Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

The next day passes much as any other in the long years of my servitude. I undergo the waxing and waning of my monstrous self, enduring the hours of complete brutishness followed by the slow return of my human awareness.

As the day draws toward close, I stand guard at the witch’s front gate. Elorata has acquired a fair number of enemies over the years, and it’s not uncommon for one of them to attempt breaking through her defenses. None have ever gotten past me, but I have many a scar to show for the battles I have fought in her service.

Today is calm, however. Whispering Wood stands before me, green and lush, full of secrets, but not so menacing as I have known it to be. The secrets it hints at now are more subtle and sinister than overtly threatening. I have little to do, little to occupy my mind. Nothing to distract me from the unpleasant sensation of my own bones shifting beneath my skin, of fur thinning and giving way to bare flesh.

Some days the return of my human self is a relief. For an hour, at least, I can breathe and pretend at some form of normalcy. Today, however . . . today I wish I could hold onto my wolf self a little longer. I wish I could take refuge deep down beneath the animal, where feelings are dulled by the constant ebb and flow of instinct. It would be easier today.

At least until after the Monster Hunter has returned with his prize.

My nose twitches. Though it has already begun reshaping into a man’s nose, it’s sensitive enough to pick up the delicate scent of hyacinth approaching from behind me. Elorata. I’d know her perfume anywhere.

My hackles rise, and my clawed hands clench into fists. But I was commanded to stand guard at the gate. I cannot flee, no matter how I might wish to. I must stay put, smelling her approach, feeling the slight tremble in the ground as her soft footsteps make their way through the blurred nothing of her garden. Soon she stands just on the other side of the iron gate.

Her breath is low and soft in my ear.

“Well, my Dire,” she says after a long, painful silence. “They should return soon. Another hunt come and gone.”

A tremor runs down my spine. If only I could act upon the base impulses of my nature! If only I could turn, lunge against that gate, stretch my overlong arm between the bars, and catch the old witch by her perfect, white, swanlike neck. I could break it with a single twist. But deep sorcery ensnares my very bones, holding me rooted in place.

A featherlight touch runs down my arm. The fur is receding more quickly now, and I feel the delicate tracing of fingertips against my bare flesh. My skin burns in response. That touch moves from my arm to trail a scorching line across the breadth of my shoulders.

“Hmmm.” Elorata’s low voice is almost a croon. “It’s such a shame how things turned out between us . . . Eadmund.”

My breath catches. My throat closes up, and darkness briefly swarms the edges of my vision. That name! I know that name, I know it deep in my bones. Is it . . . could it be . . . mine?

It’s all I can do to brace myself, to keep from sagging back against the iron, sagging into her wandering hand.

“Eadmund,” she breathes again, letting the word linger across her tongue. “Eadmund, sweet Eadmund. How much we once meant to one another! How much more we may have been. And may be still, if only . . .”

I can’t do much. I can’t even take a step without her permission. I can do nothing but growl. Deep down, rumbling in my chest, like a threatening storm.

Elorata’s hand, which had begun to travel down my spine, pauses. Then she withdraws, and I hear a soft curse behind me. “I’d rather hoped time would be enough to soften that hard heart of yours,” she says. “But alas! Beneath all your sweetness, you are possessed of a powerful stubborn streak.” Her footsteps retreat several paces. “Three months, Dire. Three months left until your term of service ends. You have until then to decide.”

“I have decided, Mistress,” I respond, my voice harsh enough to rend the very flesh from her bones. “I decided a long time ago.”

She is silent behind me. I don’t know what answer she will give, but I am prepared for it to be swift, cutting. Brutal. She holds all the power here, and she is more than happy to use that power for whatever ends she desires.

Before she decides on what form my punishment will take, however, a sound catches my ear. Footsteps approach through the undergrowth of Whispering Wood.

“They’re here,” I say.

“Ah!” Elorata breathes. The next moment, in response to some silent command, the gate swings open. She steps up to the gate arch, standing with her feet just on the verge of the boundary line. In the nearly twenty years I’ve served her, I’ve never seen the ward witch step outside the gates. I don’t know if this is a self-chosen limit or something more.

What I do know is that her reach extends far, far beyond those encircling walls. Through servants and slaves, through whispers and rumors, through enchantments and curses, she manages her wardship like no other witch of her time. Well and truly has she earned the superior title Granny.

