Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes
I lie sprawled on the ground, propped up on my elbows, my legs outstretched, my skirts rumpled to my knees, staring into the shadows in which Dire disappeared. My lips burn. I touch them with trembling fingers. How swollen and warm they feel, even as my heart races and my ears echo with the rumbling growl of his hideous voice.
What just happened between us?
“Gods damn!” I hiss, closing my eyes and shaking my head. Yanking ridiculous folds of skirt out from under me, I pull myself to my feet. “Stupid, stupid!” I mutter as I brush bits of leaves and pine straw from my backside. What got into me? The magic of Glorandal, most likely. All that wildness and music stirred up something in my blood. I haven’t danced at a Glorandal Night since I was a child, so I’ve never experienced it quite like I did tonight. It brought to the surface everything I’ve fought so hard to suppress.
Dire . . .
I curse again and rub my hands down my face. Even now, even after watching his face transform right before my eyes into that awful wolf . . . I still want him. Want him with an ache I don’t understand. I want his kiss, his touch, the heat of his breath on my bare skin.
But I want more as well. I want him in the same way I want . . . home.
Which is stupid, of course. What has home ever been to me? The place where my mother died giving birth to me? The place where my drunken father made our lives miserable year after year? The place where my sister’s arms once offered comfort and love, only to be taken when I needed her most? No, home is definitely not for me.
But I’ve longed for it, nonetheless. Longed for that safety, that belonging. And beneath the burning heat on my lips and the roaring fire in my veins . . . I long for Dire in that same way.
Am I really going to leave him? Am I going to run away into Faerieland, abandon him to certain death? After what we just experienced together?
Then again, what did we just experience? I know what I feel about it, but how do I know what he’s thinking? He might have taken me in his arms simply because I was there. Warm and willing. No, more than willing. Eager. Desperate. What if he’d sensed that desperation and decided simply to indulge himself? Could I blame him?
Would I wish to take the moment back?
Biting my lower lip, I turn away from the forest and gaze back down to the dancing green where the magic of Glorandal Night continues unabated. How long did I dance? I scarcely walked in among the crowds, scarcely began to ask any questions about the Moonfire Bride, before someone caught and dragged me into the fray. Any resistance had been futile, and soon I didn’t want to resist at all. I was simply moving with the music like a leaf caught in the stream’s current. I’ve never been a good dancer, merely an enthusiastic one. But on Glorandal Night, that didn’t matter. I laughed and clapped and stamped my feet and exchanged partners with abandon, letting the melody carry me deeper and deeper.
Until I suddenly stood across from Dire.
I close my eyes, sighing out another bitter curse. Gods above, it felt as though the magic of the night destined us to find each other. As though, for us at least, the song reached its culmination in that one heart-pounding moment when our eyes met.
I rub two fingers against each temple, trying to rub out the thrum and throb still echoing inside my skull. I must get myself together, get back down onto that green, and ask the questions I need to ask. I’m still on a mission, after all.
I open my eyes . . . and yelp with surprise, jumping back a step.
Someone stands directly in front of me. Someone I didn’t hear coming. A fae woman with golden hair and lovely lavender skin, her eyes shining in the darkness with their own blue light.
“I understand,” she says, speaking in a lilting language that plays across my senses and somehow becomes comprehensible by the time it reaches my ears, “that you and the big fellow are asking after a Moonfire Bride.”
I blink. Then with a little choke, I blurt out, “Yes! I am! A Moonfire Bride taken by a fae lord. Have you heard word of her?”
“I may have.” The fae woman tilts her head to one side, her lips puckering prettily. “And I could be convinced to tell you what I’ve heard . . . for a price.”
Immediately, my guard goes up. I’ve made more than a few fae bargains in my time, and I know how tricky they can be. “What kind of a price?”
The fae woman smiles, showing far too many teeth. “Oh, I won’t ask for much . . . merely a strand of hair from your pretty head in exchange for all I know of the Moonfire Bride.”
I stifle a snort. Does she think I’m an idiot? “No hair,” I answer firmly.
