Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

My hands shake as I reach for the girl. Hands that are beginning to take human shape again but are still very much animal with fur and bloodstained claws.

I pull back, not certain I should touch her, not like this. I can’t seem to control the shaking. My entire body quivers like a leaf.

It’s just the adrenaline of battle. That’s all.

“Girl?” My voice is rough and thick in my throat. I shake my shaggy head, spitting foam into the dirt. Then I try again. “Brielle?”

No answer. Her eyes are half open, but she’s unconscious. Her face has gone a dangerous shade of white, causing every freckle to stand out in sharp contrast.

Swallowing hard, I bend over to inspect the wound in her shoulder and the awful knife protruding. It looks bad. I’m afraid to draw out the blade, afraid it’ll only make her bleed faster. I cast a quick glance around, searching for something I might use to pack the wound, to bind it. There’s nothing. And I don’t think my animal hands could manage such a task in any case.

For a moment, my mind goes completely blank, hopeless.

Then an idea sparks in the back of my head—or not an idea so much as an instinct. But now that it’s there, I can’t ignore it.

As gently as I can, I slip my arms under the girl and lift her, cradling her close to my chest. She moans with pain as I jostle her shoulder, but her eyes are shut. Just as well. If she’s unconscious, she shouldn’t be feeling the full extent of her pain.

I get to my feet, a little awkward on my hind legs. For a moment I hesitate, looking down into that face nestled against my shoulder. She set out to kill me. I could smell the deadly intent on her when we faced each other in the valley. More than that, I could smell the potent stench of Elorata Dorrel’s relentless spells wrapping around her. Those spells are still in place, weakened perhaps, but present.

But she did resist. What’s more, she saved my life. At risk of her own.

A growl vibrating in my throat, I turn and plunge back into the forest.

Twenty years later, I still remember the way.

I walked this path only once in my former life, when I first plunged into Whispering Wood, searching for the ward witch. But the memory etched itself in my brain as though carved into stone.

Now, my wolf senses guide me, my heart sense compels me, and sooner than I would have believed possible, I find myself on a simple dirt trail leading through the trees. I follow that trail, swift and sure, until I come to a place where I know the forest should end. There should be sweeping fields before me. Open country, open sky, leading to a small, neat lawn and garden and a proud, stone manor house.

But it’s gone. Overgrown. Trees and underbrush pack so densely, I can’t even see the house anymore.

My lip curls back in a snarl. Many times these last twenty years I’ve wondered what happened to Phaendar Hall after my departure. Folks always said my grandfather built too close to Whispering Wood, that one day the Wood would overwhelm it. But Granddad trusted the ward witch to keep its borders at bay, and the fields in these parts were rich and fertile. It seemed to him a safe bet.

He could never have predicted Elorata Dorrel’s vindictive nature.

I push aside low, clinging branches, trying to shield the girl in my arms as best I can. At last I glimpse a wall ahead of me, covered in thick vines but still standing. That’s something, at least. The Wood may have swallowed up the hall, but it hasn’t totally digested it yet.

Adjusting my grip on the girl so that I can hold her with only one arm, I reach for the front door. My hand is more hand than paw now, and I’m able to manipulate the latch. I half expect it to be locked, but it opens lightly at my touch, the hinges offering only the barest creak of protest.

For the first time in two decades, I peer into the home of my childhood.

The foyer of Phaendar Hall was always dark, heavy with richly carved wood and a massive stairway. Now, however, sunlight pours through a hole in the roof, dappling the floor. A tall, stately cedar grows up from the inlaid tiles and breaks through the ceiling overhead. The Wood really is taking over everything.

But beyond the tree, I spy the stairway still intact.

Growling softly, I push my way through, ducking branches as I go. Brielle moans when I move too swiftly and jostle her. “Shhh, shhh,” I murmur. “We’re almost there now. I promise.”

I look down into her face speckled with light falling through the rooftop and branches. She’s paler than ever. Perhaps it was a mistake taking her out of the thick magic of Whispering Wood. Here the magic is diluted by mortal air. It might be too much for her.

But I’ve got to tend these wounds of hers somehow. And to do so, I must have supplies.

The steps creak under my footsteps but seem stable enough as I climb to the second floor and take a turn down the left-hand passage. I try not to breathe too deeply as I go, afraid the all-too-familiar scents of home will overwhelm me just when I most need to keep my senses clear. But I feel a strange sense of phantom faces and phantom voices on all sides . . . lingering traces of the world and the people I left behind all those years ago.

I push open a door and step into a bedroom, stopping short on the threshold and closing my eyes as yet another wave of familiarity washes over me. This was my mother’s room. Even with my eyes closed, I can still see her sitting at her vanity, powdering her already extremely pale skin. I can hear her brittle laughter; I can feel her cool hands touching my face and those rare but welcome kisses dropped on the top of my head.

I never said goodbye to her before I left. She wouldn’t have understood, would have tried to talk me out of going. She had such plans, such hopes for me . . .

Is she still alive, out there in the real world somewhere? Or did the creeping Wood take her and my father by surprise before they could make their escape?

I will probably never know.

Now is not the time to indulge in painful speculations. I shake my head to clear it and swiftly carry Brielle to the bed. The top of a young tree is just starting to push its way up through the floor, and there are vines and green moss everywhere. But the room itself is relatively untouched, and the bed is almost free of dust when I lay the girl gently down on top of the faded counterpane. Thick shadows darken the room, and I struggle to see her face. I carefully push back her green hood, revealing her stern, faintly puckered brow. Is she in pain? I hope not. My fingers, rough and still claw-tipped, trail lightly along the line of her cheek and sweep sweat-drenched locks of hair back from her forehead. She’s hot. Possibly feverish.

I must work quickly.

“I won’t be a minute,” I whisper, my voice strained and hollow in the silence of that chamber. I duck my head and dart out hastily, searching out a few supplies. The pump in the stable yard works without priming, much to my surprise, and I fill a basin with water. I locate old but clean cloths tucked away in a linen closet half hidden behind a young hickory tree. In the drawing room I find my mother’s old sewing basket and help myself to needles, thread, and shears.

When I return to Brielle’s side, the sun is beginning to set in earnest. It casts dying light through the window onto the bed, turning the girl’s sweat-darkened hair into ribbons of fire. I gaze down at her, at that terrible, blood-soaked wound in her shoulder from which the knife still protrudes. My heart beats dully in my chest.

I am almost fully a man now. My wolf-self has retreated, my humanity returned. I drop my gaze, taking in my own naked torso, and shudder. Over the last many years, I’ve grown used to this daily transition from beast to man and back again. But somehow, being here in my own home makes the truth of my monstrous self even more horrible.

With a snarl I shake my head, shake my whole body, and set to work. Brielle doesn’t have time for any personal crisis on my part. I may not have much to offer, but this brave girl saved my life today. She deserves whatever I can give her.

I pull a small table close to the bed and arrange my supplies. I know what I’m doing. It’s been a long time since I was a student at university, studying medicine—much too long—but some skills don’t fade as quickly as others.

I pick up the shears and turn to the girl. Here I pause, just for a moment. Blood pounds in my temples. But now is not the time to be squeamish. She is a patient. That’s all. Like any other. And I need to act. I only have an hour of humanity—not a lot of time for all that must be done.

“I’m afraid there’s no way around it,” I say, gazing into her pain-lined face. “I’ve got to clean this properly and get some stitches in. No time for modesty.”

I set to work with the shears, cutting away her clothes.