translate it into Russian. He understood her intent and he needed to get his across to her.

“My friend is not possessed. We can’t leave him out there in the cold –“

“He is beyond your help –“

“No he is not!” The desperation edged into his voice and startled her. He took a breath and locked himself into a reasonable, but immovable mode. “He needs help. If no one from your camp will go with me, I will go alone.”

Long moments she studied him. It was an effort not to squirm under her scrutiny, but he steadily held her gaze. Knowing there was nothing to lose and his friend’s life in the balance, he told her the bizarre and weird truth. He started from the encounter the last year with the old crone’s ghost in Germany. Then the events of tonight. Her demeanor was grave as she silently listened. At the end of the tale, she continued to stare at him with severe, dark eyes.

“This is an old hatred. Her quest for justice honorable.”

“A ghostly vengeance just? I won’t accept that. My friend did nothing to her or any of your people. He is a good man. He does not deserve revenge from this world or the next.”

There were many who would disagree with that statement of blind devotion, but he felt it as an absolute truth in his heart. Napoleon could be classified as a liar, cheat and killer, but all on the side of good. Moralistic grey areas aside, those unfavorable traits described their profession. Beyond that, as a friend, Illya could not ask for someone more loyal and true to him. Solo was part of him. Daily he lived with the fear that he would lose his friend in this dangerous business. He would not accept losing Napoleon to a ghostly vengeance.

“The past is the past. You must tell me what I can do to save him.”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“That is not good enough.” He ripped the necklace off. “Please fetch me my clothes.”

“You are too injured to leave.”

“I’m going back for my friend.”

She stared at him again. “What hold does he have over you?”

He would not, or could not, explain it all to this stranger. She couldn’t possibly understand. No one outside their partnership could fathom the bonds of devotion between them. The innumerable life-saving moments, the hazards and fears and impossible tasks successfully overcome by their unity. The jokes, comfort and security of having a solid ally at his back -- it was beyond definition. The relationship they forged was built stronger with each peril, each sacrifice, each moment of caring. He could sum it up closest in one word. Friend.

“He is my brother and I his.”

She gave a slight nod. “He is your soul mate.”

It was a bit too fanciful and intimately intense and possessive for his taste, but he couldn’t deny it. “If you will not help him, I will go alone.”

“What can you do against the old powers?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps nothing. But if there is nothing I can do, at least he will not be alone.”

Picking up the necklace, she handed it to him. “I will give you what I can. Take it to his resting place. At the witching hour, the ancient one will come for him. She cannot reach him now. He hides in the consecrated land. But at midnight, when time and space thin, when spirits move from one world to the next, then she will come. She will take him.” The woman put her hand on the talisman. “Place this on his neck and dust him with the herbs I give you. Then anchor him to this world. Soul mate. That is your only hope.”

The woman gave him warm clothes and he slowly dressed, thankful the poultice was keeping the numbness on his wound. He pondered her peculiar advice. Anchor Napoleon to this world? How was he going to do that? Some of the men accompanied him within sight of the cemetery. Able to put weight on his leg now, he limped quickly out of the forest. No ethereal mist blocked him. He wondered if the gypsy ghost had given up. He didn’t think they would be that lucky.

Hurrying into the cemetery, he breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw Solo was yet there. Sitting down next to his friend, he checked for a pulse, forcing down the terror at the death-like stillness and greyness of his friend. What was really spooky -- the eyes that remained open; unblinking, pale, unseeing.

“Napoleon, I’m here to rescue you.” He hoped the familiar line would serve as a connection, but it had no affect on Solo.

He sprinkled strong smelling herb flakes onto Solo, sneezing a few times from the strong odor. He felt a little silly, but admitted there was nothing to lose. If ghosts had a sense of smell that alone would deter their spirit-enemy! Maybe fighting an ancient evil with ancient hocus pocus would work. Nothing else had. Then he placed the talisman around Napoleon’s neck. He wanted to shake his friend out of the stupor, but instead gently held onto him, bending his head to touch Napoleon’s forehead.

“Napoleon, come out of it. It’s almost midnight,” he whispered, the impact of the terrible night creeping past his emotional blocks. This was their last stand. If the supernatural demons wanted his friend, this was the final battle. If it was all in the over-active imagination of a gypsy shaman, then it was close to being the end because Napoleon’s problems were probably severe head trauma. Without modern medical aid, he would not last much longer. "Please listen to me.  Can you hear me?  Come to the sound of my voice, tovarich.  Help me."