She looks hurt. “A tooth then? How about a finger, a very small finger? No? A fingernail would do . . . or an eye, perhaps.”
I keep shaking my head. For all I know, this fae woman knows absolutely nothing about the Moonfire Bride. I’m not about to give any part of my physical self into this grasping creature’s hands.
At last the fae huffs and crosses her muscular arms. “Fine then. You’re such a skinflint, are you actually willing to give anything?”
“I’ll give a good word,” I answer. “A good word in exchange for whatever knowledge you have of the Moonfire Bride.”
An eager light sparks in the fae woman’s eye. Maybe I offered too much after all.
“A good word I have little use for,” she says silkily. “But a good wish now . . . one of your sweet, delectable human wishes . . . that might be something!”
My brow furrows. “Why? It’s not as though our wishes come true.”
“Ah, but a wish made on Glorandal Night always means something.” She rubs her fingers together, like she’s holding herself back from snatching a tempting treat.
“All right,” I say slowly and lick my dry lips. “What would you have me wish for you?”
“Oh no, nothing for me.” She puts up both hands and shakes her head. “This needs to be your wish. The first wish you feel in your heart. Give that to me, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
There’s something not right here. A trap I should be able to see but can’t.
Then again, what’s a wish? I’ve made wishes every single day of my life, and only one of them ever came true. I wished to find my sister again, and I found her . . . but the fulfillment of that wish brought so much pain, I’ve often wished I never received it.
No, I learned long ago not to base my life on wishes. So if I give one up now, what difference will it make?
“Fine. I’ll give you a wish, you give me word of the Moonfire Bride.” I hold out my hand.
Now it’s the fae woman’s turn to hesitate. Then, flashing another toothy smile, she places her long fingers in mine and grasps hard. I’m surprised by the strength of that grasp but refuse to flinch or try to pull back.
“The wish first,” she says. “Give it to me.”
“How? How do you want me to give it?”
“That, little human, is entirely up to you.”
I set my jaw. Then, with a shrug, I close my eyes. What do I wish for? Freedom from Granny? Freedom from everything! Those wishes are such big, all-encompassing things, but are they really the first wish in my heart tonight?
No . . . if I’m being honest, there’s something else stirring inside me. Something else for which I long, though I know I shouldn’t.
I squeeze my eyes a little tighter, open my mouth, and slowly release a long, long breath. With it, I feel the wish go out from me. A small, foolish wish for strong arms to encircle my body, for insistent lips to find mine in the darkness. For the touch of long fingers in my hair, on my neck.
I let the wish go. And as it leaves, I feel the tiniest bit freer. After all, it was a forlorn wish at best. There’s no way there could be anything more between me and Dire than that one perfect, beautiful kiss.
The fae woman lets out a sigh. I open my eyes to see her standing with her hand upraised, as though she’s just caught something. Her face is wreathed in a huge, satisfied smile. It’s unsettling.
“All right,” I growl, crossing my arms. “You’ve got what you wanted. My turn.”
The fae opens her pale eyes slowly, fixing me with an expression of perfect self-satisfied smugness. “Here’s what I know, human girl,” she says through her teeth. “Lord Dymaris of Orican is said to have taken a Moonfire Bride as his own. He has returned with her in triumph to his domain in Lunulyr, and all his people pay homage to her as though she were a great lady.”
For a moment, everything melts away. My heart leaps from my chest and soars. This is so much more than I dared hope for! The last time I saw Valera, she was setting off alone into Whispering Wood on a desperate quest to find her husband. Neither she nor I had cherished much hope of her success. But I knew Valera could never be happy again if she did not at least try to reach her lost love.
Did she make it? Could this Lord Dymaris be the same fae lord I’ve hated so hard all these years for stealing my sister? Did Valera manage to save him from some dark fate, and did they truly return to his home in Lunulyr?
At that thought, I can’t fully repress a shudder. Lunulyr—the Court of Moons. It’s reputedly a strange, dark, but beautiful realm. I’ve never traveled that deep into the fae worlds, never even considered it. But if that’s where Valera is, then maybe . . . maybe . . .
