The Wolfen Lover

by Tessa Lane

  How he would long for her, for her beautiful body, as the dawn came. I cannot bear it, he thought, stopping for a moment, dropping the bundle within his jaws, and lying down among the leaves. I cannot bear it without her.

  * * * *

  The wedding was planned, and the timeless rituals would be observed. The couple would drink blood from the same goblet, and then they would be joined with the ancient vows. Laina lay on her bed often now, depression weighing heavily upon her. She wanted to go into the village, but the townspeople shunned her, for they had heard the stories, and, despite her beauty, she could not travel unnoticed.

  Laina thought about the villagers, who knew who and what she was. They thought their prayers and amulets would protect them. How wrong they were! She knew tales were told among the folk of the little town, about the people who disappeared, and whose drained bodies were left behind like broken dolls. When they were buried, their priests intoned over them. It was said the people grew fearful of nightfall.

  She was certain that the villagers turned to black magic for protection, and many charlatans promised them safety, if only they would pay for potions and medallions, but few were true witches or wizards. If only they had real magic, magic I could use to get to Michael again, she thought wildly. But she knew the village was no place for a vampire. The villages would hiss and make signs of the cross whenever her kind appeared. How can I get what I need, when I cannot travel unnoticed

  Laina wondered if she could part the veils again and find a way to leave her vampire form and float free over the village, invisible and able to find the dagger she needed. Would the Creator assist her, or was she asking the impossible? She wondered, too, how she could have the blade consecrated, and she fretted, for every day that passed was like an eternity. For now, she must wait as every pair of eyes watched her movements, and the house was filled with hushed whispers and fevered preparations.

  According to clan tradition, she was to remain with Byron forever. But he was avoiding her. He seemed to wait for the night he could revenge himself upon her, the sacred wedding night when he would take his due. She knew he would be cruel.

  * * * *

  He would savage her all the night long, until there was no desire left in him, only exhaustion. He imagined her upon the bed, her hands tied fast with a silken cord, and he thought of her blindfolded and subservient. He would make her beg. He would show her who ruled. And none could stop him once the vows were exchanged. Byron would get terribly aroused by his dark fantasies and had to fight the urge to bash her door in and strip her of her chemise. He acted the part of the loving bridegroom, but now his desire was rooted in hate. His love had changed because she was not pure, and she did not love him in return. His love had spoiled and curdled, and now it was a rotten thing.

  Laina would glad that she was not human and that he could not take her lifeless body fly into the forest, and dump it there for the small animals to carry away the bones in time. She was safe from that, at least. The women of the village had more to fear than she did.

  * * * *

  Laina wondered about the witch in town, the one who was rumored to have true magic. The rest were all false, she knew. She was sure the old crone grew busy as the women disappeared and smirked as she did her accounts, for the more death and terror the blood-drinkers brought, the richer she became. Can she help me?

  Laina thought of Helena often lately. She knew where she lived and that she must find a way to get to her. Helena could provide her with what was needed, and although she did not trust the witch, she knew Helena was her only hope. But Laina was trapped, and she could not rise into the night skies and take what she needed. Instead, she was a prisoner who had every luxury but had no peace or happiness.

  The rituals of the wedding ceremony were simple but important. She and Byron would drink blood from the same goblet, and they would be bound at the wrists with a black silken cord while they repeated the ancient rites. Then the clan would surround them and take them to their wedding bed.

  Laina had not fed well lately. Her heart was not in hunting, and she had found a way to feed that was easier for her. Never alone, she would take a couple of clan members with her, to the local prison, a terrible place, full of filth and rats, and she would feed on those who were scheduled for execution. She pressed bags of gold coins upon the guard, who lived in terror of her, and he would lead her down the dismal corridors and quietly open a cell door for her.

  She would drink the blood of the rapists and killers who were going to die, and she would leave them drained. When she was done, she would put her hooded cloak, which hid much of her face, back on, and she would wipe her bloodied mouth upon her sleeve. Then she would sweep out of the prison without another word—until the next time.

  Laina had come up with a careful plan for feeding, one that worked so well. She would have the guard go into the cell and slit a prisoner’s throat, ordering him to leave the blade near his body, so that the death would be considered suicide. It was a tricky business for the guard, covering up such deaths, but he had no choice. Laina would kill him if he failed her.

  Once or twice a week, she would go, her hunger fierce, and he would permit her entrance. The prison was small, she knew, but there were still many victims to choose from. She gave enough gold coins to the guard to cover the costs of paying others to ignore the obvious. And so Laina could feed without her usual ritual of watching potential victims and judging them. These criminals had already been judged, but Laina would often feel pangs of guilt as she knew the system was corrupt, and that she may have drained the blood of the innocent. But her depression and anxiety made her less concerned with such things, and feeding became a necessary evil, more than it had ever been before.

