Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

For a moment I cannot move.

I crouch in place, watching the girl as she leaps like a rabbit, making for that place where reality ripples just outside the edge of human vision. One moment she’s there. The next . . . gone.

I don’t want to go. I don’t want to use one of those gods-blighted Hinter paths.

But Elorata’s compulsion is on me. I must protect the girl. Like it or not.

Gnashing my teeth, I bolt forward, propelling myself with my overlong forelimbs. They’re still mostly human shaped for now, but big enough to allow me to run swiftly on all fours. I lunge for that thin place between worlds, swirling, narrowing, closing. I leap.

My skin quivers with the sensation of a thousand hairline cuts as I plunge through that opening and come down hard on the shadow-path. I land awkwardly, my forelimbs slipping and splayed. My breath ratchets from my throat. I blink swimming eyes, try to make sense of this new reality.

The vastness of the Hinter overwhelms every thought, every feeling, every sense.

I shouldn’t look. I should bury my face in my hands, block out that sight. But I can’t help it. I stare out into that bigness that is only just visible on the edges of what otherwise looks simply like more green trees. But we’re not in the Wood anymore. Not really. Those trees, they are merely an echo, a faint memory of the place from which we’ve come. It’s that bigness that is real, that sweeping away into Forever. A Forever that calls to me, beckons me to plunge into utter madness.

I whimper like a puppy. And I hate myself for it. But I can’t stop.

Cold fingers brush my shoulder, slinking through the thick fur growing there. Those same fingers move, trail up to my face, cover my eyes.

“It’s easier if you don’t look,” Brielle says.

I try to speak. The only sound that emerges is another pathetic whimper.

“Shhhhhh.” How strange her voice sounds, low and gentle. I would not have thought it possible coming from such a ferocious creature. “Come on then,” she says, keeping her hand over my eyes. “Get up. Just shut your eyes and let me lead you. All right? It’s really not so bad as all that, I promise.”

Part of me wants to resist. I can hear that faint hint of derision underlying her words. I want to yank away, snarl, gnash my teeth at her. I want to pull myself up tall, looming over her, a figure of strength and might.

Instead, I let her help me to my feet. I sway, my stomach pitching with fear. The shadow on which I stand is so thin, so painfully thin! I feel as though it will melt away any second, leaving me to wander for all eternity in this huge emptiness between worlds.

I’m trembling so hard.

But then her touch moves from my face down to my shoulder and lower still, trailing down my arm until she reaches my hand. It’s such a simple gesture . . . but also strange. Because she isn’t really holding my hand. Not the hand that ought to be mine. What she holds is a monstrous thing, warped and twisted. Half animal, half human.

Her slim, strong fingers grip me fast, without hesitation, without trembling.

I . . . I don’t know what to do.

I draw a breath. Then I squeeze her fingers back. Just a little.

“That’s right,” she says and begins to walk, leading me after her. I follow like a child, my huge, clawed feet uncertain at first, but slowly gaining confidence. The terror of the Hinter still surrounds me, but now I’m able to fix my awareness on a single distracting point—that sensation of her palm against my palm, her fingers twined with mine. It’s like a small world. A world full of more courage and belonging than I’ve known in twenty long years . . .

I grit my teeth and very nearly wrench my hand from her grasp. What am I thinking? I’m not, that’s the answer. I’m not thinking at all, I’m simply feeling. And that’s no good. There’s no room within a monstrous hide like mine for feeling. I learned that long ago. Best to suppress all feeling beneath animal instincts, focus on nothing more complex than day-to-day survival. Anything beyond that is useless. And dangerous.

“You know, I’ve been walking these paths since I was fourteen years old.”

I jump slightly at the sound of her voice after what feels like a very long silence. Lifting my gaze from the path before my feet, I glance at the side of her face, that strangely delicate profile. Odd that I’d not noticed how soft her features truly are, the curve of her mouth, the roundness of her chin, the upturned tilt of her nose. Ordinarily, her ferocity masks all of this, giving an impression of hard lines and steel. The steel is still there even now. I’m not sure it could ever fully vanish. But for the first time, I think there might be something more as well.