At least this way there was a chance. If nothing else, he could make the gypsies happy by giving in to their superstitions.  Then they might help him get Napoleon out of here. Yet, he had seen the gypsy ghost in the mist. He had felt her cold and saw the effect it had on his friend. Whatever was really happening, he knew this was his only option to save his partner.

The cold intensified and a blanket of vapor covered him. He had felt it before. The ghostly crone was here, blocking out the air. Shivering, he held onto Solo, begging his friend to stay here with him. She could not claim him, Illya maintained. Napoleon did not want to go with her to some evil Hell where she would torment him forever. His soul belonged here!

The brown eyes focused momentarily, and Solo blinked, cringing, as if in pain. He gritted his teeth. “Don’t – let – her – take – me –“ He cried out. “She – wants – take -- my – soul –“

Illya held fast. “You can’t have his soul!” He shouted bitterly. “You can’t have him!”

Eyes clouding over again, he gasped in pain. “You – can’t – have – my – soul! It belongs –“ he was wrenched with twisting agony.

The cold was so numbing Illya could hardly breathe or think. Napoleon’s anguished refusal snagged some mystic memory in his old gypsy blood. Anchor him to this world. Not just physically. Yes!  He understood!

“You can not take his soul! It is not his to give! It is mine! I own his soul! I have saved his life and cared for him! He has surrendered his soul to me -- it no longer belongs to him! It is mine!”

Solo jolted. A cold wind blew through Illya, knocking him to the ground. Shivering, crawled back to touch Solo's neck. Alive -- he was still alive. Napoleon was shaking and moaning, his eyelids fluttering.

"Illya?"

Illya held him tight, his hands feeling dampness. Drawing away, he noted blood seeping from under the American. Turning him over, he saw the shrapnel wounds were bleeding profusely. Solo groaned, wincing, his eyes blinking open.

"Illya."

"I'm right here."

Nodding, he slumped unconsciously against Illya.

Kuryakin called out to the gypsies for help. Several men responded, tentatively entering the cemetery. He wasn't surprised to see the gypsy seer woman emerge from the shadows of the trees. She gave him a nod of approval as her kin carried Solo from the graveyard and melted into the forest under the subdued moonlight

***

It was warm and comfortable where he was. Suspended on a pillow of air, he did not want to wake up -- knew what was coming soon. Napoleon had awoken under many circumstances, and he had a sixth sense for knowing if the situation would be precarious or pleasant, ugly or painful when he opened his eyes. Right now, everything felt comfortable and easy, warm and secure. Safe. There was a sense of someone close by and he could guess whom that was. In the past, in a dulled impression of a memory, he recollected something terrible, but that was behind him now. Everything here was fine. Except -- what was that terrible smell?

He opened his eyes, blinking into focus very concerned blue eyes close to his. He was lying on his stomach. Illya sat close beside him.

"Illya." A greeting, a relief, a sigh.

"Glad you are finally waking up. It took you long enough. How are you feeling?"

He gave a slight nod. "All right." He squinted, trying to place a recollection. "You were hurt."

"My leg. I'm fine now."

"I was hurt."

"As usual."

The flippant jibe was couched in anxiety and Napoleon knew it had been a harrowing experience for one or both of them. Slowly the memory returned -- the THRUSH resort, the explosion -- the pain. The terrible, indescribable cold that seeped all the way through to his soul.

"Did we win?"

"Yes," Illya gravely assured. "And you will be fine in a few days." At Solo's mute expression of inquiry, he replied, "Shrapnel wounds in the back."

"And you -- leg -- you hurt your leg."

"Much better. The gypsy seer used some poultice --"

"Gypsies!" Solo stared to sit up and for the first time noticed he was inside a gypsy caravan. He was bundled in furs and blankets and no clothes. "Where are my clothes?"

"Napoleon, it's okay. These are good gypsies. They're helping us."

Laying back down, he covered himself as if the fur would protect him from the threat. "You're sure?"

"Sure."

"What is that terrible smell?"

"Medicinal herbs," he smiled with delight.

"You're enjoying this too much."

"Yes."

"When can we leave?"

"Our communicators do not work in this valley. We will have to wait a few more days until the gypsies leave. Then they'll take us into town."

"You won't tell anyone about this -- smell --"

"No, your secret is safe with me."

"So is yours."

