Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

I keep my eyes downcast, allowing the back-and-forth between Granny and her guest to carry on over my head. I don’t really hear them. There’s too much throbbing pain in my head. I know there isn’t any point in pushing against Granny’s hold over me; the binding of the service oath is too strong. And Granny is a canny old witch—she wouldn’t allow for any loopholes in our agreement.

But I can’t seem to help myself. I must push. I have to try. No matter how useless it is.

Oh, Valera! What have you done to me?

Hastily I suppress this thought. It’s not my sister’s fault. It’s not! She was only trying to help, only trying to save me. But sometimes . . . oh, sometimes, I wish she’d just let me die!

The meal drags toward its end. Granny orders Dire to serve us all hot Vaalyun coffee out of little white-and-blue cups scarcely larger than bird’s eggs, then dismisses him from the room. That’s a relief at least. Though I took care not to look at him, I felt his eyes on me through most of this evening. He hates me. I’m sure of it. Hates me for what I’m being forced to do.

For what I will someday be forced to do to him.

I stare down at the steaming dark liquid in front of me, trying to make my eyes see through the glamour. I can almost, almost discern a plain wooden cup full of dark well water—but the effort makes me sick. I blink and let it go. The image reverts to the coffee, and my nostrils inhale its delectable aroma.

I won’t drink it. I grip the arms of my chair hard, my knuckles turning white with effort.

“So, it’s settled then,” Granny says at last, setting her own coffee cup aside in its saucer and rising. She holds out a lily-white hand, her long velvet sleeve fluttering from her elbow. “You will take my granddaughter with you tomorrow. And you will bring me the werebeast’s head.”

The Monster Hunter stands. Watching him from beneath my eyelids, I see how he hesitates for half a breath before accepting my grandmother’s hand. He’s got some sense in him, at least. Sense enough to hesitate over shaking hands with a witch. But he doesn’t want to offend her either, so he barely touches her fingertips before retracting his hand and taking a step back from the table.

Granny smiles. She knows exactly how nervous she makes the powerful hunter. “Will you sleep here tonight, dear Conrad?” she asks, her voice rich and syrupy sweet. “We have plenty of room, and I’m sure I can make you . . . comfortable.”

There’s something in the way she speaks that last word that makes my skin crawl. For all I call her Granny, for all she is my mother’s mother, her self-worn glamours are as powerful as any fae’s. She is, in a word, stunning. Seductive. A true vision of both beauty and power, with all the allure of a siren’s song.

How does this allure affect the big man in front of her? I watch his cheeks go pale beneath his black beard, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say there was a flash of fear in his one good eye. “I’ll thank you, but no, ma’am.” He takes another half step back. “I’d best be on my way. I’ll report to your gates at dawn.”

“Until dawn then,” Granny says, and her expression is pleased, almost smug. She sweeps an arm toward the door. “Allow me to see you out.”

I don’t rise. My fingers tighten on the arms of my chair, as though I can somehow prevent Granny from speaking a command my way. Maybe it works. She doesn’t acknowledge me at all but leaves me where I am as she guides Conrad from the room. The door shuts behind them.

I close my eyes and breathe out a long, long breath. “Oh gods!” I gasp, the words bursting from my lips as I lean forward, planting my elbows on the table and resting my head in my hands.

It was bad enough going on that hunt today. But I’d always known, or at least suspected, that I would find some way to not complete the task assigned me. This time, Granny has guaranteed success. One look at the mountainous Conrad, and I know he won’t hesitate in the moment before the strike. The red werebeast may be a monster, but she’s nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to that giant of a man with his tattoos and his scars and his massive presence.

And I’ll be right there. Right in the center of the blood, the carnage.

Is this what I’m going to become over the next seven years? A mindless killing machine? Will I eventually grow hardened to it, no longer feel this sick churning in my gut at the prospect of the next day’s hunt? And when the seven years are up . . . what will be left of me? Of my soul? Will there still be any trace of the Brielle I used to be? The Brielle my sister knew and loved?

I see it all before me, a dark, shadowy future. A future that extends far beyond seven measly years. When my term of service comes to an end, I won’t be free. No one is ever truly free of Granny’s service.

With a growl, I push back my chair and rise. The room has shifted around me since Granny left. Murky nothingness creeps in around the edges, though the glamour clings in places. The chandelier still hangs over the table, its candles sunk to mere nubs and trailing long tails of wax, but the cup of coffee is now definitely nothing more than a cup of water.

I pick it up and down the whole cup in a few gulps. What a relief to have something real to ingest! The liquid cools my thick throat, but pools uncomfortably in my gut. Somewhat nauseated, I toss the cup to the floor and make for the door. Best to return to my own rooms while I can. Granny rarely troubles me there, and more than anything, I need sleep.

I open the door, step out into the passage beyond. And stop.

Dire is there.

He still mostly wears a man’s shape. Some of his uniform—no doubt a glamorized gift from Granny—has melted away, and fur pokes through at the elbows and shoulders. But he stands upright, a long, lean figure, not bulky, but obviously strong. His hair hangs to his shoulders, and it’s as gray as his wolf’s coat, though his face hardly looks over twenty-four or twenty-five. An unexpectedly neat beard frames his jaw and makes his cheekbones stand out more sharply above hollow cheeks. There’s something undeniably feral about him. Feral and lethal and . . . and . . . attractive.