“I’d heard about path-walking a year or two beforehand,” she continues, her tone conversational. “I just wasn’t able to figure out how to open one at first.”

Is she trying to fill the silence for my sake? To calm my fear? I shake my head and almost tell her not to bother. We may be obliged to travel together, but that doesn’t mean we need to chat.

Yet somehow, I hear my own growling voice saying, “What was a human child like you doing, running around Whispering Wood, trying to open dangerous paths?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, with a little shrug, “I was looking for my sister.”

I wait. There’s obviously some sort of story here. I can’t tell from her tone if it’s a story she wants to tell or not. So I simply wait.

“My sister was taken from me,” she continues at last. There’s an edge to her tone now. “When I was eleven years old. She was more like my mother in many ways, older than me by seven years. The fae came and stole her away to be a fae lord’s bride. And I was left alone.”

Strange . . . I’d never stopped to wonder about her. About her past. About who she was before she showed up on Elorata’s doorstep. I’ve always assumed she was just another being like her grandmother. Vicious. Power hungry. Out for what she could get.

Her hand trembles in my grasp. I almost offer an encouraging squeeze. But what if she recoils from the gesture, withdraws her hand? So again, I wait.

“I was always intrigued by the Wood,” she finally says. “I’d slip away to explore the outermost fringes whenever I had the chance, much to Valera’s despair. She was quite certain the fae would come and steal me away one day! Neither of us . . . we never thought . . . we never believed she would be the one . . .”

Once more her voice trails away to nothing, and I’m left to wonder if her moment of vulnerability has passed. But then, she goes on.

“I was determined to find her. To rescue her. I spent years venturing deeper and deeper into the Wood, learning what I could, where I could, from whoever would teach me. Our local ward witch told me a little here and there. And I encountered travelers through the Wood who would sometimes bargain with me or play games in exchange for information.” She laughs bitterly. “In retrospect, it’s a wonder I didn’t die a hundred times over, what with some of the risks I took! Maybe the gods were looking out for me.”

I cast her another sidelong glance. Back before . . . before everything, I wouldn’t have ventured into Whispering Wood on my own if my life depended on it. What an odd, madcap little creature she must have been, the despair of any caring sister.

She comes to a sudden stop. “Ah! Here we are.” Her voice is brisk and hard edged again. “At least, here we are, I think.”

I growl with a questioning lilt.

“Well, I’m assuming this path we opened is the right path,” she says, looking up at me, her brow slightly puckered. “Granny said the shadow of an owl in flight leads to the Quisandoral’s Gate. I mean, it should work.”

I sigh heavily. “I warned you that owlkins are not owls, necessarily.”

“Yes, and I heard you just fine the first time,” she answers with a sniff. “But we’ve come this far now, and I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of this path already. We’d better try it than not. You ready?”

“Ready as I can be.”

She readjusts her grip on my hand, tightening her fingers. The gesture is still so strange, it startles me, and I look down to see her white fingers enclosed in mine just in the same moment that she takes a lunging step, pulling me after her.

Then I don’t have time to think or feel anything except the sensation of falling, plunging, and the enormity of empty space all around. A thrill of panic jolts through my soul. Have we taken the wrong step? Have we used the wrong gate? Are we falling into the vastness of the Hinter, hurtling into the void—

My shoulder hits something solid.

Now I’m rolling, my partially furry hide only just protecting me from the scrapes and tears of stones and jutting roots. The scent of greenery and dirt fills my nostrils. The tumble ends. I lie splayed out on my back, arms and legs outspread, staring up into a green canopy of leaves and dark branches.

We are, for better or worse, back in Whispering Wood.

I draw a long, shuddering breath into my lungs and let it out slowly. The air of this forest is not exactly normal; it’s tainted with the magic that pervades every rock, tree, and creature. But compared to the Hinter, it tastes fresh and delicious and, most importantly, real.

