Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes
The Wood is alive all around us.
I’ve been aware of them all along, my latent werewolf senses still keen enough to detect the strange scents of strange folk moving through the shadows, flitting from tree to tree. At first, Brielle does not seem to notice, but suddenly her breath catches and her grip on my arm tightens.
“Did you see that?”
I don’t think she’s afraid. I think this is a hunter’s tension, full of wariness, not fear. I wouldn’t be surprised if she started to reach for her knife . . . if she’s wearing one hidden in the folds of that lovely gown.
I glance the direction her gaze is focused and just glimpse a flutter of movement. “It’s all right,” I assure her. “It’s the fae folk. The sun is nearly set, and they are arriving for the dance.”
“Oh. Right.” She sounds embarrassed. Whispering Wood is always brimming with threat; it’s difficult to let one’s guard down.
We continue through the trees, noting more and more woodland folk as we go. I often wonder why the fae take such an interest in the human world that they flock to its borders on Glorandal Night. Perhaps it has something to do with the passage of time in this world, the way everything blooms and fades so quickly. Perhaps the very brevity of time here compared to the agelessness of Faerieland makes life both more precious and alluring.
I understand this now in a way I never did before . . . now that my life has been so unnaturally prolonged by Elorata Dorrel’s curse.
The trees begin to thin around us. The Wood has encroached only as far as the Phaendar estate borders, no farther. The witch’s doing, no doubt. She allowed this encroachment to happen, allowed everything my grandfather had built from nothing to be swallowed up. Her malice truly knows no bounds.
I look again at the girl at my side, her face just visible in the last of the golden twilight. How strange to walk with her like this! In this lighting, and wearing that gown, the similarities between her and her grandmother are much more striking.
But that’s not fair. In truth, they are quite different. Everything about Elorata is so carefully and precisely beautiful, while Brielle is wholly natural. There’s no pretense or effort to her beauty. She’s not even exactly beautiful. I would scarcely have noticed her twenty years ago, back in my long-lost youth.
But there’s such an unruly freshness about her face, in the flash of her eye, in the curve of her lip. It takes my breath away. And seeing her in this gown—so elegant, so refined, so at odds with everything I’ve come to know about this girl—it’s almost as though the tameness and structure of her garments makes the inner wildness of her spirit all the greater by sheer contrast.
She glances sideways. Catches my studying gaze. I frown and quickly yank my eyes forward. What in the seven gods’ names am I doing? I’ve no business indulging thoughts like this. Besides, after tonight, if all goes well, she’ll be on her way out of this world. I’ll never see her again. It’s her best chance. For her sake, I hope it works.
And then I’ll face my own grim future . . .
We reach the edge of the forest just as the sun is disappearing behind the horizon. I shiver at the sight and can’t help a covert glance down at my own hands and body. But there’s no sign of the werewolf returning. Not yet. The magic of Glorandal Night is indeed strong, holding off Elorata’s curse.
The dancing green lies before us. My heart gives an unexpected lurch. It’s all so familiar! The green and that path leading from it up to the village, with its well-known assortment of rooftops. I used to run that path when I was a boy, eager to meet . . . to meet her. My friend. It all comes back to me in a rush, as I stand there beneath the deepening shadows of the forest, gazing down at the village folk making ready for the coming festivities. How many times did I meet her here on Glorandal Night, to dance with the fae until dawn? Each time like a dream, but a dream I never truly expected to end.
“Are you all right?”
I blink and give my head a quick shake, glancing down at the girl beside me. A girl as utterly unlike her as any could be, with her stern face watching me so contemplatively. Always a little too knowing for comfort.
Hastily, I mask any emotion from my expression and offer a nod. “Look,” I say by way of distracting her gaze, and nod to our right.
She turns and sees what I see—fae folk pouring out of the Wood, venturing down to the dance lawn. They step into the light of lanterns strung all around the periphery, and suddenly those lanterns spark to life, a whole array of shimmering colors. The very air seems to sparkle with magic.
Human musicians, clustered to one side of the green, begin to play their instruments. As they play, the fae folk join them, blending their eerie, haunting strains into the more familiar local tunes. The resulting song is all but irresistible. I feel the lure of it plucking at my soul. Brielle’s grip on my arm tightens once more. She’s no more immune to that song than I am.
A beautiful fae woman with long golden hair and lavender skin makes her way to the center of the lawn and begins to dance all on her own. Her movements are like water and wind, totally hypnotic. Simply watching her is a joy. I could stand here all night and be satisfied. But then she reaches out and catches the hands of one of the young lads standing on the edge of the green, pulling him into her dance. He goes willingly, a great, stupid grin on his face. A bareheaded lout of a farm boy, but as he dances with the fae woman, he becomes something nearly as beautiful and graceful and wild as she.
One by one, others join the dance, fae and human alike. Their shadows whirl with the lantern light, and the music rises to the sky above, calling out the stars one by one. I feel Brielle’s excitement mounting, can almost smell the eagerness in her racing pulse. It beats in time to my own as the magic of the night and the music plays upon our senses.
