Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

Time for me to go.

Just as the sun reaches the highest point in the sky above, I step through the iron gate, leaving Granny’s house behind me. Granny isn’t here, thank the gods. I’m not sure I could bear to look her in the eye just now, not sure I could stand to hear her speak in that gracious, controlled voice of hers. My limbs are shivering, my veins pulsing with the compulsion I am bound to obey.

Whatever Dire may once have thought—whatever power he believed flowed in my blood—I know the truth. There’s no backing out of this hunt.

I close my eyes, trying to remember how to pray. It’s been so long since I bothered, so long since I sought aid from the gods. From anyone. Why should I expect the gods to help me now?

A crackling of underbrush. I open my eyes just as Conrad emerges from the Wood into the clear space before Granny’s gate. Gods on high, he’s bigger than I remembered! Almost as tall as Dire in his werewolf form, and nearly as broad too. Armed to the teeth, clad in leather armor, an intimidating presence whom even the fae would hesitate to cross.

I meet his gaze and nod grimly. “So. You’re working for Granny again, are you?”

He comes to a stop in front of me and blinks slowly. “Aye.”

My lip curls. “How do you like being my grandmother’s watchdog? Is it as fun as it looks?”

That one good eye of his narrows slightly. “Pay’s good.”

Is that a trace of defensiveness I hear in his voice?

I step around him and make for the forest. No point trying to engage in conversation. Besides, the day is lengthening, and my quarry’s head start is only growing the longer I delay. Best to get this hunt over with.

It isn’t hard to find Dire’s trail. I watched from the shelter of the garden when he broke from Granny and fled into the Wood, taking note of where he vanished among the trees. In the human form he wears at dawn, he’s not as stealthy as he is by this late in the day when his monster shape is dominant. I easily find broken twigs, stirred up leaves, and even one distinct footprint in the dirt. That footprint I immediately distrust, fairly certain he planted it purposefully to point me in the wrong direction. I’m not so easily deceived.

His real trail seems to lead in an altogether different direction. Part of me hopes I’m wrong, part of me hopes that I will fall for his tricks, giving him that much more time to put distance between us, maybe even to escape altogether. But no. I know what I’m doing. And with Granny’s compulsion driving me, I have no choice but to do it well.

I set off swiftly, pursuing the trail, Conrad falling into place several yards behind me. He offers neither counsel nor critique. He merely follows. It’s a bit unsettling, but I’ve grown somewhat used to having every footstep dogged over these last three months. A small part of me might even be glad he’s here. His presence keeps me from sinking too deeply into thoughts I dare not let myself think, keeps me from feeling the sickness churning in my gut. I must stay present, concentrating on the needs of the moment.

I am a huntress. No more. No less. And Dire is my prey.

It isn’t long before the werewolf’s trail leads me through a familiar part of the Wood. At first, I’m not sure why it’s familiar, only that something about this place makes the hair on my neck prickle. Every little sound—a breath of wind through the branches, a rustling of leaves as a squirrel darts past—makes me jumpy.

Then I step into a clearing. And my heart drops to my stomach.

I do know this place. I remember it all too well. The broad canopy of dead branches overhead. The bulging roots beneath the soil, no longer full of life and vitality. The huge hollow trunk and the gaping hollow in which even now an owlkin is probably sleeping.

I stand frozen in place, my jaw hanging open. The whole adventure seems to play out before my vision. Dire climbing that trunk. The owlkin emerging, its long-fingered hands grasping the edge of the hollow. The flash of talons, the heart-pounding terror. All of it comes back to me in a flash.

We survived that encounter. Together.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. I’m being foolish. I’m reading into this, but . . . I can’t help feeling as though Dire led me here for a reason. As though he’s trying to tell me something.

Conrad steps to my side, huge and solemn, his hand on the hilt of his big hunting knife. “There’s something in that hollow.”

I nod. “An owlkin.”

He turns his head sharply, fixing me with the stare of his one good eye. “In truth?”

“Yup.” I adjust the set of my quiver and turn away, striding back into the trees. “But that’s not our quarry today.”

Conrad growls. As a professional Monster Hunter, it must gall him to let a creature like that live. But no one is paying him to make an end to it. Ultimately, he follows me.

I pick up Dire’s trail again, once more noting how oddly clear it is. He’s not making any effort to disguise his progress. I worked much harder when I pursued the red werebeast months ago. But Dire is no fool. And the further I follow the winding route he leads, the more I’m sure he’s doing this on purpose.

The trail takes a turn, and I push through a stand of young saplings, burst through to the far side. And stop again.

Oh.

Oh, gods on high.