“I can see you’re satisfied,” the fae woman says, drawing my attention back to her.
“I am. Indeed. It is a bargain well made.”
This seems to irk the fae, who tosses her head and sniffs. “Well, let no one ever say I cheat on my bargains. I do when I can, of course, but let no one ever say it!” With that, she holds up her hand again, as though clutching something in her fist. “I’ll take good care of your wish, little human. Have no fear.”
“May the peace and harmony of Glorandal Night be yours,” I answer with a nod.
To this, the fae woman snorts dismissively before turning and gliding off into the night. Soon she disappears into the dancing green among the other revelers. I breathe out a sigh of relief, glad to see the last of her, then turn to face Whispering Wood once more.
Well, I got what I needed from this mad night. Now I have only to find a gate that will lead me to Lunulyr. I should set out at once.
“Can’t very well go traipsing across worlds like this,” I mutter, looking down at my gown with its scooping neckline and bounteous skirts. I need proper clothes—boots, trousers, tunic. And my weapons. There’s no way I’m plunging into Eledria unarmed.
I take a few steps, then pause. Am I simply making excuses to return to Dire’s house? Am I still hoping to see him one last time? We agreed to meet at sunrise, but really, what’s the point? I have the information I need. Is there any reason to face him, to offer stiff and formal goodbyes?
No more wishes.
No more foolishness.
But . . . I do need my weapons . . .
“I’ll just go back to the house long enough to get what I need,” I mutter, striding into the forest. It’s very dark with only a little moonlight creeping through the branches to light the way. But I’ve never been afraid of the dark. And on Glorandal Night, no fae I meet will bring me harm. They can’t. None would dare break the sacred trust of Glorandal for fear of the gods’ swift retribution.
So I stride along as swiftly as I can, my skirts gathered up out of the way of my feet. The forest feels unusually large tonight. It’s always large, always enigmatic, of course. But there’s something about the magic in the air that makes me more aware than ever of the many layers contained within this space.
Suddenly, a new sound tickles my ear.
I stop, tilt my head, listening closely. Am I mistaken? Did I only imagine—
No! There it is again.
Heavy breathing.
I turn slowly, my hunter’s instincts quickening. Something is there. Something in the Wood with me. Something large and . . . close.
Something not fae.
“Dire?” I whisper. Then I clear my throat and call out a little louder. “Dire, is that you?”
A huge, bulky shape steps out from behind a tree.
A werebeast. Not Dire. This is one of Granny’s other creatures, a shaggy gray-and-black beast. The other male.
I choke on a scream and leap several paces back. Idiot! Why didn’t I at least bring my knife with me? But it’s against the unspoken rules of Glorandal Night to bring weapons to the dancing lawn. Still, I should have brought something so I wouldn’t end up totally unarmed and alone in the dark.
I grit my teeth and brace myself, hands clenched into fists. “What are you doing here?” I snarl, refusing to let even a trace of fear tinge my voice.
The werebeast is mostly animal at this hour, with only the barest traces of humanity beginning to return. He lumbers toward me, leaning heavily on his forelimbs. I take another step back and cast about for anything that might serve as a weapon. Spying a fallen branch, I snatch it up. It’s useless, of course, dry as it is. It’ll break to pieces the minute I strike that hulking hide. But I feel better having something in my hands.
The werebeast’s eyes flash, roving over the stick. Then it shifts its gaze to me. “You can’t . . . escape . . . Granny,” it says, struggling to make the words fit through its warped muzzle and sharp teeth.
“Oh really?” I brandish my stick a little higher. “I’ve done a fairly good job of eluding her these last few days. I kind of like my chances.”
The werebeast snarls, takes another heavy step. Then its eyes goggle, unnaturally large in its awful face. I bite back another scream as that already warped visage warps again, like it’s formed from warm wax and invisible fingers are pushing and prying and pulling at it. The shape begins to solidify again, and I realize that what I’m seeing isn’t real exactly—it’s almost like a glamour. But a glamour only ever works on the surface layers of the reality it changes. This is deeper than that, a dark magic, an evil magic, crawling up from the inside out. The werebeast’s features change, transforming into . . . into . . .
