Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

I’m lost.

Lost in this darkness. Lost in this curse.

Deep down inside, I can feel something stirring, moving. Screaming.

I shake my head and run faster and faster. Pain burns in my shoulder and haunch. I need to escape, need to get away from the stink of humans. Those vicious creatures that hacked at me with their blades and shot at me with their bolts. But underneath the fear, I still hear that voice. That vicious voice that shakes me to my core:

“It’s time to root out my precious Dire once and for all. Go to his village and slaughter everything in sight. He won’t be able to resist playing bold protector. He’ll appear soon enough. And then you must kill him.”

Kill him . . . kill him . . . kill him . . .

I roar, desperate to drown out that voice. There’s too much pain, too much confusion. My haunch and shoulder throb. Soon I can’t run anymore. I stop and try to pull the bolts out with my teeth, but they’re out of reach. I twist and gyrate my body, but that only makes the pain worse. Panting with exhaustion, mewling with frustration, I stagger on through the sheltering green of the forest.

The sound of water attracts me, and I steer my limping paws that way. The sight and smell of the stream brings a rush of relief. I bend my head, lapping water with my tongue, relieved as the cooling water slides down my throat. I’m so hot, so tired. More than tired . . . ready to drop from sheer exhaustion.

I lift my head, look down at the murky reflection in the moving water below me. For an instant, I see not an animal, but . . . me.

No!

I shy away, sitting down hard. Pain from the bolt in my haunch radiates through my body, driving out all other thoughts. With a moan, I fall on one side, my ribcage expanding and contracting with short, gasping breaths. My mind spins in and out. Sometimes it’s fully animal, and I feel only the agony and the fear and the exhaustion, all waves of sensation without clear thought.

Sometimes, however, when the pain is greatest, I claw back to the surface of my mind. Back into awareness.

What have I done?

What have I become?

I try to think back, try to remember. Did I kill anyone? Did Granny’s compulsion truly drive me to slaughter? I remember seeing a child and feeling the thrum of predatory impulse in my veins. Had I acted on that impulse? Had I obeyed Granny’s command?

No. No, I turned to the oxen instead, tore into their flesh. Blood, blood, so much blood! Hot and gushing and exhilarating, spilling over my nose, my face, my fur.

It was glorious.

It was terrible.

I wanted more, more, more . . .

Then those two-legged creatures had attacked me. Those men. With their sorry weapons and their soft hides. I’d wanted to rend them, break them, devour them. I’d wanted to . . .

No! That’s not what I wanted! I wanted to stop, to flee, to hide! And the conflict inside me had nearly ripped me in two.

I lift my head, looking at my wounds again. Wounds I can do nothing about. Blood flows freely through the striped fur. Maybe I’ll die soon. Oh, gods on high, please let me die!

I close my eyes and lie back on the grass, my nose pointed toward the stream. My mind is still foggy, still mostly animal, but I think I feel my body starting to revert from beast to human form. I hope I die before I transform entirely. I don’t want to have to face what I’ve become while in my right mind.

The sound of footsteps, light and nimble, just catches my sensitive ears. I don’t fully comprehend what I’m hearing, not this close to unconsciousness. Then I sniff, inhaling the barest breath of a familiar scent. The scent of a wolf.

Dire . . . Dire . . .

Suddenly gentle hands are on my body, running over my bare, shivering, pain-ridden flesh. An equally gentle voice says, “Brielle! Brielle, my darling, what has she done to you?”

Something deep inside me, down underneath the pain, thrills at the tenderness in those words. Thrills that he could speak like that. To me.

With an effort, I pry my eyes open. I’m too dizzy to discern anything more than a faint outline against the light of the setting sun. But I know it’s him. And if this is the last sight I’ll ever see, so be it. I can thank the gods and die peacefully now.

“Dire,” I whisper, the name forming on my lips but not quite able to escape.

Then I close my eyes and slip into oblivion.