Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

I land hard on the gravel path, and pain radiates through my hip. Grimacing and cursing, I pull myself up and press one hand against my sore hipbone even as I whirl to face the wall of shrubbery. I’m just fast enough to see a glimpse of gray fur and sparking yellow eyes, savage under moonlight.

Then the wall closes. Right in front of me. Vines and leaves intertwining, faster than clasping hands.

I gasp, take a step, then stop. Dire’s warning rings in my ear—It’s all poison. I dare not touch that wall, dare not try to fight my way through. Even if those serrated green leaves aren’t truly deadly, I can’t risk it.

I let out a frustrated puff of air. “Dire?” I call. I can still hear the savage sounds of the werewolf battling vines on the other side. But it seems distant, as though more than a mere wall of leaves separates the two of us. “Dire, are you there?”

The sounds of battle fade away to nothing. I’m left standing alone in the moonlight. In a demon’s garden.

“Seven gods!” I breathe and turn slowly in place. At least the shrubbery hasn’t walled me up entirely; there’s still an open path, leading straight through the tall bushes. Too straight. I’m not stupid—I know perfectly well that this whole gods-damned maze is reshaping itself to take me exactly where it wants me to go. And wherever that is can’t possibly be good.

I rub my sore hip again, then check my bowstring and pick up the arrow I’d dropped in the brief struggle. Casting a last glance back at the newly grown shrub wall, I debate the value of trying to get some sort of message through to the werewolf. Maybe I could . . . I don’t know. Attach a scrap of fabric to my arrow and shoot it over the wall? What good would that do? I don’t have anything to write with, and even if I did, I couldn’t very well give him directions.

It just feels wrong to leave him behind . . .

Which is stupid. He’s a monster. One of Granny’s creatures. Sure, he helped with the owlkin, and he threw himself right at that vine to save me. But none of that was for my sake.

“It’s just the compulsion,” I whisper firmly. “It’s just Granny’s power over him. He’s not your friend. He’s not your ally.”

Why can’t I quite make myself believe it?

I slide a thumb under the strap of my quiver, adjusting the set across my shoulder. Putting my back firmly to the shrubbery wall, I face the open path. No point dithering. If this garden is setting a trap for me, I’m better off marching to meet it and facing the consequences.

I stride forward, stepping through patches of shadow and moonlight. It’s rather lovely in its way. Romantic, one might say . . . save that the sharp edges of those shadows fill my heart with subtle dread. Many strange scents tickle my nose, and I try not to breathe any of them too deeply, remembering Dire’s warning about the poison.

Reaching the end of the shrubbery, I peer out into the new stretch of garden spread before me. There’s a great swell of ground here, and built directly into that swell is a stone atrium. Flowering vines climb in profusion up the curved far wall, the colors so vivid under moonlight, it looks almost like hung tapestries or elaborate murals. In the forefront of the atrium stands a long, stone table, stretching from one side to the other. It’s crowded with dishes, footed platters, covered trays, and bowls brimming bounteously with strange fruits I’ve never seen before. All poisonous, no doubt.

Beyond that table, growing up from the center of the atrium, sheltered by the curving hill, stands a tree. The tarathieli—it must be. Great, golden leafed, it shimmers as though generating its own soft daylight here in this world of night. Even from this distance, I can see the profusion of plump, ripe apples with gleaming skins tucked in among the leaves.

And right at the very top . . . a single apple bobs from the highest branch.

I peer around the surrounding garden, searching in the shadows. The demon must be close. But I can’t see it, and I don’t have Dire’s wolfish senses to sniff it out either.

All is still. Tranquil.

Too good to be true.

I can’t stand here forever. At some point, I need to move. Get this apple for Granny and get out of here. If the demon’s going to leap out at me from behind bush or tree . . . fine.

I take a step. That’s the hardest one, that first step out of the relative safety of the shrubbery. The next step is easier, and the next after that. My skin prickles with awareness: of flowers nodding from their long stems, their petals opened wide to emit their noxious perfumes; of the breeze wafting from flowerhead to flowerhead, no doubt carrying poison in its wake; of the still, crystalline pool off to my right; of the maze at my back; of the endlessly rolling hills and valleys of this garden world. Everything feels so calm.

It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong.

But the tree is close. And I just need that one apple. Then back to the gate, back to the path, out of this place as fast as I can. As for Dire . . . he’ll just have to make his own way out. Or not. It’s no business of mine either way.

I take another step. My foot crosses from the garden lawn onto the first paving stones of the atrium.

In that same moment, the singing starts.

It’s not a song I hear with my ears. Not really. It’s more like I’m breathing in the sound. Drawing it into my lungs, into my body. Letting it creep through every sense, every vein. It’s a song that smells like jasmine at night. A song that tastes like pomegranate wine. A song that feels like velvet on the skin.

It’s poison.

Isn’t that what Dire said? Everything in this place is poison. Including this song. It’s as poisonous as everything else. More so, probably. And it will kill me. But for the moment I just don’t care.

