Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes
I stand before the witch’s iron gate wearing nothing but a bit of rag about my loins. As twilight deepens, the gray fur that usually covers my limbs has retreated to almost nothing. Tufts cling to my shoulders, neck, and the backs of my hands, but in another few minutes they will vanish too, and I will, for the next hour at least, look fully human.
But when the hour is up, the beast will start to return. By the stroke of midnight, I will be completely lost in its form. A beast in mind as well as body, with no knowledge of who I am. That too will fade, however, and as the hours creep on toward dawn, the beast will retreat, and the man will reassert itself. Then, in the pink and gold light of the new day, I will once more know my true shape, my true self.
I look down at my body—my real body. The torso, arms, and legs with which I was born. Though I’ve been under this curse for twenty years, I’ve not aged significantly since the day the curse first fell. I don’t quite understand it. The best explanation I have is that time only affects this body when it is fully human. Which means I only age two hours out of every twenty-four.
Strange, to have lived so much life without ever actually living it.
I sense movement in the murky nothing beyond the gate bars. Quickly, I draw myself to attention, making certain my face is blank, betraying nothing. Not that it will fool my mistress. She knows me too well by now. But it’s part of the game I play with myself, the game of trying to hold onto my self-respect, my dignity. The minute I lose that game, I will lose everything. Dawn or dusk will no longer matter—I’ll be a beast through and through.
The murkiness parts like a curtain, and the witch manifests before my eyes. She is, as always, a vision—a beautiful temptress clad in forest green that brings out the porcelain of her complexion and the vivid hues of her hair. The gown is wide at the neck and plunging, showing to advantage the perfection of her figure.
Elorata Dorrel is, by far, the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
She was beautiful the first day I saw her. The day she tempted me into her embrace.
She was beautiful the day I fled her, realizing my error. Too late, too late . . .
And she was beautiful the day she turned on me with vengeance in her heart and curse magic at her fingertips.
She smiles at me now, that same winning smile that turns my blood to ice.
“Well, well, Dire,” she says, purring the name she gave me. “You’re as handsome as ever, though rather less formal than I require tonight.”
Her gaze rakes over my naked body, approving and possessive. It makes my skin crawl. Elorata notices and laughs a single bright, bell-like note. Then she waves her hand, and glamour overwhelms me, wrapping my limbs. I close my eyes until the worst of it is over. When I look down at myself again, I’m clad in an elegant white uniform, complete with gold buttons running up the front of a perfectly fitted jacket.
“There,” the witch says, tilting her head a little to one side and giving me another slow once-over. “You’ll not disgrace me now, I think. Come! My guest has already arrived, and I hate to keep him waiting.”
With another wave of her hand, she opens the iron gate. I have no choice but to step through at her beckoning. Rather than turn at once and lead the way to her house, Elorata stands where she is, waiting for me until I stand less than a foot from her. Then she reaches out and gently touches my cheek.
“Hmmm,” she says, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “So rough. So unkempt. And yet, I find it suits you well. But tonight!”
She gently trails her fingers over my face. I feel the bushy growth of beard melting away until there’s nothing but neat, trim hair left behind, smooth as though freshly oiled.
“Yes,” Elorata says, running her fingers lightly over my lips. “Yes, I like that. It reminds me of when first we met.”
There’s enchantment in her voice. A lure, like a siren’s song. It prickles my senses, and I feel the profound pull of it.
It doesn’t matter. She’s a powerful witch, undoubtedly; but no power of hers could ever force its way through the many layers of hatred I feel for this woman. I give my head the barest shake. All the enchantment vanishes, leaving behind a sour stink in the air. I meet her gaze, watch how her lovely face hardens.
She removes her hand and takes a step back. “You always were a dashing one, my Dire,” she says, her eyes lidded. “Too bad the paths of our lives took the turns they did. But come! Let us not dwell upon the past. You have work to do tonight. Inside with you!”
She turns in a sweep of green velvet and sets off through her indistinct garden. I have no choice but to follow in her wake. Soon I find myself stepping into her house—this space that never feels quite real, quite fully formed. I hate it. I hate the stink of magic, which assaults even my dull human senses and makes my gut churn. I hate the glimpses of fabricated beauty in between the stretches of nothingness and blur.
There’s only one room in this house that always feels solid. One room that I believe is real, truly real, not a figment of glamour and guise.
The Hall of Heads.
They line the walls on either side, their glass eyes gleaming, not quite lifelike. Many of them have been stuffed with their mouths open, displaying great white fangs. All are animal, and yet, not quite. Strange combinations—wolves, bears, wildcats, and deer blended with distinctly human qualities, making for a nightmarish whole. Some of them I recognize. Too many, in fact. Not friends, exactly. Fellow sufferers. Fellow slaves.