Illya raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

***

With a minimum of fuss, the agents were deposited at the edge of the small village in the pre-dawn. Still recovering, Solo waited in their car while Kuryakin cleaned out their rooms and checked out of the small inn. Still feeling the ache of his injury, Kuryakin was not inclined for conversation. Solo even less so as he continually shifted in the seat of the small VW. However, Illya sensed there was more to the silence and to satisfy his own curiosity, decided to pry.

“You are unusually subdued.”

“I had some strange -- dreams,” Napoleon admitted slowly. “Nightmares. Gypsies.”

Illya nodded, already decided not to go into the story about the ghost. The gypsies had not wanted to mention it and Kuryakin saw no need to bring it up. Let his friend believe the horrific events were bad dreams. The Russian, though, would never forget the terrifying reality.

“Ghosts.”

Fists tightened on the steering wheel, Kuryakin did not let his eyes leave the road. “They are just dreams.”

“Really,” came Solo’s dry response. “Then I guess we have nothing to worry about. Soul mate."

Slamming on the brakes, Illya pulled the car over to the narrow dirt strip along the mountain road. “What?”

Solo was solemn as he stared at his friend. “I remember very little, Illya. Most of it disturbing. Pain and cold -- I don’t think I will ever forget those sensations. Like never before.” He shook his head. “I’m not talking clearly or even thinking straight, yet, but I know it was rough. And I remember you. You said you owned my soul.”

A bit embarrassed at the melodramatics, Illya nonetheless would stand by his claim. There was no other explanation. The truth, no matter how disturbing, was always the best. “Do you want the full story or the condensed version?”

Napoleon quirked a hint of a smile. “Someday, in front of a blazing fire in a crowded bar, filled with several rounds of Scotch, I want the full explanation. For now . . . .” he shrugged, still maintaining intense eye contact with his friend. “There was a struggle and I knew if I -- you -- we -- lost it would be the end of everything. You said you owned my soul. I tried to answer you. No, I was talking to someone else,” he sighed, rubbing his face and staring out at the rugged landscape. “They wanted my soul, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Illya reluctantly replied.

“And you wouldn’t leave me.”

“No.”

“I tried to tell you -- no -- I told her --“

“You remember?” Illya grimaced. He had hoped Napoleon would not recall any of the horrible details of the supernatural threat. Especially the return of their supernatural foe.

“That old hag -- it WAS her!  She wanted not just my death, but my soul. She wanted to utterly destroy me,” Napoleon confessed darkly. His voice slightly shaky, he continued. “I told her it was a useless fight. My soul was already claimed.”

A different kind of chill encompassed Kuryakin. The kind that felt cold and warm inside all at the same time. A confirmation of a truth so deep he could not voice an expression to give it definition. The kind of feeling that seemed to touch every element of his being and leave behind -- like a quiet breath -- a nearly spiritual shadow.

“Yes,” he whispered in agreement.

A smile spread on Solo’s face and when he looked back, his eyes nearly sparkled with humor. “So that’s the price I pay for all your rescues? My soul?”

“I suppose it is,” Kuryakin claimed, not sure how much more he wanted to say now.

After the recent events, it was all too serious. Nearly losing Solo’s life and soul had left a raw wound in his own psyche and it would take a long time to heal from that. It was too soon to explore elements of unity that were probably too deep for discussion. Maybe it was all better left to the communications of spirits. Reading his mood as he did so well, Napoleon released a small sigh that seemed to convey he understood everything about the spoken and unspoken in their conversation and thoughts. As usual, so in tune with him that it almost qualified as mind-reading. Soul mates. It was scary how much the gypsies knew, he pondered with a shiver running down his spine.

Offering an amused nod, Napoleon settled back in the seat. The action brought renewed pain to his sore back and he shifted to ease the pressure on the wounds. “Then, in all fairness, considering all the rescues I perform, I must own your soul.”

“Not that many rescues,” Illya countered, playing the game as he started driving again.

“Want to start a count?” Solo challenged with a lilt of humor. “Soul mate?” He chuckled. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just stick with calling you Illya. I don’t think they would understand this at HQ.”

The Russian smiled. “I agree.”

The jesting mood faded quickly, as Illya pondered the complexities of their experience. No one outside of this partnership could ever possibly understand their soul deep commitment to each other. The threats and fear of loss that scarred him with every mission where his friend was hurt or missing stayed with him long after a safe return. The devastation when it seemed he would not have Solo around anymore rarely faded.

Soul mate. It explained it all, he concluded.

THE END