"Why don't you ever get these great ideas when they'll do us some good?"

Illya sighed. "But that would take all the challenge out of life," he said.

* * *

Napoleon's chosen path wound among widely spaced trees which rose up out of sight into the mist. The woods seemed terribly silent, as if the trees were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. His feet made no sound as they sank into the damp dirt of the forest floor. The yellow cone of light from his lantern stood out through the mist and swept soundlessly over the trees and bushes and the bare earth of the path he was following.

Then the air began to move about him, and the trees began to whisper and mutter to themselves, as a strange directionless wind moved down among them. It stirred Napoleon's hair and plucked lightly at his clothing. And then he saw something standing in the path ahead of him. He stopped, and focused his light on it.

It was tall and black, surrounded by curling tendrils of fog which enshrouded it with ghostly white. Then, as Napoleon stared, part of it moved down slowly, revealing a death-white face with flaming eyes. The figure lowered its arms and took a deliberate pace towards him. Napoleon took half a pace backward and stopped. The face which caught the light from his lantern and the eyes which threw the light back were those he had seen in the cave, those he had seen in a miniature painting of a man dead two hundred and fifty years. It was the Count Tsepesh Stobolzny.

Napoleon took another step back as the Count came forward, the shadow cast by the lantern rising behind him great and black as his cloak billowed about him. He stopped ten feet away, and a slow horrible smile contorted his face. Solo's hands dived for his shoulder holster and flipped out his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He held the gun low enough that the other man could see it in the light and said, "Okay—stop right there or I'll shoot."

A moment later he realized he had spoken in English, and repeated in Rumanian, "Opreste ce va spun ori trag!"

The Count's lips parted and a ghastly dry creaking laugh welled from him as he took another step toward Napoleon and reached out a gloved hand. He was so close his teeth were clearly visible—the two canines unnaturally elongated and pointed, almost like fangs.

Napoleon's fingers spasmed on the trigger of his automatic and it roared in the silence of the forest—once, twice and again, slamming solidly against his hand.

The Count took a small step back, then looked down at the gun. His bloodless lips opened and a gust of demoniacal laughter rang among the trees. He raised his arms and spread them wide, and his cloak fell from them like great black wings for an instant before he clapped them down and leaped.

Napoleon fell to his knees and fired again as the Count soared over his head. A moment later he heard a last burst of laughter echoing down through the fog from somewhere high above him, but the Count had disappeared into the darkness.

He was still on his knees on the ground when his transceiver whistled.

"Napoleon, are you all right?" It was Illya's voice. "Was that you shooting?"

He fumbled out the little silver rod and extended the microphone clip. "Illya? Yes, I'm okay—I think. It was Count Tsepesh again. I'll tell you about it when I see you."

"Okay. I found where the path starts downhill. Shall I start back up to meet you?"

"No. Just keep a sharp eye on everything around you—and above you. And, ah, if you see something in gray and brown running down the path toward you, don't shoot, it's me."

"I'll be waiting."

"Oh, and Illya..."

"Yes?"

"If you do have a silver crucifix, I suggest you hold onto it tight."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they were standing side by side where the path curved over the edge of the hill and started down again. The long walk through the woods and the passage of time had given Napoleon a little more perspective on what had happened, but he was still upset. He had described the entire incident to Illya with as little emotional coloring as possible, and Illya had made no comment of any kind.

Now the Russian agent was leaning against a tree, having just removed the clip from his automatic. Napoleon couldn't quite tell what he was doing with it, though, and asked.

Without looking up, Illya said, "Napoleon, you understand that I am not superstitious, and I am not falling prey to the blind unthinking terror which seems to grip less sophisticated people than we."

"Yes...."

"And I want you to be sure that I fully agree with you that there is a rational, logical explanation for everything that has been going on."

"Yes...."

"So for the time being I have rationally and logically decided to carve a cross on each of my bullets."

* * *

Some minutes later they started off downhill again. The fog grew gradually lighter as they descended, and after some time only an occasional wisp came past them like a vagrant spirit. The forest was silent, and both were beginning to breathe more easily. Eventually the path would come to a road, and along the road would lie a village. And there would be hot food and warm beds, and safety. The long night was almost over.

And then their necks pricked and their hands started for their shoulder holsters almost together as the forest darkness was filled with a sound—a sound which they knew and remembered.

It was the howl of a hunting wolf.

Chapter 12: "You're Looking Inscrutable Again."

Neither one of them said anything as they slowly turned to look at each other. The howl was echoed to both sides, and then a fourth gave cry ahead of them. They were surrounded.

Napoleon extinguished his lantern at once, and Illya slipped two fingers over his to cut down on the light it gave. Now they both had their automatics in hand, ready to fire. The U.N.C.L.E. Special had, among other qualities, the ability to fire double-action, without working the slide by hand. This had saved Napoleon's life on more than one occasion, and might again. It is generally bad practice to run through a dark forest with a cocked gun in your hand.

When they heard the soft sound of feet padding along the trail behind them, Illya said quietly, "I believe it's time for a tactical retreat."

Napoleon was darting quick glances into the darkness around them. "You mean you think we should run for it," he said.

"Yes," said Illya, and another howl echoed from the night.

They began to run.

The light from the one flash picked up the path before them, and the black shades of trees and bushes fled past on either side. The wolves gave no further tongue after the four howls that had warned them, but there were sounds back in the brush of heavy bodies crashing through dead undergrowth to either side of the trail.

Once Illya's light caught two green sparks from something too far to be illuminated, and both guns barked flame as the eyes disappeared. They ran forward, and found nothing but the pad marks where a great wolf had crossed the trail. They looked around, even directing the light among the trees, but saw nothing more.

Neither of them was about to go off the path to look for more targets—they had too much the feeling of being targets themselves.

The path had leveled off, and the forest was more open, but low dense clouds still covered the sky. Napoleon's lungs began to ache with the cold, and his breath formed puffs of vapor which blew about his ears and hung in the air behind him as he ran.

And even as they ran, they heard sounds behind them that told of deadly pursuit. A deep and vicious growl which seemed to be almost at their heels added to the speed of their flight, and heavy panting and once in a while a barely stifled whine stayed close behind them.