I shake that thought away and very nearly step back into the dining room and draw the door shut behind me. But what is the good in that? Besides, while he hasn’t turned to look at me, I’m quite sure he’s aware of my presence. I can’t let him know how he unnerves me.

He’s staring at something on the wall, his attention apparently riveted. I look to see what it is: a monster head. One of the many horrible trophies Granny likes to keep lining this particular hall. Not glamours, I’ve learned over time, but one of the few truly real things in this whole wretched house.

This particular head is perhaps a little less monstrous than the others. While most of them are hideous conglomerates of humans and predators—bear, wolves, weasels, and the like—this one is gentler. A weredeer, with soft brown eyes. Her features are mostly those of a deer, but with just a hint of humanity in them. One can see in a glance that, whoever she once was, she was a timid, shy, delicate thing.

I turn my gaze from her back to the monster below her. The way he looks at her . . . did he know her? Was she a slave here during his term of service? If so, it was before my time, for I have certainly never glimpsed her. Something about the look in his eye tells me she was more to him than just a fellow slave. She was important.

Why does that thought make my stomach knot a little tighter?

Seven gods save me, I don’t like seeing him like this. I’ve only encountered him in this human form a few times, but somehow the sight always puts me ill at ease. I prefer him as a monster. At least then I know how I should feel in his presence: revulsion.

But seeing him like this, even with the wolf beginning to take over his shape, he seems so strangely normal. A real person deserving of my pity. Even compassion.

A shudder ripples down my spine. I’ve never seen the red werebeast in a state like this, but presumably she sometimes takes human form as well. And tomorrow, I’ll have to . . .

They’re monsters! I clench my jaw, close my eyes, and force my thoughts into proper alignment. They’re monsters. They might look human sometimes. But it doesn’t matter. They shouldn’t be, they shouldn’t exist.

Why can’t I make myself fully believe it?

I’ve lingered too long, letting the moments get away from me. Dire still hasn’t turned or acknowledged me, but he’s more than aware of my presence, I’m sure. And he’s standing between me and my room.

Best to brazen it out.

I tug my loose blouse sleeve back up onto my shoulder and start down the hall at an easy saunter. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t look, and I could probably go on by him without saying a word if I wanted. But something in me—some cursedly stupid part of me—makes me say with callus sarcasm, “Friend of yours?”

He turns.

The motion is so sudden, it’s almost a blur. I don’t have time to catch a breath, to put up my arms in defense before he’s on me. Long fingers grip me by the shoulders, push me back five paces, and slam my back against the far wall. When he opens his mouth in a snarl, I see the flash of long, sharp canines.

But when I look into his eyes, I discover they are gray. Gray and ringed by long, dark lashes. Painfully human. Shimmering with tears.

I should fling off his hands. He’s strong, but in this shape, he’s not too strong for me. I could get my guard up, break his hold, shove him with everything I’ve got, creating enough distance between us to hurl a solid punch at his jaw.

Instead, I stand there. Staring into those eyes.

“Don’t,” he says in a human voice, even as a growl vibrates in his throat, “speak of her. Don’t . . . don’t . . .”

I become aware of his hands, trembling as he grips my shoulder. My sleeve has slipped again, and the fingers of his right hand dig into bare flesh. Is that a hint of claws beginning to tear into me? I want to writhe, to squirm in his grasp. But I won’t give him that satisfaction. And I won’t break his gaze.

“Her name,” he says, the words panting through his gritted teeth, “is . . . was . . . Misery. No!” He snarls, a purely animal sound. His shoulders hunch and his head bows, as though suddenly heavy on his neck. His hands squeeze even tighter, and now his arms are shaking. “Her name was . . . was . . . Misery. Misery. No, no! Her name! Her name . . .”

Quite suddenly he lets go and sinks to his knees in front of me. His hands hit the floor, his elbows bend, give, and he nearly falls flat on his face. I stare down at him, watching how his arms begin to reshape. I can almost see the bones breaking, warping, reknitting. The uniform has melted away still more, revealing the bare, muscled flesh of his back, and swiftly sprouting fur.

My mouth is dry, my heart throbbing. For some inexplicable reason, I want to reach out, to touch his head. To run my fingers through that long, soft hair of his before it becomes lost in the rough fur coat. I want to say something. Something gentle. Something comforting. Something to ease the pain that wracks him body and soul.

Seven gods, am I really going so soft?

I pull back, pressing my shoulders against the paneled wall. I feel the gaze of the deer-woman across from me. I can’t quite tell if her glass eyes are watching me or focused on the broken creature in front of me. I only know that she, at least, wouldn’t hesitate to offer this man whatever comfort she could.

I lick my dry lips and let out a shuddering breath. “I . . . Dire . . .”

His face comes up. I choke on a scream, pressing a fist hard into my open mouth. His muzzle has begun to protrude, and saliva drips from white fangs. Fur creeps from his beard up his cheeks to his forehead, and his eyes have transformed from gray to yellow with sharp dark pupils.

He opens his mouth, and an awful, growling voice emerges: “My name is—”

Whatever he might have said, it ends with a roar loud enough to shake me to the core. I cower back, my knees buckling, trying to make myself melt into the wall. But he turns from me and lunges with his strong back legs, stretches out his elongated forelimbs, and gallops down the hall. The eyes of the dead werebeasts seem to watch him until he reaches the end and vanishes from sight.

Whatever strength was left in my legs gives out. I sink to the floor and bury my head in my knees, cover my head with my arms. But I don’t cry. I won’t cry. Never again.

I simply sit there. For a long, long time.