Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

Dawn has come.

The dawn of my first day of freedom in twenty years.

Dawn of the day I will probably die.

I stand in my human form, naked before the gates of the witch’s house. It all feels surreal somehow. As though these moments must be happening to someone else, not me. After twenty long, excruciating years of torment, of slavery, how can I possibly be here? How can this possibly be now?

Perhaps it’s all just a dream.

I look down at my naked self. Only a little bit of cloth hangs loosely from my hips, a pathetic excuse for modesty. I tremble in the cold air, gooseflesh rising along my bare flesh. It won’t be long before the fur begins to regrow, however. My freedom from Granny’s thrall does not mean freedom from my beast-self, after all. That lesson I learned long ago, at great cost.

I close my eyes. Trying not to feel. Trying not to hope. The truth is, it’s been so damn long since I was my own master! Even if this so-called freedom can only last a day or two, I can’t help myself. I want it. I want those precious hours, those precious moments of knowing I belong to myself and not to Elorata Dorrel.

I wait, peering through the iron bars at the nothing of her world on the other side. The sun rises slowly, spreading golden light through the trees, but when it falls through those bars, the light cannot penetrate more than a foot or two. But I can feel Elorata approaching. In the same way I might feel the looming threat of a storm.

Suddenly, she appears before me. And my heart lurches at the sight of her.

She is breathtaking—like an angel come down from the heavens, clad all in a gown of white belted with silver, her hair loose about her shoulders, falling nearly to her waist in wave upon wave of rippling crimson. Her face looks gentle, almost saintly in its softness, in the curve of her sweet mouth and the roundness of her chin and cheek. Beholding her, a painter would long to create works of holy art, a poet to write a sacred sonnet, a musician to compose an oratorio to the holiness of beauty.

This is Elorata as I first met her. All those years ago, when I first braved the shadows of Whispering Wood, searching for . . . for . . .

A bolt of pain lances through my head. I can’t remember. I never can.And when I close my eyes, when I try to see that face I once knew so well, all I can see is the poor, twisted creature whose head is now mounted on the witch’s wall.

I open my eyes, meet Elorata’s gaze. She’s still just as beautiful as she was a moment before. But the spell is broken, never to be restored. I know her for the devil she is.

She smiles prettily. “Dawn is upon us, my beautiful Dire.” Her gaze travels up and down my exposed body. She shakes her head and tsks softly, regretfully. “By the seven gods, how it pains me even now that it should have come to this! Will you not repent of your stubbornness? Will you not return to where your heart belongs?”

My lip curls beneath my beard. “My body may have belonged to you,” I growl. “My service and even my soul. But never my heart.”

“Ah, but it could have! It should have.” She takes a step nearer, bringing her face up to the iron bars. Her sky-blue eyes gaze into mine, limpid and alluring. I feel the glamour going out from them, as powerful as any fae’s charm. But I hardened to her tricks long ago.

The sun breaks suddenly through the trees, shining full upon me, warming my nakedness. In that same moment, I feel it—the last of my bindings disintegrating. The sensation lashes through me, like lines of fire under my skin, and I cry out, fall to my knees, the pain overwhelming everything else.

Then it passes. My darkened vision clears. I’m staring down at the ground between my two hands, listening to the rough breath heaving in and out of my lungs. I shudder, close my eyes, force back the sickness rising in my throat.

My twenty years of service is complete.

I’m free.

“I could have loved you, you know.”

I wince at that lovely, sultry voice caressing my ear. With a growl, I lift my head, stare up into the witch’s eyes. For a shocking instant, I see something true shining behind her glamours. A real and painful sorrow. She shakes her head and extends a hand between the iron bars toward me.

“I could have loved you. Truly. Deeply. I could have given you my whole heart.”

Her fingertips hover in the space just before my eyes. It would be nothing at all to lean into her touch. And I know just how soft that touch would be, how gentle and yet how full of promise of stronger, sweeter sensations.

I pull back. Panting, I get to my feet, sway heavily where I stand. I’m weak as a newborn pup. But I belong to myself again. Whatever life remains to me, however twisted with curses and fear, I will never again take that belonging for granted.

Elorata withdraws her hand, gripping the iron bars so tight her knuckles stand out. She bares her teeth, and her glamour cracks, revealing a glimpse of the truth—a glimpse of the haggard, wizened shell of a woman who has seen far too many years of vicious magic. The image vanishes in a blink, however, and the glamour redoubles, her beauty almost strong enough to knock me off my feet.

“Very well, sweet one,” she croons through her teeth. “You’ve made your choice. May you not regret it in your final moments. Now go! You have until the sun reaches its zenith. Then your head is mine.”

I don’t want to break her gaze. I don’t want her to know that she can still frighten me. Not now. But time is passing. If I’m to have any chance at all . . .

I turn and flee into Whispering Wood.