by Ethan Proud
Hugh, the vulkodlak, watched as a flock of ptarmigans scuttered by, midway through their transition from summer to winter plumage. They blended perfectly with the snow mottled landscape. The birds would offer little satisfaction for the wolf’s slavering bloodlust, and the goats were safe on the lofty perches. Earlier that morning he had found a rutting elk and consumed it hair, bones, and all. Still he starved. Only human flesh would sate his needs. With a frustrated cry he loped towards the mountain pass. He could smell a band of travelers.
***
De’lune served her ravenous father the usual post-transformation meal; the runny eggs, half cooked bacon, and toast to mop the plate clean. De’lune’s eyes were watery, though her father hardly noticed. His stomach ached, he was covered in mud and blood. The stink of wolfsbane still stung his nostrils. He ran a hand through his messy hair and it stayed slicked back for a moment before flopping forward, sprinkling his food with dirt.
“Do you think he is lonely?” De’lune asked.
“If anything, he is hungry,” Swain answered through a mouthful of food, yellow yolk running down his chin in rivulets. He attempted to wipe it back into his mouth with a finger, but just smeared it across his chin.
“Why didn’t we let him remain dead then?” she asked petulantly.
“Do you wish to die?” Swain said angrily.
“No-” De’lune started before she was interrupted.
“Then why would your brother want to stay dead?” Swain growled.
“Are you happy when you are under the moon’s power?” De’lune sniffed and wiped her face with a cloth.
Swain hesitated. The obvious answer was no. He did not like losing control and being a victim to his hunger. He had dominion over his desires and wants. That was how he had become successful. His wolfen form was the antonym to his clear-headed business persona.
“I feel fulfilled.” It wasn’t a lie, after feeding he was satisfied. But it was still a far cry from the truth.
“Do you think Hugh feels fulfilled right now?” De’lune had wiped the tears from her face and now wore a hard expression.
Swain met her steely gaze. “Without a doubt.”
***
The band of travelers moved slowly. The wheels on their wagon creaked with each rotation and the single ox, dragging its weight, was clearly exhausted. It appeared to be a family of seven. One woman, one man, and five children. Hugh felt his tongue well with greed, younger flesh was always more tender and flavorful. His pupils dilated with anticipation and his ribs heaved as his breathing quickened. He took a tentative step forward and cracked a branch beneath his paw. It hadn’t been an accident, either. His eyes lit with a crazed hunger when he saw the look of terror on the travelers’ faces. If wolves could grin, then he grinned the broadest of any wolf before setting into the humans.
Chapter Twenty-one
Artemisia sat at her table, intently working on her most recent plan. Her lips were just parted enough that Ruckstead could see the tip of her tongue pursed between her teeth. She had bushels of nettle spread out around her, nimbly weaving the stems together with her bare hands. She neither winced nor complained of the stinging nature of the plants, which led the sheriff to believe she was a masochist, or more was at play here.
“How are you handling that, that you avoid the sting?” he asked after curiosity overwhelmed him.
“I told the plants of my intentions and these brave souls volunteered,” was her enigmatic response.
Ruckstead ignored the answer, dismissing it as a lie. The witch could keep her secrets. She wasn’t lying. Revealing her intentions was more complicated than simply telling them, however, and in selecting the willing plants she had received several stings when her hand hovered over a less generous shoot. The planters in front of her house had been thinned of the volunteers, while the selfish plants thrived. Another frost and they would be dormant until spring. Artemisia envied them. A long hibernation and a break from the responsibilities of existence would be welcome. Once she had slept for three days after a particularly rough hangover in her late twenties, which had been oddly therapeutic.
As she wove the nettle into a cloak large enough to cover two people, the aroma of sage wafted through the air. Four sprigs of the plant sat in a vase of water.
“This will bind Vahrun?” Ruckstead asked as he experimentally touched the stem of the nettle. He felt a sharp pain in his fingertips — apparently the kindness of the flora did not extend to the sheriff.