Another few moments and figures become visible through the trees—two figures, one huge and looming, the other slight. Both silent footed. The Hunter and the girl.

My breath quickens. For the next few moments, I still dare hope. Hope that Dreg somehow managed to elude them. Hope that she fled deep enough into Whispering Wood, possibly even into Faerieland itself, where a mortal like Conrad wouldn’t dare to follow.

Then the Monster Hunter steps into the clear space between the forest and the witch’s gate. And I see the heavy sack he carries in one hand. Blood seeps through the rough fibers.

Let me kill her! Dreg had begged me.

But it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had. Elorata won’t stand for one of her former slaves to live and potentially carry tales to her enemies . . .

Brielle emerges from the forest shadows in Conrad’s wake. Her head is bowed, her hood pulled so low that not even a trace of red hair is visible. Her shoulders are straight, however, and she carries a new, unbroken bow. How much did she participate in the day’s hunt? Was it her arrow that brought the red werebeast down? I sniff the air. My wolf nose would be able to detect the sour stink of guilt emanating from her pores. But I’m too close to manhood now. I can’t tell for certain.

Conrad strides briskly to the gate and, without ceremony, drops the bloody sack at the witch’s feet. “There,” he says, the single word accompanied by his usual grunt.

Elorata kneels in a pool of silken skirts. She opens the sack, peers inside. Her full red mouth curves in a brutal smile. Tilting back her head, she lifts shining eyes to Conrad’s face. “You are most efficient, dear sir!” She rises and extends her hand, as though yet again expecting the Hunter to take it and offer a salutary kiss.

He, however, takes a quick step back and crosses his arms. It’s difficult to read anything of his expression behind that eyepatch and beard, but there’s something there . . . something my fading wolf senses can almost smell. Something like disgust.

Never breaking her gaze with the Hunter, Elorata slips a hand into the depths of one sleeve and withdraws a small pouch heavy with coin. She tosses it in an arc, and the Hunter catches it with one hand. “Our bargain is then complete, Conrad,” she says. “I thank the seven gods for your success and hope my granddaughter learned a valuable lesson while hunting at your side.”

I glance again at the girl, standing a step or two behind the Hunter. Her head is still bowed, her hood hiding her face.

“Will you stay to supper?” Elorata asks in her perfect hostess voice.

But Conrad answers a little too hastily, “I will go,” and turns on his heel. He takes a step, pauses, then tosses back over his shoulder, “Should you need me again, I’m easy enough to summon.”

With those words and nothing more, he sidesteps around the girl and strides into Whispering Wood. The green boughs close in around him, and soon I no longer hear his heavy footsteps.

Elorata lets out a breath. I glance her way, surprised. Was she uneasy in Conrad’s presence? I’ve never seen the ward witch uneasy around anyone. Her face betrays nothing, and that smile of hers remains firmly in place. “I trust you had a profitable afternoon, dear,” she says, fixing her vivid blue eyes on her granddaughter.

“Yes, Granny,” Brielle responds, barely above a whisper.

“Very good. You can tell me all about it at supper. Meanwhile, please take this”—the witch nudges the Hunter’s sack with one foot—“inside.”

A shudder crawls through the girl’s body. But she’s in motion almost before the witch finishes speaking, obedient to the command she cannot resist. She bends, picks up the sack. Is that a gag I hear from inside the shadow of her hood? She steps through the gate and into the murky space beyond.

“And darling?” Elorata says.

The girl pauses, just within my line of vision.

“I have a little task for you to perform tomorrow. I’m nearly out of my tarathieli, an important component of an upcoming spell. I need for you to replenish my supply.”

Brielle looks back over her shoulder, and I get my first good glimpse of her face. Her eyes are raw and red, her cheeks deathly pale. But more than that, the look in her eye is enough to make my heart stop: Hatred. Pure hatred. A look that would slay if it could.

“It will mean a journey,” Elorata continues, quite unperturbed. “To the Quisandoral’s garden. Not a pleasant little jaunt, but I’m sure you’re up for it. I’ll give you the details at supper tonight.”

“Yes, Granny,” the girl says softly. She turns and continues into the gloom.

“You’ll take Dire with you, of course. For security.”

Once again, the girl pauses. Just for an instant. Her body is perfectly still.

Then, without a word, she marches on until she vanishes into the swirling nothingness of Elorata’s glamoured garden, beyond my range of sight.