We need to be careful.
“Remember,” I say, speaking in a low voice close to her ear, “you’re on a mission. Don’t let the fae song get in your blood or you’ll forget everything until dawn. Keep your sister firmly in mind and ask everyone you can about her.”
Brielle nods without looking at me. “What about you?”
“I’ll do the same.” I step away from her, pulling my arm from her grasp . . . and feel the cold spot where her warm hand had rested. It’s almost painful to be suddenly deprived of even that slight connection. But I won’t focus on that.
“I only have until midnight,” I remind her. “But I’ll meet you here at dawn when I . . . when . . . when I can. We’ll compare what we’ve learned then and, if the gods are with us, set you out on your journey soon after.”
Her eyes flash, catching mine and holding them. There’s something in her expression, something I can’t quite name. For a moment, I think she’s going to speak. And whatever she might say, it’s important. Something I both fear and want very badly to hear.
Then she blinks. The moment is broken.
Without a word, she turns and strides out from the trees, like one of the fae folk herself. Her dark blue gown flows gracefully with the sway of her hips, and the seams emphasize the proud set of her shoulders, the undeniable strength and, simultaneously, the undeniable womanliness of her figure. My throat is thick and tight as I watch her go.
Swallowing hard, I push myself into motion as well, aiming for the opposite end of the green. I weave in among the throng of folk, both fae and human, catching a few eyes among the townspeople. Several of them I’ve encountered during my recent ventures into town for supplies, but none of them acknowledge me. Though I’m wearing human form, I’m probably as strange and otherworldly to them as any fae.
“Well, hello there, handsome thing.”
I turn at that voice and find myself face-to-face with a fae woman—the same fae woman I observed opening the dance. Up close, her lavender skin is luminous, glowing from the inside with the intensity of her own life force. Her golden hair shines like ribbons of pure sunlight, and her eyes are chips of blue sky with no dark centers to mar the perfection of the hue. She’s wearing . . . remarkably little, truth be told. A swath of silky stuff draped across her breast and falling negligently over her hips. But there’s such an ease to her bearing and manner, she doesn’t quite seem naked.
“You look like you need a dance,” she says, smiling into my eyes. Her hands are already on my shoulders, and I realize she’s leading me into the dancing lawn.
“I’m not here to dance,” I say quickly and take hold of her forearms, intending to pry her off. But even as my fingers wrap around her flesh, I feel the incredible strength in her grasp. If I were in my wolf form, I might be a match for her, but as I am, I’m practically helpless.
She sees the startled look in my eye and laughs a birdlike trill. “Not here to dance on Glorandal Night?” Pale white lashes flutter across her blue-sky gaze. “How dare you even think such a thing? It should be sacrilege!”
I shake my head, trying to hold onto my purpose. “I’m searching for word of a Moonfire Bride recently come to Faerieland. Have you heard something of this tale?”
The fae woman tilts her head to one side, her large, pointed ears twitching. “I hear many things,” she answers archly. “But now is not the time for talk!”
With that, she gives me one last pull, and I find myself in the very center of the dancing lawn. How did this happen? I thought I was ready to resist such lures, yet here I am, having put up scarcely any fight at all. No spell or enchantment compels me, at least none that I can sense. It’s simply the night itself, the air of Glorandal. It calls to one, gets into the blood. Makes one feel alive to all manner of terrible and wonderful chances.
I spin and twirl with the fae woman. This dance is nothing like those elegant parties I attended back in my school days. Those were dances made up of stray glances and brushing fingertips, tantalizing in their own way but always guarded by social propriety.
There’s nothing proper about this dance. The fae woman takes hold of my hands and places them on her hips, which writhe and sway in time to the melody. She plants her own hands on my chest, and to my surprise, I find that my tunic has come undone, my shirt unlaced, and her palms are planted on my bare chest. I try to recoil, but she merely laughs and draws me closer.
We spin with the lanternlight and the madness, the moonlight and the song. Though the wind bites with cold, I’m flushed and warm, full of fire in my gut. I don’t know how long I dance with the lavender-skinned woman, but I am soon passed from partner to partner. Once or twice I brush hands with a village girl, but most of my partners are fae—some women, some men, some beings I couldn’t begin to guess. All strange and lovely. The night has me in its clutches now. I am a wild wolf, barely contained within a man’s body. I am hungry, ravenous . . .
Suddenly I turn . . . and stare down into Brielle’s upturned face.
The whole world stops.
Somewhere, far away, the music continues, along with the fantastical gyrating bodies, the laughter, the madcap merriment and song. But that’s not part of here, not part of this little slice of space and time. Here there is only room for the two of us.
Her hair has pulled free of its tight knot and hangs in wild tangles about her shoulders. Her bosom heaves with exertion, and a rosy flush suffuses her skin. Her eyes are bright with fae light.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
I catch my breath. A dangerous urge rushes through me, brought to life by the dancing. But I blink, shake my head, force myself to look at her again. To see her,to see Brielle. Not just the beautiful girl, but the person I know, the one I’ve come to admire, to respect.