  Laina would walk out of the jail, and her companions would emerge from their hiding places, and they would go home. And the wedding preparation would continue. Such was her life, and it seemed desperately hollow. She would lie in bed and wait for Michael, for rescue, but she did not know where he was or if he would come.

  Chapter Nine

  Michael stirred in his makeshift bed of leaves and pulled himself up. He had fallen asleep in the open, which was dangerous, and now it was day. He reached for his dirty clothes and dressed as the sunlight bathed his body.

  Today, he would arrive at the village. He could already see the road to town in the distance. He would enter the village as a man, and he would find the dagger that would release Laina from the clan she hated. He still felt sad and powerless when he thought of his failure to fight and protect her, and it haunted him. As well, he felt the old loneliness that he had hoped was gone forever. I should have taken her and gone far away with her, he thought, but instead, I was selfish and had to plan my revenge . . . and now she is gone.

  Michael reached the village in mid-morning and realized he had little money to pay for daggers and all the rest. He would have to steal. He was ashamed of his ragged clothing. His hair and body were sparkling clean, as always, but his clothes were old and filthy. Still, women turned their heads to look at him when he passed. His beauty was impossible to resist. His chiseled features and perfect proportions made him stick out like a sore thumb among the tired, hard-working men of the village, and he wished that he was not so conspicuous.

  He walked into the local pub. “Do you know of a crone who can give me a love spell?” he asked a pretty barmaid. He watched her blush as she gazed at him. “I do know a witch,” she answered, gazing up into his eyes.

  She thinks me handsome, Michael knew, and he was glad. “Please tell me where she lives,” he asked smoothly, trying to hide his intensity from her.

  “Go across the village, straight across. Look for a grey stone house, with strange symbols carved into the door. That is where she lives. But she is a frightening woman,” she stammered. “I do not like her very much. No one does. Surely you have no need to charms,” she said, flushing pink. “You are very handsome.”

  “I do need a love spell,” he said, gr
inning down at her. “I pine for a woman who will have none of me.”

  “You should find someone else,” she said, and her eyes roved over his body. He remembered Laina’s eyes, and the way she drank him in with her gaze, and he felt the familiar desire for her that was like a dull ache that never fully disappeared.

  “I love her,” Michael whispered, and the barmaid’s face fell.

  “Then go to the grey stone house, and she will help you. But she is not cheap. I hope you have money.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and he turned to leave, conscious of his ragged clothing that did him no favors. I must get these daggers, dressed this way, he thought. I will find a way.

  He walked through the village and knocked on Helena’s door. There were strange symbols engraved upon the doorframe, just as the barmaid had said. There were ornate crosses and other symbols he had never seen before.

  * * * *

  Helena opened the door just a little, and her eyes widened at the site of his unearthly beauty. Their eyes met, for a moment, and Helena gasped, for she saw the strange eyes of a magical creature staring back at her in a human face so perfect it was hardly real.

  “Come in,” she said brusquely, ushering him into her hallway and closing the door tight. She felt no danger, only a great . . . pain . . . in him that she could feel in her heart.

  “I need an iron dagger,” he said, without preamble. “Perhaps more than one, and it must be blessed as well. Will you help me?”

  She tensed, for she had never heard such a request before, and it showed some great knowledge of magic. She brought the young man into her workroom where an acrid stench of herbs hung upon the air, and she took in his ragged clothes. He looked like a prince in disguise, and she gestured for him to sit down. “Can you pay?” she asked him, narrowing her eyes.

  * * * *

  She was an ugly old woman, steeped in greed and in lies, and he knew she would not go out of her way for him.

  “Yes,” he said, reaching into his pocket for the golden ring his mother had given him some years past. It was all he had left, a ring that matched the one he gave to Laina. It was a simple gold mating band, inscribed with symbols that only the Wolfen would understand. “Will you take this ring as payment?”

  She took the ring, and Michael watched her face. He was sure she could feel its magic, and her eyes widened. His ring was covered in the symbols of the Creator, symbols she seemed to recognize. She gasped aloud as she brought it into the light near the window. The workroom was dark, but he saw an expression of delight spread across her features in the dim light.

  “I will find your daggers,” she said. “I have two, I believe, and I will bless them for you now.”

  “You must hurry,” he said, and she looked wary. He wondered if she saw the wildness in him, the animal that always lay just under the surface. Can she read my mind? he thought, worried. He hoped she could not see what he really was, but she seemed afraid now. He saw some fear in her face. If she knew, then she would tell everyone that legend was real. He did not trust humans with the secret of his tribe.

  She went into a small back room for some time and returned with two tiny daggers, with razor-sharp points. She whispered spells, and the room seemed to grow darker, and the acrid stench seemed stronger. He felt evil everywhere, and he wondered if she was tricking him, and he cried out. “Stop!” he said. “This does not feel right.”

