Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

The shortest way to Granny’s house is by the Holly Path.

It’s difficult to explain the paths of Whispering Wood to those who are unfamiliar with the rhythms of this place. They aren’t paths in the normal sense of the term. They don’t even lead through the forest. Not exactly. It’s more like they bypass the forest. Allowing one to step just beyond the trees and move through a world of shadow and light, covering miles in mere moments.

They’re extremely dangerous. But I don’t mind that.

I marked a holly bush not far from where I found the red werebeast, knowing I would need it for my return journey. I retrace my steps that way now, perhaps not as quickly as I should. I don’t relish the idea of facing Granny without her trophy in hand. This is the first assignment she’s given me since my term of service began. Failure will require a price. I don’t know what price exactly. Possibly an extra day added to my seven years. Possibly something else entirely. But I will have to pay, of that I have no doubt.

Granny is not the forgiving sort.

Dire stalks behind me. He doesn’t speak, thank the gods. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the sound of a man’s voice—however garbled and growling—emerging from that wolfish snout. Everything about him is unnatural and unsettling. The fact that he’s been sent to watch over me doesn’t make his presence any more welcome.

After all, he’s tried to kill me twice already. One of those times just two weeks ago, when Valera and I came looking to Granny for help.

Valera . . .

The image of my sister’s face as I last saw it fills the dark spaces of my mind. She bent over me where I lay prostrate in bed, nearly dead of a terrible curse, her face drawn with worry, scarred with heartache. Heartache that I had orchestrated. All with the best of intentions, of course. But with disastrous consequences.

Valera . . .

Where is she now? She left soon after bargaining with Granny to spare my life. That bargain was the only thing she could do to keep me alive. I know this. I do. And I’m determined not to resent her for it. But sometimes . . .

Well, she’s gone now. Gone deeper into Whispering Wood and on to the strange worlds of Faerieland. She might be dead. Seven gods know she isn’t prepared for everything the Wood and the fae will throw at her!

Either way, she’s lost to me. Forever.

I grit my teeth, my grip on my broken bow tightening. I won’t think about it. I won’t think about her. I have my own life, my own troubles. I’ve got seven years of service to a witch ahead of me.

A witch who’s determined to turn me into her personal executioner.

A flash of red berries through the greenery attracts my eye. The holly bush. Its shiny, pointed leaves and brilliantly colored fruit stand out in the shadows of this secluded glade. I cast a glance over my shoulder. Dire is still close, but I can’t spy even a glimpse of gray fur. For so huge a beast, he can move with surprising stealth.

“Too bad it wasn’t his head Granny sent me to fetch,” I mutter, adjusting the set of my broken bow against my shoulder. If I ever get a clear shot at him, I don’t think I’ll hesitate.

I circle the holly bush three times. There’s an art to opening the gates to the Hinter Realm. I’m not particularly accomplished at the skill, for I possess only the barest traces of magic. As Granny Dorrel’s granddaughter, I was bound to have at least a small amount. Nothing like Valera’s, but enough to feel the simmering magical energy in the atmosphere around me. Enough to reach out to it, to pull and manipulate it until the boundaries between realities open to me.

On my third turn around the holly bush, its shadow suddenly lengthens, shooting out in a dark line into the forest. The trees on either side of that shadow retreat, their roots rippling under the soil, creating a straight path through the growth. A path that will lead eventually to Granny’s front gate. My ordinary sight still sees it as nothing more than a shadow. But a small piece of me sees something more—something sharp and solid. Something dense enough to walk upon.

I pause and cast a last glance over my shoulder. There’s still no obvious sign of the werewolf. But I know he’s there. Watching me.

“Are you coming?” I call. “The gate won’t stay open long.”

No response. Well, that’s not a surprise. I don’t think Dire likes to use the Hinter Paths, preferring instead to make his own way through the depths of Whispering Wood, following trails he sniffs out as he goes. It’s not as fast or efficient, but he makes it work. He’s never far behind me, that’s for sure.