Standing before me, tall and strong, is the very same oak under which I sat for a rest following our encounter with the Quisandoral. Where he crouched in front of me, took my hand in his, and begged me to . . . to . . .

I close my eyes, fighting a wave of nausea. He’s still hoping I can fight this. Fight Granny. Hoping I have a choice. Why can he not accept the truth? Why can he not accept the twisted fates that have led us to this dreadful day, this dreadful hunt? Granny may be issuing the commands, but the death she calls for must have been foreordained by the gods themselves.

We don’t have any say. Neither of us do.

Conrad stands close behind me. He’s silent, but the power of his presence is too potent to ignore. He’s watching me, curious, but holding his tongue.

Setting my jaw, I spin on my heel and march on. At first I don’t even think about following Dire. I think only about getting away from that tree, away from that memory. Away from that image of compelling gray eyes, begging me to understand, begging me to act, to strive, to resist . . .

No! I can’t do this. I can’t think like this. He’s toying with me, like a cat with a mouse, and I’m letting him get away with it. But I am not the mouse here. I am not the prey.

I retrace my steps and pick up the werewolf’s trail, leading away from the oak and on into the deeps of Whispering Wood. His body has changed dramatically by this stage. The few footprints I find are halfway between man and wolf. I’d better hurry if I want to catch him before sunset. Before he looks like a man again.

I’m not sure I can do what needs to be done if I have to look into his human eyes . . .

Somehow, I know exactly where the trail will lead me next. It doesn’t twist and wind anymore but cuts a straight route through the forest until it reaches a little rise on which stands a grove of young fir trees. Their branches bend and break as I push my way through, filling my nostrils with their spicy perfume. I emerge on the far side and look down into a valley.

A valley in the center of which lies a small, crystal-clear pool.

It’s all just as I remember it. Just as it was when I came to this place three months ago, my bow strung, my arrow at the ready. Only then, the creature crouched over that pool, staring with such despair at its reflection, was red, not gray.

This time, it’s Dire.

He doesn’t move. Not even when I swiftly string my bow and whip an arrow from my quiver. I know he’s aware of me—one long ear twitches back my way, detecting even the slightest noise I make. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn on me with savage eyes, doesn’t lunge and tear at me with tooth and claw. He merely sits, gazing into that mirror-like water. Gazing at the reflected beast, which is now just as much who he is as the man ever was.

I raise my bow, take aim.

My lips quiver. Despite my best efforts, they soundlessly shape his name: Dire . . .

As though he’s heard me, he turns. Slowly. Almost though he’s trying not to startle me. His face is still mostly wolfish, and fur covers his broad, powerful shoulders and his elongated forelimbs. But his eyes . . . gods help me, his eyes are human. So very human.

I draw a long breath. My arm is shaking. I know my shot will go wide if I take it now.

“Nice little sight-seeing tour you’ve led me on, wolfman,” I call out, hoping the bitterness of my tone disguises any tremor. “Bit roundabout, don’t you think? You’d have gotten farther without so many detours.”

He looks at me. Right down the line of my arrow. And says nothing.

The shot is perfect. I need only steady my arm, steady my breathing, and I can put this arrow straight through his eye. It’ll all be over in an instant. And what does it matter if one of those eyes is damaged? Granny will have glass ones set in place when she mounts her new trophy.

Do it, Brielle.

The compulsion burns inside me, a driving force as inevitable as the tide.

Do it. It’s what you came for. It’s what you’re good for.

This is who you are.

“Aren’t you going to beg?” I hardly recognize my own voice, so high and strained in my tear-thickened throat. “Aren’t you going to try to convince me to resist? I know you think I can. I know you think I have a choice here.”

He looks at me. Just looks at me.

Oh gods, why doesn’t he speak?

I draw another ragged breath, my arrow tip shaking hard. Then, with a sudden exhale, I put back my shoulders, pull up my arms, haul on the bowstring.

Pivoting sharply, I fire my arrow.

It pierces the ground mere inches from Conrad’s foot.

The Monster Hunter, standing off to my right, utters a surprised cry. His own arrow shoots wide, grazing the werewolf’s shoulder rather than piercing his throat. As though given a sudden jolt of life, Dire leaps straight up in the air. He whips about and bolts across the clearing, vanishing into the trees on the far side.

“Seven gods damn!” Conrad casts me a ferocious look, his teeth bared to the gums. Then he too is in motion, sliding down the incline into the clearing, regaining his balance, and sprinting after the werewolf.

I’m running too. I’m not even certain I made a decision—I’m simply in motion, my feet pounding the ground as hard as they can. Somewhere in the back of my head, I feel Granny’s spell trying to pull me back into its thrall. But something stronger surges through me now, a vicious determination I cannot ignore. My blood feels as though it’s on fire.

