Moldova

She's in Moldova.

And how do I know this? I had a rather charming chat with Remiel. Not to mention his delicious grandfather. Thought the name sounded familiar, fucker was the only nest we knew about in Shropshire. From the proxies, I think.

He didn't seem pleased to see me. Not a good host, tried to call the police when I turned up; as if breaking a window was some kind of crime! So I tazed him a couple of times. Fucker woke up tied to a chair, doused in gasoline. Soon as I got what I wanted, woof. I did say I'd looked into killing nests.

He tried to struggle, but stopped pretty soon when I dragged his grandad in, started working him over. Start with the fingers, snap snap snap. Then cut them off. The old guy was screaming pretty loud. It was irritating, so I broke his jaw.

Meanwhile, there Remiel was, babbling about not hurting his grandfather, that he'd tell me anything. Well, I'm a nice guy. Open to making deals for the common good. I would have been perfectly willing to stop hurting the old shit as soon as he told me what I wanted to know. The azoth was against that, but we made a deal. I stopped cutting for long enough to get a country. Moldova. Then I started again, slowly dragging the knife along the thighs. Cut myself some nice steaks. Maybe I should have waited longer, found out where in Moldova, but to be frank I just didn't feel like it. They screamed while they burned. 'Twas a sight to behold.

Ah, but Phillip. I hear you say. How do you know he wasn't lying?

Well, disembodied voice, I'll tell you. I'm not entirely stupid; before I burned it all, I found a nice stack of paperwork. Boring shit, payments owed and poor sons (and daughters) of bitches sent off to parts unknown. Only recent ones were in Ukraine. That, and an email to some sick fucker in Moldova from his computer, tells me all I need to know. Anyway, steaks are done. Then, next stop Odesa.