“Granny!” The name bursts from my tongue. The next instant, I turn, try to run.
“Stay where you are!” Granny’s voice barks through the werebeast’s muzzle.
I stop dead in my tracks, feeling all the compulsions and enchantments I’ve been able to ignore these last few days reasserting themselves with triple their former force. What a fool I was to even think I had the power to resist such magic!
“We have a bargain, you and I,” Granny says. The werebeast stalks toward me where I stand rooted to the ground. The magic around its head swims bizarrely, giving me glimpses sometimes of the monster behind my grandmother’s face. Both sights are horrible, but the sight of Granny’s head stuck on top of that monstrous body is worse by far. “We have a bargain struck in blood. Don’t think you can escape so easily.”
She stops in front of me. Hot monster breath pants in my face, stinking of carnage. But there’s also the smell of Granny—her hyacinth perfume which perpetually hovers around her in a miasma of sweetness.
My stomach knots. I might be sick.
“You are mine,” the witch says. “Seven years of your life . . . mine. And you will obey me, child. You will do exactly as I say.”
No, no, no! I shake my head. Or try to. Though I strain every muscle in my body, though I strain the whole of my will, I can’t wrest any control. My muscles ache with the need to move, but they are no longer mine to command.
Only my thoughts are my own. For the present at least.
No! The thought reverberates through my head and bursts from my glaring eyes. I’ll never be yours! You can bind me and ensorcel me all you like, but deep down, I still belong to me!
Granny draws back as though the words were spat in her eye. For a flickering instant, the werebeast head comes back into view. I stare into that gruesome, snarling face, expecting it to lunge at me, expecting those massive jaws to tear into my throat. One word, one mere thought from Granny is all it would take.
But then the head of my grandmother swims back into visibility. Her smile is hard as iron.
“No more of these games, Brielle.” She holds up one of the werebeast’s hands, clenching it into a fist just in front of my nose. “Obey me. Obey me.”
Gods above, help! I try to fight, but the spell coils deeper and deeper, down under my skin, down to the very marrow of my bones.
“You have one job, little girl,” Granny’s voice says, creeping into my head and throbbing in time with my pulse. “One job to fulfill. Then we can overlook this flight of rebellion. All will be as it should be.”
The werebeast lifts its hand and grabs me by the head. Its hot palm presses into my brow. I scream, writhe, but cannot fight.
Granny’s voice pierces like a knife straight through my skull: “Kill Dire. Bring back his head.”
Suddenly I’m on my hands and knees, gasping for breath. I seem to be lying at the base of a tree, very cold. The world around me is dark and still. No sign of any werebeast. I crane my head, peer up through the branches overhead and see just the faintest hint of gray in the sky.
Dawn is coming. Which means . . .
I close my eyes, let out a long breath. The compulsion is there, knotted inside of me. Funny how I’d thought I could resist it. Funny how I’d imagined I could hide. Hide? Here in Granny’s own domain? What a simpleton I was!
I should have taken Dire’s advice and fled into Faerieland while I had the chance. I wouldn’t have survived long, but at least I would’ve died knowing I wasn’t Granny’s tool.
Too late now.
Everything is too late now.
I pick myself up. All around me there is movement. When I turn to look, I can’t quite see anything, but I know what it is—the fae folk returning from Glorandal Night. They must make their way through Whispering Wood and find the gates back into their own worlds before sunrise. If not, they’ll be held accountable for Pledge-breaking, and Granny will not be lenient in her judgements against those fae who dare trespass in her wardship.
I close my eyes, breathing deeply. Once more, I feel the stirring magic in my bones. Funny how simple everything has become. But then, it was always simple really. I may have tried to make it more complicated, but that was nothing more than an illusion. The reality was always there underneath. I am Granny’s creature. Her huntress. Her justice. And now . . .
I turn and face toward Phaendar Hall. My lips tilt in a faint half smile.
“Now he must die,” I whisper.