“Suit yourself,” I shrug, and step onto the path.

I’ve used the Hinter Paths for years now. I first learned the secret almost accidentally as a child, not long after the wicked fae came and stole Valera away from me. I’ve always been drawn to Whispering Wood, but after that terrible night, I plunged into its depths with wild abandon, desperate to find and rescue her. It wasn’t long before I stumbled on my first path and experienced the terror of the Hinter Realm firsthand.

It’s not a terror one gets over. No matter how many times one experiences it.

I feel it there now, raw, eager to take hold of me. But I ignore the sensation and stride on down that shadow-path. All around me, the world feels, on the surface at least, very much like the forest I just left behind. Green growth and flashes of golden sunlight illuminate a leaf-strewn floor. But that’s not what’s real.

What’s real is the space just beyond that immediate impression. The huge, rolling, vast space extending on all sides to an endless horizon, all lit by an eerie silver glow. There are things in that space. Huge things, lumbering things. Things that don’t bear describing. Things that should never be looked at directly.

That realm—the Hinter, in all its vast, unknowable enigma—is far more real than the forest. But I cling to my false impressions with everything I have. They are the only shield between me and madness. Best to keep my eyes focused straight forward, fixed on the goal ahead.

Finally, the shadow-path ends in a great tangle of holly bushes. I breathe out a sigh of relief. I’m close to Granny’s house now. At that thought, however, my relief melts away, leaving behind a twisting unease in my gut. Seven gods above, I’d almost rather run stark raving mad into the Hinter than face that woman and admit my failure!

But she saved my life. I owe her my service. I can’t disobey her no matter how I might wish to.

I get down on my hands and knees and crawl through the tangle of holly. The sharp leaves scrape at every bit of exposed skin, and the branches catch at my quiver and my broken bow. I push on through and tumble out into proper forest, leaving behind the strangeness of the Hinter. It’s hard to measure time in a place like Whispering Wood, but when I glance at the sky just visible through the branches overhead, I estimate that my return journey took less than an hour.

Brushing myself off, I march through a final stand of trees and arrive at a stone wall, twelve feet high and covered all over with dark green moss, as though it’s become a natural part of the landscape. Indeed, it’s so well camouflaged, one might almost miss it entirely were it not for the huge iron gate. Iron does not belong in a place like Whispering Wood. It’s abhorrent to the fae folk and the denizens of Faerieland. Only a witch as powerful as Granny Dorrel would dare bring so much iron this far into the boundaries of the Wood.

But Granny has made numerous enemies over the years. She needs a little extra protection. And what with the iron gates and the many curses and enchantments lacing each stone of the wall, she’s made a veritable fortress for herself. I can’t imagine anyone, fae, monster, or human, being foolish enough to attack it.

I step up to the gate and rattle the end of my broken bow against the bars. They sing out a sour sort of tune, and I add my voice to the dissonance. “Granny! Granny Dorrel! It’s me!”

No answer.

I wait, the last echo of iron ringing in my ears. After a minute, I step closer and peer through the bars, trying to make sense of the landscape on the other side. I’ve lived in Granny’s house for two weeks now, recovering from the injury that first put me at the old witch’s mercy. During that time, I’ve yet to get a solid impression of anything beyond the gate. Granny layers everything in coats of glamour and enchantment, but her magic only goes so far. Generally the glamours are only vivid in the space Granny herself occupies. The rest is left a formless sort of nothingness. If you try to focus a little harder, try to see the reality underneath, you’ll only end up with a pounding headache.

I feel a headache coming on now. Growling, I turn my back on the gate, lean my shoulders against the bars, and stare off into the surrounding forest. Its greenery is a relief to my strained eyes, and slowly the tension in my head reduces.

Suddenly, I become aware of another presence nearby. Dire.