I become aware of labored breathing beside me and turn my head. The girl is there, having landed on her stomach, facedown. She pulls her head up, her face half hidden by her green hood and bits of leaves and bracken clinging to her hair. She puts up a shaking hand, pushes her hood back, and I catch a glimpse of her eyes. Wide. White ringed. Just on the edge of frantic.

Interesting. So she was scared too, was she? I would never have guessed it. She’d set aside her own fears, put everything into making me feel safe on that path. Whatever else she is—huntress, murderess, witch’s child—I’ve got to give her credit for courage.

She catches my eye. Her vulnerability vanishes in a single blink, replaced by the hard lines of the mask she usually wears. She pushes up onto her knees, gets unsteadily to her feet, and brushes off the front of her garments, every movement brisk and precise. She doesn’t look at me again, but I can tell she’s aware of my gaze. Lifting her chin, she looks around us. Her eyebrows rise slightly.

“Ah! That looks like the gate Granny described. Maybe owlkins and owls are close enough after all.”

Groaning, I pull my limbs under me and get into a seated position, then twist my spine to look in the direction the girl is pointing. A ruinous wall rises unexpectedly from the forest floor. I can see places where more wall used to stand, but most of it has been consumed by earth, moss, and decay, the stones crumbled into the dust of ages. But just in front of Brielle is a gate arch, still standing, and the remnants of a gate itself, sagging from ancient hinges. It stands a good twenty feet high and must have been rather magnificent back in ancient days.

I sniff the air, my wolf senses rising swiftly now as the day progresses. There’s a strange aroma around that gate, permeating those stones. Not a scent I can easily describe. Like . . . menace. Or malice. Something old, that’s for sure. Old and crooked and wrong.

“This is not a good place,” I say, getting to my feet. My forelimbs are long enough that with little bending I can plant my knuckles on the ground, but I stand up as straight as possible, holding onto what I can of my dignity.

“Yeah, well.” Brielle shrugs. “It is the entrance to a demon’s garden.” She strings her bow, her fingers swift, her arms strong with practice, then slips an arrow from her quiver and nocks it at the ready. She casts me a swift glance. “Ready?”

I growl. I’m definitely not ready. Not for any of this. But my compulsion gives me no choice.

“Ready,” I answer.

With a nod, the girl sets off, striding right up to the gate and stepping through the arch without an instant of hesitation. I hasten at her heels but can’t help stopping for half a second to breathe in that strange scent. My skin crawls and my hackles rise.

Then, steeling my resolve, I lunge through the arch.

Immediately my nose is assaulted by hundreds, maybe thousands of scents. Layer upon layer, blocking out every other sensation. My eyes water, and a whimper ekes from my throat. Some of these scents are sweet, some spicy, some hot and intense. Some are nothing I have vocabulary to describe, and these are the strongest, the most intoxicating.

They are all of them deadly.

I stop short in my tracks, swaying heavily, blinded by the aromas. Gone is the freshness and earthiness of Whispering Wood. I’m lost in this labyrinth of smells, enough to drive me mad.

Then I catch a whiff of something grounding—a scent of pine and leather and honey that I recognize. “Hey?” Brielle’s voice finds its way through the throbbing in my head. I feel the brush of her hand through the fur of my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

I lean into that voice, that touch, that smell. My vision slowly begins to clarify, and the world around me swims into view. A world I had already inhaled with vivid detail—lush gardens, extending before me under moonlight so bright, so clear, it illuminates all in vivid detail. I can see the color of each individual flower, all the different hues of the rainbow and beyond, none of which should be visible by night. Flowering trees and shrubs and beds of low-creeping vines undulate across a gently rolling landscape. Dozens of walkways wind around pools, under arbors, into secret, sculpted hedgerows.

And everything, absolutely everything, is poisonous.

I take an involuntary step back, sucking in a sharp breath. Desperately I clap a hand to my nose, trying to block out the perfume, the stench.

“What is it?” Brielle turns from me out to the garden, her gaze quick and sharp. Dropping her hand from my shoulder, she raises her bow, as though expecting a demon to leap out slavering at us from behind a bush.