I duck and weave through low-hanging branches, spring over fallen trunks, sprint around trees, always just keeping Conrad’s bulky form in view. The werewolf is ahead of him, loping long and low. If he were fully wolf, he’d leave us both in the dust, but in his half-man state, he’s awkward, slower. It won’t be long before Conrad gains on him, and then . . . and then . . .

Tucking my chin, keeping my arms and bow close to my side, I press on harder. A distant roar fills my ears, and at first I don’t recognize what I’m hearing. Not until I burst through the trees and emerge at the top of a high cliff do I realize it’s a river carving deep into the landscape below.

Dire is trapped.

He stands on the brink, his chest heaving, gazing down at a perilous drop. Could he survive a leap into that white-rushing flow? Can that ungainly body of his even swim?

Conrad stands a few yards to my left, breathing heavily. He must know I’m there, but his gaze is fixed on the wolfman. He nocks an arrow, raises his bow.

In five pounding steps I cover the distance between us. I’m no match for him in breadth and bulk, but I fling my arms around his waist and drive into him with all the force in my body. A shout bursts from his lips as his arrow flies wildly off kilter, over the edge of the cliff. I’m not quite strong enough to knock him down, but he staggers several paces and drops his bow, trying to keep his footing.

One powerful fist clutches my shoulder and wrenches me to one side. “You’ve gone soft, girl,” he snarls into my face. “You can’t let these monsters get to you. They must die!”

I shriek wordlessly and tear at his arm, digging my nails into his flesh. He winces but doesn’t let go. One leg lashes out, kicks my feet out from under me. I crash hard on my back, and he plants a booted foot into my chest. I grab at his calf, gasping for breath, totally helpless.

He looms over me, his long dark hair hanging in his face. “Stay down.”

With all the venom I can muster, I spit. Straight in his eye.

He stumbles back. I draw in a great lungful of air and push myself into a seated position, staring up at the huge man. His face is a grimacing mask of rage as he turns to me. He takes a step.

Before he can take another, something massive and gray hurtles into him from one side. Dire. He, at least, is big enough to knock the Monster Hunter off his feet. But Conrad has not survived this long at his job for nothing. He hits the ground hard but manages to roll free of the werewolf’s arms. As he comes up on his knees, his hunting knife appears in his hand. Dire lashes out, but that wicked blade strikes back equally fast. I see a splash of red in the air.

Dire retreats, chest heaving. Conrad gets to his feet. “Come on, wolf!” he growls. “Is that all you’ve got?”

He adjusts the knife into a plunging angle, surges to his feet, and rushes the wolfman. Dire dodges to one side nimbly enough. But the truth is, while he is the bigger and stronger of the two, he’s not the fighter that Conrad is. His wolf-self is too far retreated, his man-self too much returned this late in the day.

His lips curled back in something that isn’t a smile, the Monster Hunter lunges again. Dire retreats but stumbles on his own awkward hindquarters and goes down hard. Conrad’s blade glints bright, aiming straight for the werewolf’s eye.

I’m on my feet. I don’t even realize I’d gotten up; don’t realize I’d fully caught my breath. I’m simply up and moving, leaping at Conrad’s back. I wrap one arm around his neck, and my other hand grabs at his arm. Startled, Conrad twists his torso, dislodging my grasp. I take a step back, stumble.

Pain flares through every sense.

I gasp.

My whole body stands in shocked stillness, my breath caught in my throat. Slowly, I lower my gaze. And see the hilt of that hunting knife and three inches of bright steel protruding from my shoulder.

Conrad is there in front of me, his face strangely gray behind his beard. His eye widens, and his mouth gapes, as though he’s trying to speak.

Then a roar splits the air between us. There’s a confusion of limbs, fur, leather, and flashing, wild eyes. I hear Conrad utter a cursing cry a mere instant before the werewolf’s powerful arms send him hurtling over the edge of the cliff.

But all that seems miles away from me.

I sink to my knees. The small, dull part of my brain still functioning listens for a splash. But that’s silly. There won’t be any splash, not in those churning rapids. Will Conrad’s body be battered to a pulp among the rocks? Or will the rushing water pull him under and fill his lungs before flinging him up on a distant shore far downriver?

Strange . . . I feel a bit sad. He didn’t deserve to . . . to . . .

I collapse. Sprawled out on my back, I stare up at the sky above. Slowly I turn my head, blinking against the darkness closing in. A massive, indistinct shape approaches, all foaming teeth and red gums and heaving breaths. A hand stretches out, fingers splayed, claws gleaming in the sunlight.

Then the darkness overwhelms me. I sink gratefully down into it.