“It is a complicated process, but yes,” Artemisia supplied. Then she continued crossly, “Don’t you have a hunt with Kerrick and the rest of the Northgate aristocracy?”
“Killing the werewolves is more important than killing one fox,” Ruckstead said evenly.
“With any luck, Swain will be there and you can make a hunting accident of him,” Artemisia said firmly.
Ruckstead sighed as he headed for the door.
***
Ruckstead was the last of the hunters to arrive at the town square. Notable figures such as Mayor John Kerrick, the Town Attorney Jackson Stromville, and the Treasurer William Maybury were the only elected officials. The rest were the businessmen. Ruckstead detested such gatherings. He would rather hunt for elk, moose, or a mountain lion, something more sporting than bearing down on a fox with horses and hounds. Or a more serene activity like fishing.
He spotted Swain sitting astride a dapple-gray mare. The Ramek’s skin was pale, oily dark spots surrounded his sunken eyes. Nonetheless, his blond hair was perfect.
“Inviting us both was in terrible taste, Kerrick.” Ruckstead didn’t take his eyes off Swain. He was shocked that the man was going to try making it through a hunt after his night prowling the forest. Then again, Ruckstead had just as trying of a night. His two blackened fingers hadn’t recovered, and Doctor Stern would more than likely be amputating them before they turned gangrenous.
The portly mayor chuckled a little uneasily. His large face was mustachioed, and a prim goatee pointed downward from his chin. “The Harvest Moon Hunt is a town tradition and we won’t allow bad blood to tarnish its legacy.”
“How droll this all is,” Ruckstead said. “Shall we get it over with?”
Swain sneered but said nothing. The sheriff had the upper hand on him. He had already killed his son in a duel, one that Hugh had issued, and Swain could not dispute its legality. If he attempted to murder Ruckstead he would be hung. The only way to publicly dispatch of the sheriff would be in combat. Swain was not as foolish as his son. He adjusted his weight in his saddle and a thought struck him. The sheriff would be blind without the witch. Mayor Kerrick was already suspicious of witchcraft… a little nudge in the right direction and he might even order her hanging. Swain’s face remained impassive, but internally he was grinning broadly.
The horses took off at an easy trot to the edge of town where the groundskeeper of the courthouse, jail, and mayor’s offices was waiting with a wooden crate at his feet and several baying hounds. Their tall stilted legs and lean bodies ensured that they would catch the poor little fox in the crate. Their wiry hair wouldn’t make for a good fur coat, but their red pelted cousin would undoubtedly find itself draped around Missus Henrietta Kerrick’s neck.
“Release the beast!” the mayor said with a flourish of a tone. As if he had made a great joke. From the corners of their eyes, Swain and Ruckstead met gazes. Ruckstead’s lips twitched in a half smile.
In a dart of red, the fox flew from the crate, its eyes wild and hackles raised. If Ruckstead had to hazard a guess, the creature’s mother had told it horror stories of the men on horses and to run like hell if you ever found yourself trapped in a dark box. The hounds were straining against their collars and whining at pitches that pierced Ruckstead’s brain. The fox was halfway across the field when the groundkeeper let the dogs go.
With a whooping holler the men took off behind the dogs. The pounding of horses hooves and the barking of the dogs drove the fox into a panicked dance, its lit
tle feet prancing uncertainly at the ground while its dark eyes searched desperately for some hole to dive into. The forest and its many gnarled roots and hidey holes was still a long distance off.
The mayor let out a dumb guffawing noise at the animal’s plight, and Ruckstead decided he’d had enough. He raised his rifle and took careful aim. Wineae slowed to a stop and Ruckstead squeezed the trigger. The fox dropped, and the men reined their horses angrily.
“Most inappropriate!” Mayor Kerrick was panting despite the precious little effort he actually had to put in. Ruckstead was amazed his horse wasn’t already foaming at the mouth.
