Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

I watch the wolfman stalking through the trees ahead of me.

He’s mostly wolf now. His forelimbs are of nearly equal proportion to his hindquarters, with only hints of the sloping humped spine that is usually prominent when he ambles along on all fours. He moves with the grace of a natural-born predator, almost silent as he passes through the underbrush.

If I were to encounter him suddenly, I would never guess that a man’s form lurked not so deep beneath the surface, and yet . . . and yet . . .

I shake my head, closing my eyes and grinding my teeth. Why can’t I fully banish that memory from my mind? That memory of being held in powerful arms, cradled close to a strong, warm chest. It was terrible, so terrible. I’d felt as helpless as a mewling kitten.

But at the same time . . . Oh gods! It’s been so long since anyone held me. Since I experienced that sensation of safety and shielding. I’ve always been the strong one, ever since I was a child. Strong and self-reliant, the protector and provider. When I was quite little, Valera did the best she could to shield me, but she was scarcely more than a child herself. She offered everything she had, but she had so little, and I learned not to ask for more.

But in those few moments after passing through the gate—moments so bright and alive with sheer, heart-pounding terror—is it wrong that I also felt such a wave of comfort? As we lay on the forest floor, and I pressed my head against his chest and listened to the thump of his heartbeat . . . is it wrong that I wanted to continue lying there? Just a little longer. Reveling in the sensation of arms bigger and stronger than my own wrapped around me.

For a few breaths at least, I didn’t have to be the strong one.

Foolish! These are dangerous thoughts, dangerous feelings. I know better than to let myself depend on anyone. Ever. Dependence is weakness, and weakness is a luxury I can’t afford.

Besides . . . I look again at that huge, shaggy, terrible animal prowling up ahead of me. What kind of an idiot would take comfort in the arms of such a monster?

With an effort of will, I push these thoughts down and slam the lid tight. I really ought to have found a holly bush and opened one of the Hinter Paths back to Granny’s house. But Granny did give us until sundown, and it’s only a little past noon now. We have time for a more leisurely route, following whatever trail Dire manages to sniff out for us. And while he may not be the best of company, he is, at least, silent.

So I stroll along at an easy pace and keep my mind firmly turned away from things I shouldn’t be thinking. Instead, I let myself remember those days long ago when I was a madcap child making dashes into the Wood, daring myself to go just a little further each day. Back then, the secrets and shadows beneath the trees had seemed full of tantalizing possibilities which I could never name but which, if I closed my eyes, I could almost taste.

Those were good days. At the end of them, I always got to return to Valera and her scolding. I knew both where I belonged and where I wanted to escape to.

Not like now. Now I just belong to Granny. And as for escape? There is no escape. Not for me, anyway.

After a while, I notice Dire is slowly transitioning back into semi-human form. His easy, trotting wolf-pace transitions into something more lumbering and awkward. Eventually, he begins to walk upright again, dragging his long arms behind him.

“I think it’s time we took a rest,” I call out, breaking the silence that has hung between us for several hours now.

The fur down his spine ripples. He turns, fixing those intense, yellow eyes of his on me. My heart gives an extra thump of fear, but I take care it doesn’t show in my expression. “Here’s as good a place as any,” I say, indicating a young oak tree near at hand. A living oak, not like the poor dead thing in which the owlkin roosted. I feel a wave of friendliness roll out from it as I step into the shelter of its branches and take a seat among its roots.

Dire, however, stands aloof. His face, still mostly wolfish, has traces of humanity around the jaw and brow. His eyes are narrow, and his tail twitches faintly. “We should keep going,” he growls.

I adjust my seat to get more comfortable and shoot him a swift look. “Oh, come on. I don’t know about you, but I’m in no rush to get back to Granny’s!” I pull my waterskin from my belt and take several large gulps. When I’m through, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Want some?”

To my relief, the werewolf shakes his head. I’m not sure how a mouth like his would drink from a waterskin anyway. I’d probably have to pour it out in a stream and let him lap it as it fell. Which would be awkward. And a waste of good water.

Instead, I reach into another pouch on my belt and pull out some hard deer jerky, tossing a piece the werewolf’s way. He snatches it a little too nimbly in his jaws, then seems to realize what he’s done. For a moment, embarrassment flashes across his face. He turns away quickly, but I can hear him gnawing away at the jerky.

I take a bite of my own piece and chew thoughtfully, leaning my head back against the oak tree. When all is said and done, this hasn’t been such a bad day. Compared to yesterday’s mission, facing down the Quisandoral was practically jolly. Actually . . . I rather enjoyed it. The hunt. The adventure. The rush of blood. The real, raw feel of life one feels after such a close brush with death.

Reaching into the front of my tunic, I pull out the apple again and turn it around slowly. It is beautiful, strange, and ethereal. I can sense the old magic rippling from it. What kind of magic exactly, I couldn’t say; I’m not particularly knowledgeable about such things. But it’s definitely old. And potent.

What kind of spell does Granny need it for?

Frowning, I glance up and meet Dire’s yellow wolf-eyes fixed on me. “What?” I demand.

He grunts and growls like he’s clearing his throat. Then he opens his great red mouth and a rough, animal voice emerges through sharp teeth. “Are you going to turn it over? To her?”

“What, to Granny?” I heft the apple, toss it lightly three times, then return it to the safety of my tunic. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

“You shouldn’t.” The werewolf turns his heavy head to one side. Is that a note of . . . pleading I hear? It’s so hard to tell. Wolf voices weren’t meant for pleading. But the human side of him is creeping back more swiftly every minute now.

“Shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t,” I say with a shrug and a lift of an eyebrow. “You know I haven’t got a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“Not where Granny’s spells are concerned.” I sigh, my jaw hardening. “Remember, you’re not the only one sworn to her service.”

To my surprise, Dire rises from his haunches and stalks closer to me. The oak tree shivers and wafts its branches in a subtly threatening manner. Dire pauses, his nostrils flaring, his gaze shooting up at the tree.

“It doesn’t like you,” I say, adjusting my seat on the roots, which ripple uneasily beneath me. “Oaks only like humans.”

“I am human.”

I shake my head. “Maybe once. Not anymore.”

Dire licks his lips with a long red tongue that flicks across the end of his black nose. Then, with a snarl, he steps closer. To my surprise, the tree merely shivers again but otherwise makes no further threat. Is it afraid of him? I start to gather myself together, ready to rise. But before I can get my feet under me, he drops in a crouch in front of me, reaches out and takes my hand. I’m so shocked by the gesture, I freeze, my mouth gaping, my eyes wide.

“There’s always a choice,” he says again. Suddenly I realize that his eyes are human again; gray and glittering with . . . are those tears? Surely not!

I try to pull my hand away, but his grip firms. “It may not be much of a choice,” he continues. “It may not be more than an instant’s worth of resistance. But . . . but I’ve seen you make that choice; I’ve seen you resist.”

My dry throat thickens. I blink, and in that instant of darkness behind my eyelids, I flash back to the moment in the forest when I had the red werebeast in my sights. The red werebeast I’d been compelled to hunt, to kill.

But I hesitated.

I’d resisted.

Not long.

Just long enough.

My lashes rise. “Seven gods!” I bite out viciously. “It’s not as though it does any good. A moment, a breath . . . even an hour or a day! In the end, Granny will have her way. There’s no stopping her.”

“There is. There is!” Dire squeezes my hand tighter. There’s terrible strength in his half-animal fingers. “Maybe not for all of us. But you’re different. You are of her blood.”

“What?” With a gasp I wrench my hand free. His long claws scrape along my skin, and I yelp at the sudden pain. He looks surprised, ashamed, and backs away, hunching into himself. “What are you talking about?” I demand, shaking my hand and pressing it against my chest. “You think because I’m her granddaughter I can . . . what? Break her binding over me? Ha! Don’t get your hopes up.”

“You could do it.” His voice sinks into that awful pleading. “If you really wanted to—”

“Oh, you think I want to be at the old witch’s beck and call all hours of every day and night? You think I want to be her tool, her . . . her . . . her slave?” I stand and step away from him. The oak, responding to my distress, moves its roots threateningly around Dire’s feet until he’s forced to back away, beyond the circle of their reach. He gazes at me, his expression dark, his human eyes still strangely wolfish in their intensity.

“None of us want this,” he says. “But the rest of us truly have no choice. You do. You may not like to admit it, may not like to face it. But deep down, you do have a choice. And I think you know it.”

I want to spit curses at him. How could he even suggest that I would choose this enslavement? That I wouldn’t fight tooth and nail against it if I thought I had even half a chance at freedom?

I reach for the apple inside my tunic again, my fingers brushing the crisp, hard skin. What if . . . what if he’s right? What if I could resist Granny’s thrall? After all, there is some truth in Dire’s words. I am born of Granny’s blood, so I do carry at least a small measure of her power inside me. And Mother Ulla—the ward witch back home—she said several times that both Valera and I carried power inside us. I’ve seen Valera’s power firsthand, and it is incredible, if not exactly honed.

If she possesses that kind of power, isn’t it possible I might too?

Slowly I withdraw the apple and hold it in front of my face. It’s so perfect, so pristine, more like a delicate glass ornament than a real apple plucked from a real tree. It would smash so easily. I could crush it in my own hands if I tried.

And what does Granny want it for anyway? Something horrible, judging by Dire’s desperate expression.

Closing my eyes, I search down inside myself, trying to find the strength, the courage to destroy the apple. I’m no coward, after all. I never have been. Valera used to say I was brave to the point of reckless. I could use that recklessness now. I could draw my arm back, hurl this apple, watch it break into a thousand juicy pieces against the tree trunk. Then return to Granny and tell her that I won’t be made into her errand girl or assassin-on-call.

I could . . . I might . . .

I want . . .

I want to turn right now and run into Whispering Wood. And run and run and run and never look back, losing myself in those shadows. I want to not be this person. This terrible person I’ve somehow become.

I want . . . so much . . .

But it’s all foolishness. And I know better.

Letting out a long breath, I tuck the apple back in the front of my tunic. Granny’s bindings are too strong. Dire can believe whatever he likes. He might think I’m weak, spineless. But he’s not standing in my shoes. He doesn’t know.

I turn and face him. There’s enough humanity in his face that I can see the disappointment fading away just before it’s masked behind a wolfish grimace.

“Go on,” I say. “Lead the way, wolfman. We’ve got to get back to Granny’s before sunset.”

Dire blinks once. Then he rises and, using his elongated forelimbs for support, lumbers off into the trees, following his nose as he sniffs our way. I shoulder my bow, adjust the set of my quiver, and fall into step behind him. The apple weighs heavily in the front of my tunic. Like a stone lodged where my heart should be.