There’s an empty plaque at the end of the left wall. A place for Dreg’s head. She’s escaped this gruesome fate today. But how long before she joins the others?
How long before I join them as well?
“Dire!”
Elorata’s sharp voice brings me back to myself. I see her standing at the far end of the hall, holding a door open. She motions sharply with one arm, the long sleeve of her gown fluttering delicately. “Make haste.”
I bow my head, trying not to look at the faces above me, but feeling their glass eyes following me as I shuffle by. It’s a relief to step through the door into the chamber beyond.
Here I find the reason why most of the house is lost in murk and gloom. The vast majority of Granny Dorrel’s powers are concentrated here, creating a grand, sumptuous space. The ceiling is high and set with an ostentatious chandelier, white wax candles dripping on a table long enough to seat at least twenty guests. The backs of the chairs are tall and ornately carved, the upholstered silk gleaming with shiny embroidery threads. Each place at the table is set with full sets of silver cutlery, gold-edged dinnerware, and crystal goblets. It’s so much, so over the top. And yet somehow, utterly convincing.
Only one person sits at that great expanse of table. I cast him first one swift glance then another, longer look. The man couldn’t be more unsuited to this setting if he tried. A great bulk of a fellow—not fat, but extremely broad and muscular. He wears leather armor that exposes bare arms boasting enormous, corded muscles and intricate tattoos from wrist to shoulder. His hair is long, black, and loose, and his beard is equally thick and dark. One eye gleams bright and quick with a savage sort of intelligence. The other is gone, the empty socket hidden behind a patch that does not fully cover the scar across his cheek and forehead.
I’ve never seen this man before. Never smelled him either, but something about him—something that my repressed wolfish senses detect, perhaps—feels wrong. Dangerous and wrong. Looking at him, meeting that one-eyed gaze, I can’t help feeling as though I’m facing down an apex predator, more dangerous even than I.
A low growl rumbles in my throat.
“Dire!” Elorata’s voice startles me, making me jump and look sideways at her. “Enough of that,” she says and motions me to go stand by the wall, out of the way. I obey, glad the big man’s attention has shifted from me to the witch. I take my place, glowering from beneath my knitted brow, and watch as the stranger rises and offers a stiff but courteous bow. More than I would have expected from a brute like him.
“Conrad! My dear, dear Conrad!” Elorata smiles brilliantly and holds out a hand to her guest, like a queen expecting to have her ring kissed.
He looks at it uneasily, takes and presses her fingers, then quickly lets go and puts both his hands behind his back. “At your service, ma’am,” he says simply. His voice is tinged with an accent I don’t recognize. Something thick and dark like the man himself.
Elorata offers a gracious, “Please, be seated,” but the man has the good manners to wait until she has taken her own seat at the head of the table, draping her long green sleeves over the arms of a throne-like chair. “My granddaughter will be joining us soon,” she says, with a twinkling smile that positively begs the man to question how one so young, so beautiful as she is could possibly have a granddaughter.
If he is surprised by this revelation, the hulking Conrad offers no comment. His face is impossible to read behind the beard and eyepatch. He merely inclines his head a fraction and sits back in his seat, one fist resting on the table. Resting nearest to the silver knife, I note with interest. Is it intentional, or simply an unconscious choice born of a predator’s instinct?
Elorata’s smile falters somewhat before her guest’s stony facade. But she rallies quickly and motions for me. “Sherry, Dire,” she says briskly.
Glancing around, I discover a little table with a cut-glass decanter and tiny, jewel-twinkling cups just to my left. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t there a moment ago. Silently, I sidle over to it. Magic emanates from the walls and floor all around me—magic Elorata has implanted using secret runes and called to life tonight in order to put on this fine display. I don’t pretend to know much about witch’s magic, but I do know that such runes can only be used once. After they’re gone, they will need to be redrawn if she hopes to recreate this same effect.
I also know that the drawing of such runes requires tremendous strength. Strength of which Elorata seems to have an endless supply.
I pour the amber liquid into the delicate cups while Elorata continues to play the hostess. “How is business, dear Conrad?” she asks warmly. “I’m sure a man of your skill is always in great demand.”
“Business is good,” the man replies. I can feel his one eye on me as I set the glasses on a little tray. When I turn, I catch his gaze and watch his thick brow lower. I bend slightly at the waist and offer my tray, amused to watch the flash of uncertainty across his face as he takes in the delicate cups. This is a man intended for quaffing large quantities of hearty ale, not sipping at sherry. But he gamely selects a cup and sets it down beside his plate.