“And so is wasting the money of our citizens on a fox hunt. If I am right, it is a Tuesday and tax dollars are being expended on our merriment,” Ruckstead countered and turned Wineae back towards the town. Behind him he heard Attorney Stromville laugh, but he was the only one who found the situation amusing.
***
James Kerfield looked up from the desk when Ruckstead entered the jail.
“Back so soon?” he asked.
“There are more pressing matters at hand,” Ruckstead said without revealing much.
The deputy’s eyes dropped back to the newspaper he had open and spotted the purpled fingers. “Speaking of hands…” He trailed off, not bold enough to finish the statement.
“Caught a bit more than a cold yesterday,” Ruckstead said with a light chuckle. He did have a slight rasp in his throat, though it was nigh undetectable. The witch’s brew had prevented any lingering effects, such as pneumonia. She claimed one ingredient of the tea was mullein, which grew aplenty along the country roads.
Kerfield knew it wasn’t his place to ask why the sheriff had got caught out in the cold, but he knew how long it took to get frostbite early in the fall. He went back to reading the newspaper. Most of the articles were written with a disparaging tone about the local government, or praising the deeds of small business owners, or predicting the weather for the coming winter. It usually wasn’t accurate.
“Any bodies turn up?” Ruckstead asked offhandedly.
“Other than Hugh? No.” It was a crude joke, but James couldn’t pass it up. “Should we be expecting corpses?”
A moment later a young migrant worker came bursting in.
“Come quick! We lost four workers last night. I think we found them…” The young man was sweating profusely, a triangular stain of it on the chest of his linen shirt, and tears stung the corners of his eyes.
Ruckstead turned to Kerfield and said under his breath, “I think we should be expecting many corpses in the days to come.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The scene was similar to the Cronley Farm, but instead of cows littering the field it was workers, and the stench of death was human. James covered his face with a kerchief and fought the urge to gag. Their horses’ nostrils flared at the scent of blood. The worker who had come to the jail slid from Wineae’s rump. He had insisted on walking, but the sheriff had told him that there was no point in taking more time, and Wineae could bear the burden.
It was impossible to determine the sex of the corpses, but the young worker and his companions who had found the bodies informed the sheriff and deputy that it was two women and two men. Ruckstead dismounted and his foot squelched as it touched the blood-soaked earth. It was hard to imagine that this much fluid was inside a body that was so solid before death. The sheriff wrinkled his nose in disgust. He turned to the worker next to him.
“I suggest you pray to whatever gods you have. These monsters aren’t done.”
***
Indeed, the vulkodlak was not finished, despite the havoc it and its father had wreaked on the migrant workers or the feast of travelers it had just consumed. It crept through the outskirts of town, blood dripping from its muzzle. Those who saw it either refused to believe it or fled in fear. It was in search of a specific kind of prey. Prey whose god had spurned his master years ago. Mond was not a forgiving lover, nor a forgetful enemy. Hugh easily padded through the town and down the streets unbothered. Many saw him and diverted their course, shrieking of the demon afoot. But his course was singular, and he couldn’t be distracted. His pace increased when he spotted the residence of his next feast.
Loping to the door, Hugh’s nose was in the air. He smelled the unmistakable scent of humans permeating the house. They were within — and unaware. He stood to full height, several feet taller than a man, and pressed his saucer-sized paws against the door frame and flexed his powerful back and legs. The door bowed twice before splintering.
Within the Killdeer residence, Jameson and Jorgen were caught with their pants down in the figurative sense. A family like the Killdeers was dangerous even when caught unaware. Jameson leapt from the table, plate in hand and broke it across Hugh’s face while Jorgen slashed with his knife. Blood ran freely from the wolf’s recently sustained wounds; the bullet hole in his flank and eye from Ruckstead had since healed but still bore ugly scabs as tribute. Once the werewolf had crossed the threshold and entered the home, a darkness descended. The shrine dedicated to D’rij, a stand full of desiccated sea urchins and crustaceans, ship rigging, and sand dollars, alone stood illuminated by the light of a lunar apparition. The presence of the goddess Mond was felt by Hugh and the Killdeers. Hugh felt as if he had swelled beyond his normal frame, while the Killdeers felt the cold thrill of panic. The shrine to the God of the Sea melted like candle wax to the floor, spreading and bubbling echoes of Mond’s praise.