He may not have used the Hinter Path, but he’s not been slow navigating the Wood. I don’t know how he does it. I consider myself something of an expert tracker, but if I tried to make my way on my own through those green depths, I would soon be hopelessly lost. Whispering Wood is not friendly to humans. Apparently, it doesn’t try its tricks on a werewolf.

“Where is it?”

I start at the sound of that voice and whirl about. Granny stands just on the other side of the gate.

I’m not sure I’ll ever truly adjust to the sight of my own grandmother. She goes by her witch’s title, Granny, because of her age and experience, her place of standing among the other ward witches of the kingdom. Unless I’m much mistaken, she’s over a hundred years old by now.

But no one looking at her would ever think so. Not when faced with that tall, upright, statuesque figure, that perfectly regal face with its chiseled cheekbones and exquisite jaw set atop a long, swanlike neck. There isn’t a trace of gray in the bounty of her glorious red hair, which she keeps piled atop her head in an elaborate arrangement of curls, fixed with gold combs that give the impression of a crown.

Indeed, at first glance, she doesn’t look any older than my nineteen years. With our similarly colored hair one might almost mistake us for sisters. But in truth, the hair is where the similarities end. Where she is pristine and delicate, her complexion a perfect cream, I am rough, tanned, and freckled. My features favor my father, who is handsome enough in his way, but doesn’t hold a candle to my grandmother’s ethereal beauty.

Whether or not that beauty has any truth to it however . . . that I cannot say. Granny is always swathed in so many glamours, who knows what the truth underneath might be?

“Well, girl?” Her clear blue eyes run slowly up and down my body, noting all the stains and tears in my clothes, the scratches on every bit of exposed skin. They come to rest on my broken bow for some moments before finally returning to my face. “The head. Where is the werebeast’s head?”

“I don’t have it.”

Granny’s full lips curl in a beautiful sneer. “I was clear in my instructions, was I not? Bring me its head, I said. I could not have spoken more plainly.”

I clear my throat, adjusting my stance slightly. “I ran into problems. We had a bit of a . . . a chase. And I fell on the wrong side of a hickory tree.” I hold up my broken bow as evidence of my words. “Since I can’t very well take down a monster without a weapon, I’ll have to go out again tomor—”

The growl in Granny’s throat sounds frighteningly like a werebeast’s. She steps back, utters a sharp word of command in a language I do not know, and gestures with one arm. The gate shivers and responds, swinging open with an ear-splitting creak. Before I can do more than take a backward step, Granny reaches out, catches me by the wrist, and drags me through. “Get inside,” she says, pushing me several paces into the nothingness of her little domain. “I should have known better than to bargain with that fool sister of yours! Your father’s blood is too thick in your veins. He was just as useless as you.”

Her words sting more than I like to admit. Worse still, they call vividly to mind another face from my past—a face I don’t like to remember. Father. Far away, beyond the reach of Whispering Wood. He’ll be alone now in the little cottage I rented for the two of us these last few years. How will he make the rent now that I’m not there to provide for him? He won’t. That’s the truth of it. He’ll be kicked out, left to rot in a ditch somewhere, stinking of drink and bitterness. With both daughters gone, there’s no one left to pick him up and nurse him along.

Not that it will make much difference. Granny placed a powerful curse on him for stealing away and marrying her only daughter, a curse that includes long life so that he will suffer for many, many more years. He’ll survive. Somehow. Alone and miserable in his fetid existence.

I shudder. Funny—if anyone asked, I would insist I have no love for my father left in me. I would say he beat it out of me ages ago. But the truth is, my heart hurts at the thought of him. Of the ongoing misery he will endure.

Seven gods, I’m getting as soft as Valera!

Granny secures the iron gate with another word of command, then takes a moment to step up to the bars. “Dire!” she calls out, her erstwhile lovely, moderate tones unexpectedly shrill. “I know you’re out there. Clean yourself up and report back here in an hour. I’ve a guest tonight, and I require you to serve at dinner.”