  And then he fell to the wooden floorboards, his head pounding with pain. She had bewitched him, and he could not move. She laughed and closed the drapes tight so that no one would see in, and she crouched down to him, her face close to his. “So you are Wolfen, but still my spells affect you. You will stay here with me and tell me all of your secrets, or you shall die.”

  She placed the iron daggers upon a table, and just then, Michael heard a sharp knock upon the front door. He watched Helena run to the entrance, her face white with fear. Michael meditated, trying to break the spell, and he seemed to part the veils as he begged the Creator for assistance. He heard the witch through his strange reverie as she spoke to a man, and he screamed, the same scream he had screamed when the vampires had come.

  He dragged himself to the table, for he could not get up, and he put the daggers in his pocket. He heard the commotion from outside as he stuffed the blades out of sight, and he heard the Creator speak in a strange language he somehow understood.

  The Creator was blessing the blades! As the words moved through his brain, he heard loud footsteps, and so he screamed again, louder this time, and he saw a man appear in the doorway. “He tried to rob me!” the witch told him, her voice angry and frightened. “And so I bewitched him, and he screams to cloak his thievery, for I have not harmed him.”

  Michael stared at the man looking down at him and wondered if the daggers would be taken from him. He wanted to kill them both, but he was unable to move well because of the crone’s spells. “I will get the police,” the man said, and after dragging Michael’s huge body to a post, he tied Michael to it.

  The witch came over to him, and she looked tense and enraged. Michael held still as she searched his pockets. She sneered at him, because she could find nothing, and Michael felt a sense of peace, for he knew the Creator was protecting him. He knew that the daggers were consecrated now and were hidden with magic.

  Michael was taken to the local prison, and he sat in a tiny cell, and he waited for nightfall. When he changed, he would attack a guard, or find a way out. And then he would find his Laina. The daggers were in his pocket. He could feel their cold blades, and yet the police had searched him and found nothing. He was elated, for he knew with the Creator at his side, all was possible, and he thanked the witch for her spells and evil because they had brought him here.

  “What would she have done with me?” He lay down on the rough pallet and closed his eyes.

  * * * *

  The king and queen were ecstatic, for the wedding would happen on this night, and the dark celebration would surely attract the attention and approval of the Creator. The dark marriage was a sacred ritual, and it was expected of the royal line. By bringing forth the new princess and her consort, perhaps they could appease the one who had turned from them.

  They put every care into the preparations, but there was a problem. Laina would not drink the blood of the innocent in the rich, silver goblet that was kept for just such a purpose. She would only drink the blood of sinners, and she was adamant that the blood must come from a prisoner.

  At four thirty, the king cloaked himself in hoods and went to the prison alone. In his cloak, he carried a bottle with a lid, and he would get the blood he needed. He moved into the darkness, overjoyed at the prospect of the wedding, and he slipped the guard a heavy purse of coins, such that no man could resist. Laina had told him what to say. The guard took one look at the skeletal features of the king, and he blanched and he let him pass.

  The guard opened a cell door where a new prisoner, a thief and wanderer, who no one knew or would care about, was housed. He let the king slip inside and closed the door tight, telling him he would be back in twenty minutes. The king nodded and looked about the cell where a young man lay sleeping. He was big and strong and very handsome, and the king felt the hunger. Outside, the winter skies darkened with twilight, and the king went to the pallet and sat down. He could smell the sweet scent of the man, almost a boy really, and he could see the flush of his cheeks, so unlike the king’s marble paleness.

  He closed his eyes, quiet pleasure running through his body, and he lowered his head to the boy’s throat. He could see his pulse where the blood surged, and he put his bottle close by, and he ran his fangs along his throat. The boy began to stir and thrash about, for the skies were growing black now, and the when the vampire sank his fangs into his skin, he tasted the ancient taste.

  * * * *

  Michael woke up, his terrible pain bringing him to consciousness. He did not cry out, for he was changing, and that pain mixed with the terrible pain at his t
hroat where the king was draining his blood. Michael felt weak as he reached for one of the daggers in his cloak. He drew back his arm, and using all his force, he drove the blade into the king’s chest. Michael groaned and pulled the king’s body away from him. Moaning in pain, he lifted his shirt to his wound to staunch the flow of blood. The change was coming, and he could feel the Wolfen feeling all through his body.

  Soon, all animal, he prowled the cell floor and watched the vampire turn to ashes. Michael was not bleeding now, and he waited, the dagger in his teeth, for the guard to return. When he did, Michael ran past him, down the corridor, and pushed through the main door with brute force. He ran through the village and headed for the outskirts, where the estate was. Laina had given him directions, and now he was free.

  He felt the joy of freedom and the feeling of power. He knew now that he was fully grown because his strength, his secret power that all Wolfen shared, was so strong it allowed him to push through a barred wooden door as though it were made of something flimsy and light. He ran faster, faster than ever before, his muscles burning. The villagers were a blur as he ran, but he could see that they crossed themselves as he went by. They all retreated to their homes, and barred the doors.