The burning of primal instinct fades. I’m not a rapacious beast, I’m not a slave to lustful instincts. There’s something more here. Something deeper, something stronger.
“Brielle,” I whisper and take a step toward her, closing the distance between us.
She cannot hear my voice over the music. But her gaze fastens on my lips.
I take another step, and she flinches. For a moment I fear she’ll turn and dart away, losing herself in the crowd. I want to reach out, to catch hold of her arms, to hold her in place. But that I cannot do. She is a wild thing, beautifully untamed. If I try to hold onto her, try to control her, I’ll not succeed.
So I am still, my hands at my sides, my breath tight in my chest. I simply hold her gaze.
She does not flinch again. In fact, she takes a small step toward me.
There’s scarcely any distance between us now. Mere inches. Mere breaths.
I stare into those green eyes of hers, desperately trying to read the expression there. But they are so deep, so secretive. One wrong move will set her to flight. But if I make no move at all, something delicate and tentative between us will snap and be lost forever.
I open my mouth. I try to speak her name again.
I can’t.
Instead, I lower my head. Slowly, slowly. My hands still at my sides. My gaze glides from her eyes to her lips. How soft and full they are, how red in the shining lights of the magic-infused lanterns. They part softly.
I pause, my mouth hovering above hers. Tasting the sweetness of her breath, feeling the warmth of a connection which is, as yet, merely a promise. She breathes a tremulous sigh. Then her hand rises, and her fingertips brush the side of my face. I look into her eyes once more, so close to mine, I might fall into them and drown.
“Oof!”
Someone jostles me roughly from behind. I stumble and stagger into Brielle, my arms wrapping impulsively around her. Her body stiffens, and I quickly let go and back up again, apologies rushing to my tongue. But as I step back from her, I find we are no longer on the dancing green. Somehow, though I couldn’t begin to say how, we’re standing in the shadows of Whispering Wood. Just the two of us. The dancers are behind us, still whirling to the wildness of Glorandal Night’s enchantments, bathed in the glow of magicked lanterns. But here, there is nothing but moonlight.
I gasp and look into Brielle’s pale face again. She backs away from me, leaning against a tree, breathing hard. And staring straight at me.
“Brielle,” I whisper.
I don’t know who moved first, her or me.
It doesn’t matter.
Suddenly we are together, my arms around her waist, pulling her closer, her arms around my neck, equally eager. My lips are on hers, hungry, desperate. Full of need I’ve scarcely dared acknowledge until this very moment. I give her everything in that kiss, everything I shouldn’t. I open myself to the agony of vulnerability, to the inevitable pain of our parting.
But I can’t help myself. Not here, not now. Of course there will be pain—love is pain. The sweetness could not be so sweet without that underscoring bitterness. But to live without love is to never live at all. I know that. Better than most. And I would endure all the shocks and agonies this love has to offer in exchange for this one moment. This one terrible, glorious moment when I’m kissing her, and she is kissing me back.
I turn my head, trying to taste her sweetness from a fresh angle. She grips the back of my neck, her fingers curling in my hair, drawing me back to her.
But as our lips meet again, I feel it—the change.
I pull back, staring down at her.
Her eyes widen, gleaming in the moonlight. A small gasp escapes her parted lips. “Oh!” she breathes. “Oh, Dire . . .”
At the sound of my name—my horrible, witch-given name—I let go of her and step away. I shake my head, which is suddenly heavy on my shoulders, and my hands come up to grasp my skull, claw-tipped fingers digging into my scalp. Somehow, I danced until midnight without realizing it. The protection of Glorandal is fading, and my beast self rapidly returns.
I turn away, hunch over. A roar rumbles in my throat and pain ripples through my skeleton as my bones break and reshape much faster than they usually do. The seams of my garments strain, rip.
“Dire!” Brielle cries again.
It’s like a knife to my spine, hearing my beast name spoken from her lips. Lips which had, only moments before, been mine.
“Don’t look at me!” I snarl. I don’t know why it matters. She’s seen me like this so many times. But now it feels wrong.
“Dire, I’m sorry,” she protests. I sense her footsteps approaching, her hand reaching out to touch my shoulder. “Please, don’t—”
“Leave me alone!” I whirl and snap huge teeth, stopping within inches of her outstretched hand. She leaps back, her eyes wide and fearful in the moonlight. “Go, Brielle,” I say, my voice scarcely audible through the animal snarls and growls. “Get away from here, get away from me!”
“No.” She plants her feet firmly. There’s still fear in her gaze, but defiance flashes there as well. “I won’t leave you. I won’t—”
An incoherent roar bursts from my throat. I lunge at her, sagging into my heavy forelimbs. She staggers back, trips on the edge of her gown, and goes down hard. I loom over her, gazing through a red haze of wolf rage, watching all her futile defiance vanish as pure terror takes over.
There’s still just enough humanity left in me for that gaze to pierce my heart.
With another roar, I turn and spring away into the trees. My partially human hands tear at my garments as I go, ripping away doublet, shirt, belt, trousers, until I’m nothing but a wild, naked beast racing through the forest.