I blink slowly. As my eyelids rise, I become aware of a presence standing on my right.

The demon is there.

Seven feet tall, shaped like a thin woman clad in white, wafting garments. Its hair is white and wafting as well, and its skin is a deep, deep blue, as blue as the night sky overhead. The tips of its fingers end in eight-inch black claws that curl ever so slightly and glint red when the moonlight hits them just so.

It gazes down at me through two eyes deep as wells of sin. But in the center of its forehead, a third eye, blood red, glitters like a faceted gemstone.

I stare into that eye. I can’t look away.

Some distant part of me realizes that the demon has no mouth. Yet the song I hear is definitely coming from inside it. Sung in a language so ancient, so deadly, it would kill me to try to understand it.

The demon holds out one hand.

I shouldn’t touch it. I know better. Dire warned me, didn’t he? Everything is poison.

But then again, why shouldn’t I take it? I’m poisoned already, aren’t I? Why try to fight it?

A vague smile pulling at my lips, I place my fingers in the demon’s palm. Long black claws curl over my hand but do not scratch. There’s firmness in that grip, nothing more. There’s no need for more. The song is now pulsing through every part of my being. I’m lost to it.

Eyes half closed, I fall into step beside the demon. My arrow clatters to the paving stones, and I only just manage to keep my fingers curled around my bow, dragging it along behind me. The demon leads me to the table, draws back a chair, and graciously assists me as I sit. When it lets go of my hand, I feel a prick of pain at losing that connection. But the song continues to warm me, even as I know—deep down inside, down where a trace of stubborn will still fights—it’s killing me.

I watch the demon almost hungrily as it moves to its place at the head of the table and sits. Its glittering third eye stares at me, and I feel the song pouring out from that eye, swelling around me, under me, through me.

The demon inclines its head and indicates the bountiful spread with a slow sweep of its arm. Reluctantly, I tear my gaze from its strange, three-eyed face and look at the table, the platters and bowls and plates, all piled high with luscious fruits. Some of them I recognize—apples, plums, pears. Others are entirely foreign to me, but no less delectable to my eye. My mouth waters.

Then I blink.

For half an instant, a change comes over the table. Instead of jewel-edged bowls, I see large white skulls, like those of great and strange beasts. And instead of fruits, those skulls are piled to the brim with numerous shriveled, severed heads.

My stomach plunges. I recoil in my seat, blinking fast. With every rise and fall of my lashes, the image fades, fades . . . vanishes. I’m once more looking at a bounteous feast, the produce of this very garden. Rich, vibrant, the colors faintly pulsing beneath the glow of moonlight. The bowls are again silver and gold, edged in delicately cut gems. It’s all so succulent and tempting.

It’ll kill you, idiot!

Is that my own voice, clawing at the back of my mind? I shrug and shake my head.

Just one bite will kill you! Don’t be a fool!

I draw a long breath, breathing in that perfume, breathing in the song of the Quisandoral. Why should I be afraid? Why should I heed that nagging, pathetic little voice? All of us die sometime, don’t we? It’s only a matter of time. So why not indulge while I can, why not enjoy myself?

It’s funny. Funny how I can sit here in company with a demon, knowing that I’m dying, and feel nothing. No fear. No anger. Nothing but hunger.

Hunger for that fruit.

Hunger for the escape that death will mean.

The escape from enslavement, from seven years in Granny’s clutches . . .

Death by demon poison is as good a death as any, isn’t it?

I glance the demon’s way. It blinks slowly, three eyelids closing. The two eyelids over the dark hollows remain closed, but the third opens again, revealing once more the gemstone eye. Something hot roils in its center, and the song intensifies.

I stretch out my hand. My fingers hesitate only for a moment over a round, soft-skinned peach. For a single heartbeat, it looks like the severed head of a young woman, her eyes closed, her mouth opened in a silent, eternal scream. But by the second heartbeat, it’s nothing but a peach again. I pluck it up, bring it toward my open mouth.

“Stop!”

The air around me fractures then breaks. Shatters in a million sharp fragments that feel so real, I could almost swear I feel them slicing into my skin. For a moment, I’m frozen where I sit, staring at the peach I hold.

But the song is broken.

I leap up from my seat, dropping the fruit, which rolls away, becoming once more that small, severed head. My whole body convulses with horror at the sight. It’s all I can do not to bend double and be sick.

A hideous shriek erupts from the end of the table. The demon lurches from her seat, her frame elongating in a grotesque series of breaking and stretching limbs, until she stands twice as tall as she was before. She leans heavily on the table, one hand knocking aside a platter of fruit as it plants into the stone tabletop. The other hand stretches out, the long arm reaching straight for me. I stagger back a step, my eyes widening. Fear chokes me, blocking the scream welling in my throat.

Suddenly, there’s a blur of dark gray fur. Dire is there. Half man, half wolf, he latches hold of the demon’s arm with his powerful jaws, teeth plunging deep to the bone. The demon shrieks again and shakes its arm, trying to dislodge him. He holds on like a bulldog, growling and snarling.

