***
"You're a werewolf, my child." The old woman's craggy features softened fractionally in the flickering light of the room's lone candle. Her words, though spoken with sympathy, were of little comfort to Sonja. Hortence, the witch, peered at her. "There's nothing you can do to stop the curse."
The old hag had not intended to cause Sonja more pain, but the statement delivered with unwavering sincerity stunned Sonja. Dealing with the fact became harder when one denied the truth. Denying the fact she carried the mark of the beast on her palm didn't make the mark disappear.
Things had been happening to her. The sensation of the blood coursing through her body started right after the attack. For Christ's sake, she could hear the low roar of her life source rushing through her veins! She had been terrified when her fingernails lengthened to claws before retracting almost as quickly. Remembering the pain only made the incident worse. Not two days before, she had found herself lying in a wooded glade near her small cabin without a stitch of clothing on her body. The next night she had caught herself before she had howled at the moon. The events of the past several days did indeed frightened Sonja to the very depths of her being.
Now, with Hortence's proclamation, Sonja's sensibilities were at their wits end. This type of phenomenon made up the tales in children's folklore. A werewolf? What would become of her? Could she be going mad?
Hortence seemed daft, she mused. Surely, her prediction would turn out to be the rambling of an old, crazy person.
Inching backward toward the door, she glanced down at the wound on her shoulder. Sonja, who prided herself on her common sense, shook with denial. "A wild dog caused these," she murmured. "I need your help to heal this dog bite." Trembling, she pointed to her wound. After all, worry over the bite was the reason she had sought out Hortence in the first place. Blinking she realized the blood spot, and the talons factored in her traveling through the woods in the wee hours of the morning. Sonja couldn't help the heavy sigh she released. Certainly, the witch would debunk the idea the wound was anything more as fantasy. She would give Sonja some herbs for healing, and then send her on her way. Despondently, she looked at her shoulder again.
Hortence fretted over a large, black cooking pot hanging above the fire in the hearth. Raising her gnarled fingers high above her head, she closed her eyes and mumbled some unintelligible chant. As if in response, the smoke in the pot rose up in a ghostly green spiral resembling an otherworldly creature.
"Come closer, my child." The old woman's voice broke over the command. "I need a snippet of your hair."
Swallowing hard, Sonja slipped closer. Tales of this place and what Hortence did here raced through her mind. Still fretting, she moved near the old woman and her bubbling pot.
Hortence took a rusty knife and sliced off a blond curl, tossing the golden lock into the gurgling pot.
Still irritated, but now more bemused than ever by the witch's curious behavior, Sonja stepped closer before asking as politely as she could, "What's in the pot?"
The witch turned her beady, watery eye on Sonja. Her faded, ancient face stood out in stark relief against the backdrop of the green smoke. Sonja stepped back, deciding she had made a grave mistake in coming. The old woman could be no more than a magician, a conjurer. She probably wanted money or whatever she considered Sonja had of worth. A trick made the woman's eyes glow green.
"You need a spell. The spell is the reason you've come, isn't that so?" Shuffling over to a rough, wooden table, she scrounged through the items cluttering the scared surface. Snatching up a bag of tattered burlap, she tossed the bag over her shoulder and into the pot. The ragged bag hit its mark.
The green smoke enveloped the olden sack with a loud crackle as the pot's fire sputtered. Bright flames of orange and red flared before settling once more.
Sonja blinked in horror.
Did crusted, hairy fingers slip out of the burlap to encircle the worn-out cloth, drawing the bag under the bubbling brew? A tremor of trepidation gripped her. Sonja swallowed hard. She had stayed too long.
The witch began to laugh, a course, calloused sound making the hairs on Sonja's neck stand at attention. Again, mumbling something indecipherable, she pointed at Sonja, and then at the pot. With a fierce flailing, she waved her hands above her head before calling out, "Powers of protection, hear me! I seek the one called Guardian. Show yourself."
The brew hissed and spewed upward in great gurgling plops while the witch continued to wave her hands, swaying in a trance-like state.
Sonja stepped back in defense. What a crazy woman! Sonja turned for the door. Berating herself for a fool, she reached for the handle.
Suddenly, a strong, hand gripped her with sharp points of pain digging into her shoulder. When she dared, look back, a hairy hand with talons similar to her own anchored her in place. Wheeling with the force of the grip, Sonja had the misfortune to come face to face with a beast as black as pitch. The mouth of the creature jutted out from hair-covered jowls. Opening his mouth, Sonja could see his surprisingly white teeth ran in a ragged line until pointed incisors gleamed right below a crusted, bulging nose. The beast's nostrils were far too big on his hairy face. His bluish tongue ran out, licking against the side of the creature's snout in a slobbering, snarling smack.
One scream erupted which sounded very much like her own. The sensation of spiraling downward sluiced over her in a sickening wash of panic. The room had spun out of control before everything went black.
The Lady in the Mist (The Western Werewolf Legend #1) Page 4