“Do you find yourself spending more and more time around these parts?” Elorata presses as I offer the second sherry glass to her. She plucks it from the tray and takes a dainty taste, all without looking at me.
Slowly, the big man shifts his gaze back to her. “More work up north.”
“Ah, yes! Always more monsters to be had up in the northern counties, for sure. The wardens there are far too lax, and creatures from Eledria are constantly creeping through the Wood. Why, if I’ve told Mother Granchen once, I’ve told her a thousand times, she needs to strengthen her borders! But then, her rune work was always a bit slovenly.”
She blinks across the table at Conrad. Realizing she requires an answer from him, he grunts. Which probably passes for eloquence in his part of the world.
My task complete, I return my tray to the little table and stand by the wall again. My heart pounds harder than before, and my blood is beginning to boil. I’ve realized who and what this man is. Part of me had suspected the instant I set eyes on him, but this conversation has only confirmed it.
He’s a Monster Hunter.
Elorata Dorrel has hired a professional Monster Hunter. To hunt down Dreg. She’s not going to risk the red werebeast getting away due to her granddaughter’s incompetency.
I close my eyes . . . and I see again the moment I glimpsed through the foliage earlier today. The moment when the red-headed girl stepped out from among the firs, drew her bowstring, set her sights on her prey. And hesitated. I watched her face go pale, watched her hands begin to shake. I watched and I silently urged her, Don’t. Don’t do it, girl. Don’t.
Like a miracle, she almost seemed to hear me . . .
The door opens. I turn sharply, my lips drawing back to show my teeth, an unconsciously feral gesture. Into the room steps a figure I don’t know at first. I take a second glance, then a third, and only then do I recognize the girl. The huntress. Clad, not in her green tunic and trousers and tall boots as I’ve always seen her before.
She’s wearing a gown. An actual gown. Not particularly well fitted, but distinctly feminine. She’s a slight, bony thing, but this garment gives her shape that I’d scarcely realized was there before. The outer leather vest nips her trim waist, but the laces pull open slightly across her bosom, emphasizing her curves. The under blouse is too big, the wide neck tending to slip and fall off one shoulder. She pushes it roughly back into place, but it slips again, exposing a startling amount of pale skin.
I realize I’m staring. Hastily, I tear my gaze away, concentrating on my own two feet. Feet that, within the hour, will start to warp and enlarge, sprouting hair and claws until even magicked boots won’t be able to contain them anymore. Not long now.
I feel eyes on me. Her eyes. The girl’s.
I’m sure she recognizes me—we’ve met once or twice while I wore my human shape. What she makes of me clad in this elegant uniform I can’t begin to guess.
I certainly don’t look up.
“Ah, Brielle!” Elorata trills, extending a gracious hand her granddaughter’s way. The girl makes no move to take it but stands there just inside the doorway. “Do come in, darling,” her grandmother continues, motioning to a chair opposite the Monster Hunter, who rises and offers a stiff bow. “This is Conrad Torosson, a well-respected man in his field. He honors us tonight with his presence. Do show him a curtsy, there’s a dear.”
“I’m not curtsying, Granny,” the girl growls.
Elorata’s gaze sharpens, and her smile turns deadly. “I said curtsy, my dear.”
From the tail of my eye, I watch the girl fight the command. Her fists clench, her back straightens, and I hear her suddenly labored breathing. But it’s a useless battle.
She gives in at last and bobs at the knees, her hands holding out the folds of her skirt in an awkward flare. She’s as badly suited to these kinds of social graces as the Monster Hunter. Maybe more so.
“Thank you,” Elorata purrs, sitting back in her own seat, her smile easy and gracious. She points to the empty chair across from the Hunter. Her granddaughter obeys the unspoken command without protest, sinking into the seat and staring hard down at the empty bowl in front of her. “Now,” the ward witch says, “let us eat! You’ve kept our guest waiting overlong, my sweetness, and I’m sure he is quite ravenous.”
That’s my cue.
I lurch into motion. A soup trolly has miraculously appeared where the sherry stand stood but a few moments ago. I push the trolly to the table and begin ladling soup into gilt-edged bowls painted with garlands of exotic flowers. This creamy, saffron-spiced soup is, in reality, nothing more than boiled turnip gruel. The bowls are made of wood, crudely shaped, and splintered on the edges. But Elorata’s glamours are so strong, it’s impossible to stop my mouth from watering. I’m not even sure my wolf nose would smell through magic this potent.
The witch and her two guests are totally silent as I make my way around the table. Brielle subtly leans away from me when I extend my arm to ladle her soup. As I bend, I catch a whiff of soap from her hair—a surprising sweetness that momentarily dislodges the enchanted spices in my nostrils.