And I’m still standing there.

It takes me a full three breaths before something sparks in my brain, driving me to leap away from the table, to put some distance between myself and that mayhem of rending flesh and breaking bone. Instinct makes me grab my half-forgotten bow from where it stands propped against my chair. I turn, prepared to flee, but take only three steps before I stop.

I look back. Back up at that tree.

This is my chance.

Inhuman sounds lance my ears, and a whole hellish tumult of slashing claws and gnashing teeth plays at the edge of my sight. I shut them out, focus on my goal. Leaping onto the table, I kick aside a bowl of tiny heads, sending them scattering. My gaze fixes on that topmost bough of the apple tree, gleaming bright in the moonlight. I nock an arrow, take aim.

The roars fade to nothing. There’s just me in that moment. Me and that apple, so high above. Me and the long breath I draw into my lungs.

I won’t have a second chance at this.

I let my breath out slowly.

Then my arrow flies, speeding in a sure and perfect line as though it will pierce the moon itself. But it does not need to go so far. Its sharp head cracks through the delicate gold branch, which breaks, droops, hangs suspended.

Then the weight of the apple pulls it tumbling free.

I’m already in motion, springing across the table, vaulting over platters and bowls. Something whistles to my left, and I’m vaguely aware of curved, black nails slashing the air just inches from my cheek.

I don’t turn. I don’t stop.

I leap from the table, hand outstretched. My fingers close around golden fruit.

With a gasp, I land hard, falling to my knees, the apple pressed close to my heart. For a few breaths, I can’t move, my very bones jarred by the impact of that landing.

But I can’t linger. Not here.

Gathering strength, I spring up and whirl, just in time to miss the lashing hand of the demon, which crashes into the paving stones where I’d knelt an instant before. I stagger back, catch my balance, then run along the length of the table. Some part of me wonders where Dire is, whether he’s still alive. There’s no time to dwell on such thoughts, however. I’ve got to get out of here, I’ve got to find my way back to the gate.

Something hooks around my shin. I gasp, cry out, and fall, only just managing to catch myself before I smash face first into stone. The apple is still in my grasp, cradled against my chest. I kick, feel a single claw resisting then loosening its hold. With a desperate roll, I get onto my back, looking between my feet. The demon lies on the stones, stretched out at full length, her horrible face twisted and leering. Where there was no mouth at all before, now a slit has opened in the bottom half of her face, and a forked, purple tongue flickers between sharp teeth. Her third eye glares wildly at me, and I can hear the beginnings of her poisonous song tickling the edge of my awareness.

I scream, trying to block out that sound, and roll again. This time I manage to push my way between two chairs and crawl on my belly under the table. That clawed hand strikes out at me, but only manages to catch hold of a chair leg. She wrenches the chair back, hurls it behind her to crash and shatter against the stone wall of the atrium.

I burst out on the far side of the table, pushing up on my hands and knees. I get one foot under me, gasp desperately for breath, stand upright. In a moment of idiotic terror, I turn my head, look back over my shoulder.

The demon is hauling herself up onto the table, massive and many-jointed, her hair a wild storm in the moonlight. She roars at me, stretches out her hand . . .

Dire is there again.

He appears as though from nowhere, hurtling into the side of her face. His jaws rip into her cheek, opening a gaping wound. The demon’s shrieks of pain and horror are almost paralyzing to my senses as she tears at her own head, trying to dislodge her attacker.

I turn and flee the atrium, out into the empty lawn. My heart thunders in my ears, but not loud enough to drown out the terrible sounds behind me. I run as hard as I can, making for the shrubbery up ahead. It’s probably a trap, it’s probably ready to swallow me whole. In that moment, I don’t care. I’d rather be devoured by a poisoned maze than fall into the Quisandoral’s clutches. And maybe, just maybe, I can push through, can still reach the gate—

I hear a yipe of pain.

The sound shoots through me like an arrow to the heart.

I shouldn’t stop. I mustn’t. I should run, run, run, never looking back.

Instead, I pivot on my heel, my hair flying wildly around my face as I stare back down the incline to the atrium below.

Dire lies on his back in the middle of the broken table. His huge body is splayed, his arms wide, his hideous wolf head thrown back. I can see his chest rising and falling, a sign of life. But he doesn’t move.

And the demon—its face bleeding in long silver streams, its skin hanging in tatters from innumerable bite wounds—crawls toward him down the length of the table. It hardly looks like a woman now, so awful and jointed and strange. Its spine seems almost to ripple like a serpent, and its feet and hands tear into the tabletop, sending cracks through the stone. It lifts one arm, its claws flashing in the moonlight, and I know it’s going to plunge those claws through Dire’s heart.

I have a second in which to decide. Run, or . . .

I drop the apple to the grass at my feet. Whip out an arrow. Take a firing stance.

“Hey!” I shout. “Over here, you big ugly!”

The demon turns its head.

I shoot.

My arrow flies swift and true, cutting through poisonous vapors and songs. It embeds directly in the center of that gemstone eye.