“It’s . . . this place!” I gasp. My wolf-self surges inside me, wanting to take over, to dominate. It’s a form of self-protection, for the animal me is better equipped to survive such a world. But I grasp hold of my humanity and hold on fast, struggling to make myself heard through growls and snarls. “Don’t . . . touch . . . anything.”

Brielle gives me a look. “Why not?”

“Poison!” I gasp. “Everything is . . . poison.”

Her lip curls and her eyes narrow as she takes in the placid loveliness spread before us. I can’t tell if she believes me. Finally, she nods.

Suddenly exhausted, I sag, resting my weight on my hands. Hands that don’t look much like hands anymore. “We shouldn’t . . . be here,” I manage through my strange, long jaw and rows of sharp teeth.

Brielle merely shrugs. “Granny needs that apple.” She takes a step, pauses, then puts her shoulders back. “You coming or what?”

I shake my head. But when she continues, I have no choice but to follow her.

Three paths present themselves before us. One leads off toward a pond-side trail, one into an orchard of flowering fruit trees. The center path leads into a shrub-lined walkway that looks suspiciously like the entrance to a maze.

Brielle looks to the orchard, her brow puckered, considering. But she shakes her head. “Granny said the tree we need is at the center of the garden. And this way”—she nods to the shrub path—“looks most likely to lead us to the center.”

It looks most likely to get us twisted around and lost forever. But she’s not looking for confirmation from me. I merely grunt and repeat, “Don’t touch anything.” I can almost see a rippling aura of poison emanating from those shrubs. They look harmless enough to the naked eye, but the mere brush of a leaf against bare skin could have devastating effects.

Brielle nods. “Got it. Shall we then?” Without waiting for an answer, she sets off with her usual brisk stride, and I’m left to lumber at her heels. She enters the shrubbery, which, sure enough, within ten paces, takes a sudden turn to the left. Then another turn, then a branch of turns. She pauses, looking from one branch to the other, shrugs, and takes the right one.

Soon we’re so lost in a labyrinth of greenery, I’m quite sure we’ll never get through, much less reach the middle of the garden. Brielle mutters to herself up ahead of me. Regretting her choice, I suspect. I don’t bother trying to understand her. The smells are so strong in here, I can’t think of anything but trying to stumble my way through the haze.

Suddenly, a slight, subtle sound catches my ear. How it manages to draw my attention away from the aromas, I don’t know, but something about it makes me turn my head sharply, ears pricking, eyes staring.

A vine has crept out from the shrub. It wraps around Brielle’s boot.

I open my mouth to bark a warning. In the same instant, she looks down, her eyes widening.

She just has time to mutter, “Gods damn it!”

The next instant, it pulls her off her feet, dragging her straight toward the shrub wall and all those sharp, poisonous leaves. The greenery opens like a dark mouth full of branchy teeth.

I’m already in motion.

I land hard on the shrub vine, pinning it with my powerful forelimbs. Then I take it into my jaw, savaging it, tearing. I expect to taste poison on my tongue, but the vine has no leaves on it, just twisting dark stem. Maybe I won’t die from this wild rescue attempt? It hardly matters. The instinct to tear and rend is temporarily stronger than the instinct for survival.

The vine lets go of its intended victim and lashes at my face. Whip-like cuts open across my muzzle, but the dense fur around my head protects most of my skin. I clamp my jaw down harder, ripping, pulling. The vine breaks, and I feel a shudder like flitting life going out from it, and a sad, pitchy shriek slices at the very edge of my hearing.

Spitting out the vine, I whirl to face the shrub wall, fur bristling, teeth bared, saliva dripping from my jowls. But the hole has already closed, leaving nothing but dense, well-trimmed greenery before me. All is still save for the faintest shush and slither of retreating vines.

Puffing out a snorting breath, I turn my heavy head around. “Are you all right?” I ask, the words spitting out through foam.

There is no answer.

She’s gone.

Nothing but a wall of green shrubbery stands before me, blocking me off from where she had been just moments before.