I raise an eyebrow. Granny wants a werewolf to play butler this evening? And who is she hosting? Granny is not exactly a social creature. Perhaps one of the other ward witches is coming to call. Someone who won’t be offended by a werewolf waiter, anyway.

I pull my expression back into studied indifference as my grandmother turns to me. Her mouth is pursed in disgust, yet somehow she still manages to look beautiful. “Get inside,” she says. “I’ll put out something decent for you to wear. Wash your face and present yourself in the dining room. You’re my granddaughter, remember, whatever else you might be. Try not to disgrace me.”

It’s as good as a command. I turn, for once eager to obey, and hasten across the murky landscape hidden behind Granny’s stone wall. The door to her house manifests as though out of thin air and opens as I approach it, revealing a small, cramped hallway. The last time I passed this way, it was a large, grand foyer . . . but that was in company with Granny, which makes all the difference.

My bedroom, at least, holds onto some of its glamours even without Granny’s presence. Not that I find it particularly comforting. Everything about this room is simply wrong for me, from the rose-colored counterpane to the ornate scrollwork furnishings to the huge, gold-framed mirror dominating one wall. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Granny glamorized it on purpose to make me as uncomfortable as possible.

Actually, I take it back. I’m quite sure that’s exactly what she did.

The real question is how? How does Granny manage such elaborate glamours, layer upon layer? Both on herself and on her home? That kind of magic requires a source of power. Granny isn’t fae, after all; no natural magic flows in her veins. The power must come from somewhere, some source that continues to feed her.

And if there’s a source, that might also mean . . . a weakness . . .

With a growl, I toss my broken bow into a corner of the room and slam the bedroom door behind me. There’s no point indulging thoughts like this. My service is sworn to Granny Dorrel. I must honor that vow, like it or not.

I stride across the room to the delicate cherrywood washstand, pour water from the pitcher into the matching porcelain basin painted with a series of vapid, dancing maidens. I set to work, scrubbing my face and hair with a bar of lilac-scented soap, and when I’m through, reach for a fluffy towel, turning as I mop off my face.

My eyebrows rise in surprise. Somehow, a gown has magically manifested on the bed behind me. It certainly wasn’t there before. I would have noticed something quite so . . . so very purple.

It’s not that it’s an ugly gown. In fact, the cut and style are simple enough, I might not put up much fuss being asked to wear it under ordinary circumstances. The bodice is billowy and loose and looks comfortable, and there’s a brown outer vest that cinches the waist and keeps the gown from being too blousy. The fabric, when I slide it through my fingers, isn’t one of Granny’s glamorized silks or satins; it’s a simple muslin with a strong weave. It might even be real.

Who did a gown like this once belong to? My mother, from back when she used to live here? Or . . .

A frown knots my brow as I pick the gown up and hold it close to my nose. There’s a scent here that I almost recognize. A faint scent, barely a memory of perfume. But definitely familiar. Now, who does it make me think of? Not Mother, for sure. Not Valera either.

I pull the dress back and glare down at it in my hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper. Because it smells something like the red werebeast I hunted today. The werebeast who had, presumably, once been human.

Did this gown belong to her?

I close my eyes and see again the image of that monster crouched over the pool. Weeping. Tears falling from its face.

“Bring me its head,” Granny had said.

I failed my mission today. Tomorrow, I’ll have to try again. And again. The terms of my service mean I’ll have to keep trying until I succeed. Or until the werebeast kills me. Whichever comes first.

Knees trembling, I sink onto the edge of the bed, letting the dress fall from my fingers to the floor. I bury my face in my hands. But I won’t cry. I won’t! I’m not one of those silly damsels, all fair and feeble and fainting. This is my life and, like it or not, I’ll manage. Just like I’ve always managed in the past. But if it were up to me . . .

I lift my head and stare up at the ceiling, breathing out a long sigh. If it were up to me, I’d simply walk out of here, find that red werebeast, hold out my arms . . . and let her savage teeth and claws do their worst.