Hugh leapt forward, closed his maw around Jameson’s leg and ripped her to the ground. She fell easily in the spreading remains of D’rij’s shrine, but she still struck the wolf with her fists. She even bit his ear and tore a chunk of flesh free. Jorgen leapt forward with his knife downturned and brought it down on Hugh’s skull. The blade penetrated to the hilt, but the wolf’s eyes only flashed with amusement. A mortal bullet may have struck him down in human form, and silver may have killed him while a mere werewolf, but he was a vulkodlak and had been resurrected by his goddess. It would take more than an ex-pirate’s blade to end him.
He released the piratess and lunged for her husband. Jorgen struck the vulkodlak square on the nose, like he would any mundane wolf or bear. The next second, he found his arm shoulder deep in the creature’s throat. He felt a hot pain lance through his shoulder as flesh and bone were cleaved. Jorgen grabbed the chair behind him and swung it overhead. The wooden stool shattered against the werewolf’s head, but the creature was not impeded.
As Jorgen’s blood spurted from his artery, Jameson pulled a pistol from the cabinet. She leveled the gun just behind the wolf’s shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Hugh’s body was rocked by the bullet, but he was otherwise unfazed. He turned and with a single swipe of his paw, he eviscerated Jameson Killdeer.
Blood gushed from her mouth at the same time as it spilled from the cavity above her pelvis. She stammered for a minute, her shocked eyes locking on her husband’s. Like an enraged bear, Jorgen roared and brought both fists down on Hugh’s back between his shoulders. Beneath the force he crumpled, but he regained his footing as soon as he struck the floor. His maw led the way and closed around Jorgen’s face. The sound of his jaws crushing the pirate’s skull seemed louder than possible.
***
De’lune had seen her brother stalking the edge of town and followed him to the Killdeer property. She alone did not fear the bloodstained wolf several sizes larger than it had any right to be. The goddess was on her side and she would not fear her minions. Not to mention that the beast in question was her brother. Even her father feared the vulkodlak when he was not in similar form, but after their encounter with Mond’s demon, De’lune knew she was different. She was a Daughter of the Moon. Fear was not becoming of someone of her status.
Standing before the shattered remains of the Killdeer’s door she doubted her convictions, but not those of the goddess. She stepped through the splintered threshold and beheld the terrible sight of her demonic brother feasting on the de
ad. She had only been a few minutes behind her sibling, but the bones were nigh stark white, licked clean of blood and gore. The hands and feet were the exception, so many bones and little flesh made them less appetizing. Her brother’s dark fur glistened with the wetness of blood. She tried to hide her revulsion, but her lip curled, nonetheless. Even her cloudy left eye scrunched with anger despite its lazy nature.
Her brother snarled, his yellow canines dripping a conglomerate of blood and saliva. His yellow eyes narrowed dangerously. He took a predacious step forward, but she did not balk. In his mind, he recognized the figure before him but could not justify differentiating it from a meal. His muscles tensed as he prepared to spring.
Feeling her deity flow through her, De’lune spoke in a voice that was not her own. It was feminine but many decibels deeper and it emanated power.
“Flee from this place now,” she commanded.
Hugh sprang, leaping past her through the doorframe. His body abuzz with fear he high-tailed into the mountains.
Chapter Twenty-three
Artemisia sat alone in her cottage, without the presence of men to distract her with their stupid questions. She had yet to meet a male who had been touched with magic from the gods or who had an understanding of herbs and the natural world, which was a necessity when communing with the higher powers. Mission showed potential as a warlock, though she had never met a warlock who surpassed a witch in power. The same went for priests and priestesses. Men who were given exceptional power often challenged their gods and ended up bound to a lifetime of servitude. The cost of ambition was steep.