Probably just another glamour. I give my head a quick shake and move on.
When I’ve served Elorata’s bowl last of all, she waves me aside without a look. I hurry back to my place by the wall, trying to blend into the moldings. I may only have an hour in this form before the wolfishness returns, but seven gods spare me, it already feels like three! After this interminable stint as butler, it’ll be a relief to flee back to the forest and patrol the perimeters of the witch’s house until dawn.
“Do eat,” Elorata says, smiling at her guests, who both study the numerous spoon options spread before them. Conrad finally selects the correct spoon, holding it all wrong as he struggles to get any soup into his mouth without dripping on the tablecloth. Brielle chooses a too-small dessert spoon but manages it with a little more dexterity. All the while, Elorata keeps up a steady stream of polite conversation that would not be out of place at any gentleman’s manor house back in my old life. The whole scene is so incongruous, I almost find it amusing.
Suddenly, the ward witch sets down her spoon and delicately dabs a napkin to her full red lips. Then she leans an elbow on the table and inclines her head toward the Monster Hunter, her eyelashes fluttering softly. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I invited you here, dear Conrad.”
He grunts and attempts another bite of soup.
“It’s my granddaughter,” Elorata continues. She cups her pretty chin in the palm of one hand. “She has the makings of a proper Monster Hunter in her, I do believe. But the actual . . . how shall I put this? The brutality of the task seems to be more than her maidenly sensibilities can stand.”
“What?” Brielle drops her spoon with a clatter and glares at her grandmother. “Maidenly sensibilities be damned!”
“Watch your tongue, dear,” her grandmother purrs, but there’s an edge to her voice. I feel the spell going out from her, clamping the girl’s jaw tightly shut.
Elorata turns back to Conrad, tilting one eyebrow fetchingly. “I’ve heard such wonderful things about your skills across the wardships. Mother Granchen spoke highly of you at the last coven. She claims you brought down a griffin that had gotten all the way through the barrier and was picking off cows and children from one of her villages. Such a noble endeavor! Worthy of heroes!”
Conrad makes no answer. He gives up on his spoon, reaches across the table to a basket of crusty bread, pulls off a chunk, and begins dipping it in the remnants of his soup, popping bites in his mouth.
The witch relentlessly pursues her course. “I wonder if I could convince you to give my granddaughter a little training.”
Conrad swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “For a price.”
“Granny, I don’t need training—”
Elorata flicks a hand, and the girl’s jaw once more shuts fast. Her eyes blaze, and she digs the prettily scrolled handle of her spoon into the tabletop like a knife.
“What is your going rate for a werebeast head?” Elorata asks smoothly.
The Monster Hunter pauses, a bite of soggy bread partway to his mouth. “Werebeast?” One bushy eyebrow rises slightly. “Don’t usually hunt werebeasts.”
“Oh, come now, I don’t believe that! A big strapping fellow like you? And what’s a werebeast compared to a griffin? Quite a little bit of a nothing, I should imagine.”
Conrad takes his bite, chews, swallows, then reaches for another.
Elorata puts out her hand and rests it feather-light on top of his. A gentle, ladylike gesture, but once again I sense the power in it even from where I stand by the wall. The formidable Conrad flashes her a wary look with his one good eye. His left hand twitches as though he’s only just keeping from reaching for the knife at his belt.
“Will you make a deal?” says the witch.
Conrad glances Brielle’s way, his gaze traveling over her. Her blouse has partially slipped from one shoulder again. Her face is a mask of fury. The Monster Hunter withdraws his hand from Elorata’s grasp and clenches both fists on either side of his soup bowl. “You want me to train the girl?”
“Yes. Take her with you, let her see how it’s done. And bring back the werebeast’s head.” Elorata smiles sweetly. “You’ll find I’m more than generous.”
Conrad nods slowly. Then he picks up the last of his bread, dunks it in his soup. “We eat. Then we talk,” he says.
Sitting back in her chair, queenly and regal, the witch smiles beneficently. “An excellent plan. Dire! Serve the next course if you please.”
I close my eyes, draw a long breath. I cannot resist her command for more than a second or two. But in that second, in that quiet space of darkness behind my eyelids, I see again Dreg’s face. Covered in foam and blood. Her eyes wild with curse magic and desperation. A monster. Like me.
Let me kill her, Dire! she’d begged.
I open my eyes again, my gaze inexorably drawn to the girl at the table, sitting there with her eyes downcast. Her mouth is twisted in an expression I cannot quite name.
Should I have done it? Should I have let Dreg tear her apart? Could I have resisted the witch’s command long enough to let it happen?
“Dire!” Elorata repeats sharply.
I lurch into motion, obeying my mistress’s command.